Page 86 of Feral Gods
Too much power. Too much responsibility for a former slave who, mere weeks ago, had no greater ambition than surviving another day in King Kres's palace.
I press my palm against the nearest gargoyle statue, a female warrior with wings mantled in defensive posture. Unlike my three, she appears fully transformed—no remnants of dark elf features visible beneath the stone exterior. Was her curse different? More complete? Or has time simply erased what little humanity remained?
"Could I free you?" I whisper, tracing the curve of her frozen wing. "Should I?"
The ethical questions loom as large as the practical ones. What would an army of awakened gargoyles do to Protheka's delicate power balance? What right have I to unleash such force, even against those who enslaved me? And what responsibility would I bear for the actions of those I liberate?
"Heavy thoughts for one so young."
The voice—melodic, female, with an accent I can't quite place—comes from everywhere and nowhere. I whirl, magic flaring instinctively around my hands as I scan the chamber for the intruder.
Nothing moves except the pulsing light of the crystal pool. Ravik and Thane remain on guard at the chamber's only entrance, their transformed bodies tense with vigilance even in rest. Zephyr still slumbers, exhausted from his sacrifice during our escape.
"Who's there?" I demand, voice steady despite the fear coursing through my veins.
A chuckle echoes through the chamber, warm and rich like mulled wine. "Blood of my blood, do you not recognize your own ancestress? The connection between us vibrates like a plucked string, drawing me to you across mountains and centuries."
Horror grips me as understanding dawns. Morwen—the purna Matriarch—somehow communicating directly into my mind despite our physical separation.
"Get out of my head," I hiss, hands pressed to my temples as if I could physically expel her presence.
"Such fire," she replies, amusement evident in her mental voice. "Such defiance. You are truly of my lineage, child."
"I am nothing like you," I spit, backing toward Zephyr, desperate to wake him without alerting Ravik and Thane. Whatever happens next, I don't want them charging into a magical confrontation they can't win.
"No?" Morwen's voice turns contemplative. "You stand in the Heart Chamber, surrounded by an army of stone, with three transformed warriors bound to you through blood and magic. You wield power you barely comprehend yet instinctively master. You've survived impossible odds through will and cunning. We are more alike than different, young one."
"You cursed them," I accuse, reaching Zephyr's side and shaking his shoulder urgently. "Bound them in stone for centuries. Condemned them to conscious imprisonment without hope of release."
"I preserved them," she corrects, her voice suddenly closer, more present. "Saved them from execution when their defiance threatened all I had worked to achieve. The stone sleep was mercy, child. The alternative was death."
A shimmer appears at the crystal pool's edge—translucent at first, then solidifying into a tall, slender figure. Silver hair cascades down her back, framing a face of ageless beauty marked by violet eyes that glow with inner light. Her robes, thecolor of midnight, swirl around her lithe form as if stirred by invisible winds.
Morwen. The purna Matriarch. My ancestress.
"There," she says, lips curving in a smile that never reaches those luminous eyes. "Isn't conversation more pleasant face to face? Or nearly so—this is merely a projection, of course. My physical form remains with my coven outside your clever little hideaway."
Zephyr stirs beneath my touch, turquoise eyes snapping open with immediate alertness. He takes in the situation at a glance, rising to stand protectively beside me without a word.
"Ah, the scholar awakens," Morwen observes, studying Zephyr with clinical interest. "How fascinating your transformation has progressed. Neither dark elf nor gargoyle, but something in between—exactly as theorized in my original research."
"Research?" Zephyr's voice carries dangerous calm. "Was that how you justified our imprisonment? An experiment in magical theory?"
"Necessity justified your imprisonment," she replies coolly. "Your defiance threatened to expose secrets that would have doomed my entire race. I chose the option that preserved your lives while protecting my people."
"You chose wrong," I interject, magic flaring around my fingertips as anger builds. "You had no right to condemn them to centuries of isolation."
"Rights?" Morwen laughs, the sound like crystal bells. "Child, you speak of rights while standing in a chamber built by beings who reshaped reality according to their whims. Power creates rights. Magic defines possibility. Everything else is merely philosophy for those too weak to impose their will."
Her words strike a visceral chord—not of agreement but of recognition. How many times had I heard similar sentimentsfrom King Kres and his nobles? How many cruelties had I witnessed justified by the simple equation of power equals right?
"You sound like a dark elf," I observe, the comparison clearly striking home as her expression hardens.
"Ironic, coming from one who spreads her legs for three of them," she snaps, composure momentarily fracturing. "Though I suppose they're not entirely dark elves anymore, are they? Thanks to my curse—and your blood."
At this confirmation of what we've suspected, Zephyr steps forward. "You knew from the beginning what her bloodline could accomplish. That's why you've hunted her so relentlessly."
"Of course I knew," Morwen's composure returns, her projection gliding closer. "She carries my direct lineage—the only one who could potentially undo what I worked so carefully to create."
