Page 5

Outside, the storm intensifies. Rain lashes my skin, lightning rips across the sky. A few gargoyles pause in their tasks to watch me pass. I sense their respect, their fear. At the stronghold’s edge, I halt, scanning the horizon. Beyond the black ridges of rock and stunted forests lies the dark elf fortress—a place of cruelty, if rumors are true. The dark elves don’t worry me; they’re cunning but fragile. My real interest lies in the slaves…particularly the woman who might carry the purna spark.

A flash of lightning brightens the ramparts, and I launch myself into the storm, wings snapping wide. Sheets of rain pummel me, but I slice through the deluge with practiced grace. Three gargoyles peel away behind me, subordinates under my command. We fly over jagged cliffs, their wet faces reflecting the occasional lightning strike, then across stretches of pine forest that sway in the gale. Despite the grim mission, I feel raw power coursing through me.At least I’m awake again, not condemned to perpetual stone sleep.

But I can’t shake thoughts of Elyria. Over the howl of the wind, I picture the hasty charcoal lines: black hair, silver streak, a brand around her neck.Why is she singled out? What is so special about her?

Rain slashes at my wings like shards of ice. I force my mind back to the present, angling westward toward flickering torchlights that trace the dark elf fortress’s outer wall. The fortress rises abruptly from a rocky plateau, towers thrusting upward in a jagged silhouette. I signal for my subordinates to circle and find weak points. At once, they scatter into the storm.

Lightning flashes again, revealing archers along the ramparts. I hover behind an outcropping of rock, assessing. There, on the east side—a smaller tower with fewer guards, partially concealed by swirling storm clouds. Perfect.

I grip the magnetic fields tighter, ascending in near silence. My claws clamp onto the tower’s slick apex, and I crouch, wingsfolded. Rain patters around me, the wind masking my presence. The stench of fear drifts from somewhere below—perhaps the fortress dwellers know we’re out here. Maybe they sense it in the shifting air.

I scale the wall with claws and toes, inching toward a narrow arrow slit. Dim lantern glow flickers inside, revealing an empty stretch of hallway. I slip in through the slit, landing quietly on the damp floor. The corridor is cold, smelling of mold and decay. My senses stretch, searching.

Every step I take is careful, measuring the labyrinth I suspect has changed since gargoyles once prowled these halls. Still, I feel the echoes of our old architecture beneath the dark elves’ alterations. Hiding in a recess, I wait until two guards approach. Their footsteps clatter on the stone. Black armor adorned with a serpent sigil. Swords on their hips.

I spring. My claws rake across the first guard’s throat, and his strangled cry dies instantly. Blood spatters the wall. The second guard tries to shout, but my tail whips him off balance, and a single crushing blow to his head ends him. Silence returns, broken only by the drip of blood.

My breath comes fast.No pity. No remorse.I do what I must.I drag their bodies out of sight, continuing deeper into the fortress. I hear more voices nearby—probably a group of elves—but I avoid them, instead descending a narrower stairway that leads below.

An insistent tug in my gut tells me to search the lower levels. If the fortress has human slaves, they’re likely caged in dungeons. The air grows warmer, thick with the reek of unwashed bodies. I catch sight of an iron gate, beyond which a row of cells lines the corridor. A single guard leans against a column, half-asleep. He doesn’t even have time to draw a breath before I snap his neck. The dull thud of his corpse hitting the floor makes some of the captives whimper.

As I move among the cells, lantern light flickers over battered faces, hollow eyes, pitiful figures huddled against each other. My lip curls.This is no better than death,I think, but I recall the Alpha’s decree: kill the women. My gaze travels across them—older women, children, men—but I don’t see silver-streaked hair or the brand the scouts mentioned.She’s not here.

I leave them behind, ignoring their soft pleas for mercy. If the Alpha decides, they’ll die soon enough. I have a more pressing target.

A side corridor opens up. The walls here are less grimy, the stench less overwhelming. Perhaps these are the living quarters for slaves the dark elves consider “useful.” Then I hear faint footsteps, a rustle of fabric, and a soft moan. Pressing against the wall, I peer around the corner. A dark elf oversees two female slaves—neither is the one I seek. Neither has that streak of silver in her hair.

