Page 17

ELYRIA

I t’s been a handful of days since I crossed that fraught line with Korrin—days that feel longer than entire months of my previous life.

Time in this dilapidated outpost seems to warp, measured only by the crackle of the morning fire, the fleeting hush of midday, and the encroaching darkness that drives us behind half-collapsed walls each evening.

I move through these days with an undercurrent of tension thrumming in my veins.

My ankle has healed almost completely by now; the bruises on my body have faded to faint shadows.

I should feel stronger, but I’ve never been more unsteady.

The ruin is still a cage—albeit one with mossy floors and open skies.

And Korrin, the gargoyle who once should have been my executioner, has become my uneasy companion, my lover in a moment of heated desperation, and my self-appointed protector.

The aftermath of that night lingers like an ember beneath the ashes of our every interaction.

Neither of us mentions it directly, but it colors every glance, every brush of hands, every pause in conversation.

Sometimes I catch him watching me from the corner of his eye—studying me as if I’m a puzzle he has no idea how to solve.

And I do the same, stealing glimpses of his powerful form in the half-light, half-afraid he’ll sense my curiosity.

But the fragile bubble we share can’t shield us from the larger world.

The signs have started appearing: a faint smell of brimstone on the wind that speaks of lurking gargoyles, or the sudden hush of forest creatures that hints at passing dark elf scouts.

My instincts scream that something’s closing in.

Perhaps the fortress has finally sent a hunting party.

Perhaps other gargoyles have grown suspicious of Korrin’s prolonged absence.

In any case, the sense of threat tightens around my chest like an invisible collar to match the real one at my throat.

I resent him for the chain that still binds me—yet each time I rage about it, I see a flicker of guilt in his golden eyes.

At night, when we lie near the dying fire, it’s become our nightly ritual to fall asleep with at least a hand’s breadth of distance between us, as though we’re both trying to pretend that closeness never happened.

I wake sometimes to find him watchful, wings half-unfurled, scanning the shadows beyond the broken arches of this ruin.

If I’m honest, a twisted part of me feels safer with him awake.

It’s a confession I’m not ready to make out loud.

I can’t deny that, without him, I’d be lost out here—perhaps dead already.

My ankle might have crippled me weeks ago.

Dark elves or wild beasts might have tracked me down.

And I know what it means to be truly helpless.

Still, I loathe the dependence. I loathe that, even now, the chain remains locked at my throat, no matter how gently he tries to excuse it.

But the outside world seems more dangerous by the day, and my grudging acceptance of his protection grows with every new sign of encroaching peril.

Dawn spills a pale light through the gaps in the ruined tower’s walls.

I rise from my bed of ragged blankets, rolling my shoulders to chase away the stiffness.

My gaze flicks toward Korrin, who’s crouched near the fire pit, feeding the embers with dry moss.

His massive wings fold close to his back, but tension radiates off him.

He glances over. Our eyes lock. No words pass, but a crackle of awareness sparks in the space between us—an echo of that night we haven’t fully addressed. My cheeks warm, and I force myself to look away, busying my hands with smoothing the blanket.

Outside, the sky is a tapestry of shifting grays, threatening rain but never quite committing. The forest stirs with restless energy. Birds call anxiously, and the hush that follows pricks at my nerves.

“Korrin,” I say finally, voice low. “Do you sense it?”

He looks up, brow ridge knitting. “Yes.”

One word, but it resonates with apprehension. “What do you think it is?” I press, unable to keep the tremor from my tone.

His gaze drifts to the jagged tower window. “Scouts, perhaps. Could be your old masters. Or mine.”

A chill slides down my spine. Dark elves, or gargoyles.

Both are nightmares in their own right. I swallow, crossing the short distance between us.

He smells of smoke and damp stone. I remember the warmth of his body against mine, but I shove that memory down, focusing on the fear that churns my gut.

“We can’t stay here if they’re closing in, can we? ”

His jaw tightens. “For now, we wait. If the threat grows, we move.”

I hate the idea of running, yet an ominous tension thrums in the air. “What if we leave now? Find somewhere safer.”

He exhales, setting aside the moss. “Where would we go that’s safer? Farther into the forest, we might run into my kin. Closer to the roads, we risk the dark elves.”

