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My chest trembles with agreement. “We will,” I whisper, tears slipping down. “I never want to see the inside of that fortress again. Or any fortress.”The clan’s stronghold was my entire world, but also my prison.

Silence stretches, the flames casting dancing shadows across pine needles. The magnitude of our decision to remain exiles is daunting.We have no wings, no clan, no city. We have each other.That knowledge flutters in my chest, a mixture of sorrow and elation.A new life is possible.

As hours fly, our conversation shift to practicalities, heads bent close, voices low.How to gather enough food, how to remain hidden if a dark elf patrol or renegade gargoylestumbles upon us.I recall old survival tactics: pitfalls, concealed fires, watch shifts. Elyria’s eyes shine with resolve as she nods, absorbing each detail.

“I can hone my magic for more subtle uses,” she muses, biting her lip. “I can’t just blow everything up every time we’re threatened, or we’ll starve to death from scorched earth.” A wry laugh escapes her, though tears glisten in her eyes.We see the cost of raw destruction.

I rest a hand on hers, a gentle squeeze. “And I can still fight on the ground,” I say softly. “Wingless doesn’t mean helpless. My body remains strong enough to protect you if we meet small threats.”

She nods, pride flickering. “We protect each other.”

We fall silent, gazing at the fire.Yes, we do.The hush brims with unspoken acceptance: no old life remains. This is who we are now—vagabonds, nomads, forging a quiet existence away from cruel warlords.

My heart lifts at the prospect of building a new home with her, free of the alpha’s demands or elven tyranny.Yes, maybe we can carve a place in these forests.My mind drifts, imagining a small clearing by a stream, a simple shelter, nights spent telling stories under starlight. My chest tightens with longing.We can find peace.

She senses my thoughts, leaning to kiss my cheeks softly. “I see the hope in your eyes,” she murmurs, tears shimmering. “I feel it too.”

I stroke her hair, voice trembling. “I just want you safe, want us both to breathe without fear.”

Her lips curl into a tender smile. “Then we do it. Step by step.”

19

KORRIN

The dawn sky gradually shifts from ink-blue to a pale gold as I stir awake, my back pressed against the trunk of a sturdy oak. A gentle hush blankets the secluded glade, as though the entire forest stands poised for something momentous. The crisp breeze carries a hint of dew-laden leaves, and I breathe it in, sensing a subtle electric warmth prickle under my skin.Elyria’s magic,I realize, still resonating faintly around us. It’s as though the land itself cradles our presence, blessing us with calm after so many storms.

I turn my head and find Elyria still asleep by my side, her cheek pillowed on the crook of my arm. My heart clenches with a wave of tenderness. She has lost the final traces of that battered collar; only faint bruises remain on her throat, fading with each day. Her hair spills across my chest, bearing the scents of pine needles and faint ash from last night’s fire. As I take in her peaceful expression, I recall how, not long ago, we were both battered fugitives, fleeing gargoyle dominion and dark elf enslavement. Now, we have carved out a space of belonging far beyond the reach of any master.We live as equals, forging our own destiny.

A flicker of movement draws my gaze, Elyria stirs, blinking sleepily. Her eyes meet mine, and she offers a soft, unguarded smile. I brush a lock of hair from her face, feeling warmth flutter in my chest. “Good morning,” I say, my voice still husky from sleep.

She stretches, wincing only slightly at the bruises on her arms. “Good morning,” she murmurs back, leaning forward to rest her forehead against my shoulder. Our breath mingles in the hush. Outside, the early sun washes the clearing in pale gold, revealing the newly sprouted wildflowers and the gentle trickle of a stream. We built a small lean-to near it, enough to shield us from the elements, but today the sky is clear—no storms threaten.

“I can’t believe we’ve come this far,” Elyria whispers, voice catching with emotion. “We no longer run in terror. We stand in a place of our own choosing.” She lifts her gaze, tears glimmering at the corners of her eyes.

My chest tightens.She’s right.We found an untouched valley, free from any sign of gargoyle or dark elf patrols. My severed wings remain only a memory of what I used to be—an executioner, a weapon for a cause I no longer believe in. Now, I live for her. “No regrets,” I murmur, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “We are who we choose to be.”

She smiles, tears slipping free, and wraps her arms around me in a tender hug that steadies my heart. In that moment, I sense a stirring of something unspoken—an understanding that we have more to share than mere survival.We have a future, a bond deeper than anything forced by old masters.I exhale, meeting her gaze, my mind dancing around the vow I want to make.A vow that cements us forever.

We spend the morning gathering fresh water, foraging for roots and berries, checking snare lines for small game. Each shared task hums with an undercurrent of anticipation. Theforest hush feels different today—like it stands witness to a threshold we’re about to cross. Elyria picks up on it, too; I catch her studying me with a curious tilt of her head as if she senses some intention just beyond the surface of my words.

We’ve spoken in fragments about forging a life together, about letting no chain or vow from the old world define us. But now, after all we’ve survived, I want something more than an unspoken understanding.I want to stand beside her in a rite that no clan or empire can break.I recall faint legends of how gargoyles once conducted private bonding rituals in the deep wilds—far older than the alpha’s decrees.A union of hearts, not a forced pledge of clan loyalty.The thought pulses in me, stirring a deep excitement overshadowed by a humble acceptance of my new wingless reality.

Elyria and I rest under a broad oak, nibbling on nuts and a portion of dried fruit we stored last week. She eyes me thoughtfully as she chews. “What’s on your mind?” she asks gently. “You’ve been quieter than usual all morning.”

A fleeting heat rushes to my face.So she noticed.I swallow, glancing away, then steel myself. “I’ve been… thinking,” I begin, voice trembling. “About us. About the bond we share. How we survived betrayal and bloodshed, yet still choose each other.” My gaze drifts to the rocky slope in the distance, remembering how I severed my wings to spare her. “We’re exiles, but… I want to do something. Something to show we stand side by side as equals, forever.”

She shifts closer, curiosity shining in her bright eyes. “Something like a… vow?” She almost smiles, as if she’s reading my mind, heart pounding with the same longing.

My chest relaxes at her easy acceptance. “Yes,” I murmur, swallowing a lump in my throat. “Where I come from, gargoyles once had a private mating ceremony, separate from any clan dictates. A personal vow shared between two hearts, not boundby alpha or law. I… want that with you.” The confession feels raw, almost terrifying.What if she doesn’t want to echo old gargoyle traditions?

But Elyria’s tears brighten, a trembling breath escaping her lips. “I want that, too,” she whispers, voice thick. “A ceremony just for us, no watchers, no chains, no forced scripts. We can vow ourselves to each other in freedom.”

Emotion surges through me, tears burning behind my eyes. I take her hands, pressing them to my chest. “Thank you,” I manage, voice cracking.

She smiles through tears. “We deserve a moment of joy,” she says softly. “We deserve to claim each other by choice.”

We decide to conduct the ceremony at dusk, when the forest hush embraces us in quiet twilight. For hours, we gather small tokens that might hold symbolic meaning. Elyria’s eyes gleam as she finds a handful of wildflowers by the stream, their petals pale white. She braids them into a slender wreath.A sign of her purna lineage, shaped by gentleness instead of destruction.Meanwhile, I shape two rings from polished wood— a tradition gargoyles sometimes used to exchange symbolic tokens. My own hands tremble carving the bark, mindful of my injuries, but I persist. Each ring is rough, unrefined, but holds the sincerity of my intention.