Anger flares in me at the sight of the elf’s smug posture. Dark elves once tried to enslave my kind; they sided with witches who cursed us with stone sleep. They deserve no mercy. But the slaves? They’re just frail humans, never the architects of our downfall. Still, I remember the old war: witches with pale faces and eyes blazing with unimaginable power.We can’t let that happen again.

I slip forward. The elf doesn’t even see me. I tear his throat out with one swift slice. His gurgling cry echoes momentarily, then fades. The two slaves stand paralyzed in terror.

“Go,” I growl, my gold eyes flaring. They look at each other, then bolt away. I don’t chase them; they’re not my targets.

A door to my right bangs open, lamplight flaring. I freeze, tensed, as a tall dark elf in ornate armor steps into the corridor. He spots the corpse, roars, and lunges at me with a curved blade.

Steel clashes against my claws. He’s skilled, deflecting my initial slash, but I smash my forehead into his helm, dazing him.My tail swings around to offset his footing, and I deliver a brutal series of strikes. His blade scrapes uselessly against my hide before I plunge my claws into his gut. His eyes go wide, and he collapses in a wet gasp.

Panting, I glance into the room he came from. It’s a small guard chamber lined with weapons, a battered table at its center. Maps and rosters are scattered across its surface.

I step in, scanning the pages. One depicts the fortress layout—“Barracks,” “Kitchen,” “Holding Pens,” “Courtyard” scribbled in a rough hand. Then my eyes snags on a single name in the margin:Elyria.A note next to it reads:Collar remains; brand visible. Possibly purna. Watch closely.My pulse quickens.

She’s real.The scouts were correct. I skim more details about her frequent assignments: kennel, kitchens, general courtyard tasks. The dark elves likely suspect something in her blood; otherwise they’d have killed her. They must believe they can control her.Fools.If she truly holds purna magic, a collar won’t shackle her forever. Then again, maybe she’s dormant and harmless. It doesn’t matter—the Alpha’s orders stand. All human females must die.

A peculiar tension coils at the base of my neck, but I push it aside. I listen at the door. No footsteps near, but it won’t stay quiet for long. I tear the relevant page free, stuffing it beneath my chest plate. The fortress stirs; distant shouts tell me the alarm is raised.

Korrin,a voice whispers in my mind—one of my subordinates, using the psionic link gargoyles sometimes share.We must retreat or face the full garrison.

Acknowledged,I reply, frustration twisting my gut. I sprint down the corridor, wings folded tight. More dark elves dart into my path, but none are quick enough to stop me. I tear through them in a flurry of slashes and impacts, leaving a slick trail of blood behind.

At last, I reach a tall, narrow window overlooking the courtyard. The rain’s coming in sideways now, lightning painting every surface silver-white. Below, I see slaves forced to kneel, guards barking orders.Searching for me,I realize. My gaze lands on one particular figure—a woman with drenched black hair, possibly streaked with silver. Even in the storm’s chaos, she kneels with a stubborn tilt to her shoulders. My pulse stutters.Is that Elyria?

I only have a heartbeat to consider before a squad of elves charges up the stairs behind me. No more time. I snarl and hurl myself through the window, shattering glass. Rain and wind buffet me the moment I’m airborne. Arrows hiss by, one bouncing off my stony hide, another grazing the membrane of my wing. The pain fuels my anger.

My subordinates appear on my right, crashing into the archers, scattering them. I use the opening to surge higher, scanning the courtyard one last time through the downpour.I can’t tell if that was Elyria or not,I think bitterly.But I’ll return for her.

We regroup beyond the fortress’s walls, panting in the hammering rain. Crossbow bolts slash through the air behind us, but the storm conceals our retreat. Tarmik’s voice slides into my mind again:We’ve confirmed the fortress layout. We succeeded in infiltration.

Partially,I correct.We’ll come back in force to finish this. None of them will survive once we strike.