Page 93 of Feral Gods
"Believe it," Ravik murmurs, wings mantling slightly in defensive posture. "And pray the legends of its sanctuary status are equally real."
We've barely taken three steps into this wondrous cavern when vrakken guards materialize from concealed positions—at least a dozen warriors with weapons crafted from the same crystal that forms their city. Unlike their civilian counterparts, these bear elaborate armor that enhances rather than conceals their serpentine characteristics.
"Surface-dwellers," one hisses, voice melodic despite its reptilian quality. "State your purpose or perish where you stand."
The Codex pulses against my side, knowledge flowing forth in response to this new challenge. Words form in my mind—not modern language but something ancient, something the vrakken will recognize as predating their conflict with the surface world.
I step forward before my companions can stop me, the ritual greeting emerging from my lips as if I'd spoken it all my life. "We claimkalith-vor—sanctuary under ancient compact. Blood-pursued, magic-threatened, we seek refuge within the Sacred Boundary until pursuit ends or strength returns."
The guards exchange startled glances, clearly unprepared for a surface-dweller—a human, no less—to invoke their oldest traditions in their own ceremonial tongue.
"The compact lies dormant since the Height Wars," the lead guard replies, suspicion evident despite their surprise. "No surface-dweller has honored its terms in generations."
"Yet its principles remain valid," I counter, continuing to draw from the Codex's knowledge. "Justice transcends time. Sanctuary outlasts conflict. The Sacred Boundary welcomes those who respect its traditions regardless of era."
A new figure approaches from the crystal city—older, judging by the elaborate patterns etched into its scales and the multiple jeweled bands encircling its upper arms. Its eyes, vertical-pupiled and golden, study us with ancient intelligence.
"Who vouches for these surface-dwellers?" it demands, addressing the guards rather than us directly.
Before we can respond, the Codex in my arms pulses with brilliant light, its cover opening to reveal a specific page marked with a symbol identical to one adorning the elder vrakken's chest ornament.
"The Codex Transformae," the elder breathes, all six arms making complicated gestures of respect. "Unseen since the Sundering."
"It guides us," I explain, allowing the book to speak through me. "And grants us understanding of the old ways, the true boundaries, the sacred compacts that predate our conflicts."
The elder approaches slowly, movements deliberate as it studies first the Codex, then each of us in turn. Its gaze lingers longest on my gargoyles, taking in their transformed state with evident fascination.
"Neither dark elf nor gargoyle," it observes. "Something new walks the ancient paths."
"Something born of necessity and choice," I agree. "As the Codex teaches—transformation rather than destruction."
After a long, tense moment of consideration, the elder inclines its upper body in a formal gesture. "Thekalith-voris acknowledged. You may enter the Sacred Boundary and claim guest-right for the traditional period of three cycles."
Relief floods through me, though I maintain the formal demeanor the situation demands. "We accept with gratitude and pledge adherence to all sanctuary protocols."
The elder gestures to the guards, who lower their weapons with obvious reluctance. "Escort them to the Wayfarers' Terrace. Provide basic necessities as tradition demands."
As we follow our escorts deeper into the crystal city, the sounds of pursuit fade behind us—blocked by the Sacred Boundary that apparently represents more than mere tradition. Some kind of magical barrier shimmers into existence across the cavern entrance, its iridescent surface reminiscent of soap bubbles but undoubtedly far more substantial.
"They can't follow us here?" I ask Zephyr quietly as we descend a spiraling crystal staircase toward the designated guest area.
"Unlikely," he confirms, voice equally low. "The vrakken maintain the most sophisticated magical boundaries on Protheka. Even Morwen would hesitate to violate them directly—the magical backlash would be... significant."
"Then we have breathing room. Time to plan our next move."
The Wayfarers' Terrace proves to be a platform of polished crystal overlooking one of the rainbow chasms, furnished with cushions and low tables that accommodate various physiologies. As promised, our escorts provide basic necessities—water in crystal decanters, strange fruit with iridescent skin, and something resembling bread but with a curious blue tint.
When the guards withdraw to a respectful distance, my gargoyles gather close, forming a protective circle as we assess our situation.
"Temporary reprieve only," Ravik cautions, ever the tactical commander. "Three cycles likely means three days. After that, we're on our own again."
"Three days to recover our strength and formulate a strategy," Thane counters, always more optimistic beneath his warrior exterior. "Better odds than we faced an hour ago."
Zephyr's gaze fixes on the Codex I still clutch protectively. "The real question is what that contains, and why both Morwen and the vrakken react to it with such reverence."
I place the ancient text on the low table between us, its cover now closed, its knowledge temporarily dormant though I feel it maintaining connection to my consciousness.
"It's more than a book," I explain, struggling to articulate the bond forming between myself and the ancient artifact. "It's... alive, in some sense. Aware. It chooses what knowledge to reveal based on need and worthiness rather than merely recording information."