A spark of frustration flares in my chest. Trapped. “So we do nothing?”

His eyes flash. “We stay vigilant.”

I clench my fists, forced to concede. There are no good options. Is this how it will always be—caught between two unstoppable forces, pinned in place by fear?

The next few days pass with an undercurrent of restless dread.

Korrin and I keep watch in shifts, scouring the forest perimeter for any hint of invaders.

I sense him scanning the skies as if expecting his gargoyle brethren to descend.

Meanwhile, I check for signs of dark elf presence—broken twigs, footprints, or the acrid smell they leave behind.

Each time I step beyond the ruin, my heart pounds with a conflicting cocktail of anxiety and relief.

There’s no chain tethering me physically to the tower—Korrin gave me enough slack so I can move around without hobbling—but the collar remains a constant weight on my throat.

A reminder that my so-called freedom is conditional.

Sometimes I seethe about it, directing my anger at him.

Other times, I see his guarded expression when I mention it, sense the conflict within him.

Then my rage softens into something complicated—pity or empathy, I can’t be sure.

He hunts for us, bringing back a small deer one afternoon.

We dress it by the creek, shoulders bumping awkwardly as we try to avoid each other’s eyes.

Our conversation is stilted. Whenever our hands brush or our gazes meet, heat licks at my chest. A swirl of memory from that night—his mouth on mine, the rumble of thunder outside, the moment I clung to him as if he were my lifeline.

I hate how it haunts me. I hate how the possibility of it happening again both terrifies and intrigues me.

At night, the tension grows heavier. We curl on opposite sides of the dying fire, feigning sleep. I lie awake, ears pricked for any sign of encroaching danger. Sometimes I wonder if he does the same, if he wrestles with the memory of our closeness.

We’ve grown adept at dancing around each other, acknowledging the simmering tension without daring to reignite it.

There’s an unspoken truce: I won’t bring up that night, and he won’t push me to talk about it.

But the storm that led us to that moment seems poised to break again.

I can feel it in the charged air, the way we keep finding ourselves within arm’s reach before pulling back.

One morning, a low mist drapes the forest. I’m outside gathering kindling near the shattered tower wall when I catch a whisper of voices drifting through the trees.

My entire body goes rigid. Dark elves have a hissing cadence, gargoyles an undertone of guttural clicks.

This voice is low, muffled. I can’t quite make out the words, but the hair on my neck rises.

I crouch behind a fallen column, dropping the half-broken twigs in my arms. A prickle of dread slides through my veins. Please let it be a passing traveler, not a scout.

The voice fades, replaced by a rustling that might be footsteps. My heart pounds so loudly I fear they’ll hear it. Slowly, I edge back toward the tower entrance. Korrin— I have to warn him. My ankle twinges, but it’s strong enough now that I can move swiftly with minimal pain.

Inside, I find Korrin perched on the second-level rubble, scanning the treetops. His gaze snaps to mine the instant I step through. “What is it?” he demands quietly, reading the alarm in my eyes.

“Someone’s out there,” I whisper, glancing over my shoulder. “Low voices. Couldn’t make out if it’s elves or… something else.”

His wings tighten. “Could be a dark elf patrol.” He leaps down in a single fluid motion, landing beside me without a sound. “Stay here.”

I bristle, but fear knots my stomach. “You said we’d handle threats together.”

He hesitates, clearly torn. “Fine. But don’t get reckless.”

We move in tandem, him leading the way with swift, silent strides, me trailing behind with as much stealth as I can muster. My collar chain rattles softly if I’m not careful, so I clutch it to my chest to still the noise. Outside, the mist swirls around us, chilly against my cheeks.

We crouch by a ridge of collapsed stone at the ruin’s perimeter. Korrin lifts a clawed hand, motioning for me to stay low. Carefully, he peers over. I hold my breath. A moment later, he ducks down, brow furrowing.

“Dark elves,” he says under his breath. “Three or four. They’re searching the area.”

A jolt of terror spikes through me. I recall the faces of my old overseers, the sneering cruelty. My brand across my back itches with remembered pain. Have they finally come for me?

“Could we fight them?” I ask, heart thudding. “Or should we run?”