Page 20

KORRIN

I f someone had told me, just a season ago, that I’d be trudging through rugged forest terrain with a human woman at my side, I would’ve considered it a twisted joke.

But here I am, following a faint deer path through mossy undergrowth, scanning every shifting shadow in case gargoyle scouts or dark elf patrols lurk nearby.

I move on high alert, my senses attuned to threats in all directions.

Elyria keeps pace behind me, quieter than she once was, yet I still hear the soft clink of her cursed collar whenever she steps wrong.

We left the ruin at dawn, just as we planned.

The forest is thick, tree trunks knotted with vines, boulders slick with morning dew.

Each footstep is a gamble—one misstep and we could be heard by predators or discovered by enemies.

We’ve chosen to travel mostly in the valleys, letting the slopes and dense foliage shield us from prying eyes above.

It slows our progress, but it’s safer than skirting open ridges.

I glance back at Elyria. She clutches the loop of chain near her neck to keep it from rattling.

Her hair, with that defiant silver streak, is braided to prevent it from snagging on branches.

I can’t deny it feels wrong to see her still collared, but the risk of removing it is too great.

If we meet any gargoyles, they must not suspect I’ve freed her willingly.

That might buy us a few moments’ reprieve—enough time for me to act.

To kill them, my old instincts whisper. But my life is woven around her survival now, and I can’t unravel that bond.

She meets my gaze, a question in her eyes: Are we safe? I can only offer a curt nod. Safe is a relative term out here.

We continue forward, pushing through a tangle of brambles.

A faint midday sun filters through the canopy, lighting swirling dust motes.

Somewhere ahead, water murmurs—a stream or waterfall.

Elyria’s breathing is steady, though she’s clearly uneasy.

I share her apprehension. My wings twitch under the harness of my makeshift pack, itching for flight, but I don’t dare risk exposing us from above.

Hours pass in near-silence. We pause to sip from the stream, fill waterskins, and nibble on dried venison.

The forest hushes whenever we move, as if it senses the tension coiled between us.

Despite the closeness we shared last night, there’s a wary distance in Elyria’s eyes.

She still doesn’t trust me completely, and I can’t blame her.

Eventually, we find a sheltered hollow beneath a jutting cliff.

Ivy drapes over the stone, forming a natural curtain.

Elyria and I exchange a look. It’s not a perfect hiding place, but it’ll do for a brief rest. I slip behind the ivy first, scanning the hollow for threats—only damp leaves and old pine needles. I motion her inside.

She lowers herself onto a rock, letting out a controlled exhale. “We’ll need to keep moving,” she says, her voice hushed. “We can’t stay in one place too long.”

I nod, stepping forward. “Agreed.” My gaze moves to the sky beyond the ivy. Storm clouds gather at the horizon, threatening an evening deluge. Another night forced to find shelter. Another night with no guarantee of peace.

For a moment, we just stand there, breathing in sync. The memory of last night’s closeness hums beneath my skin, but the present danger clamps down on any warmth that might surface between us. Survive first, keep the rest for later.

We press on for another hour, pushing north toward the foot of a mountain range that looms in the distance.

The day’s light starts to wane, painting the forest in dusky gold.

That’s when we stumble upon an ancient structure rising from the undergrowth: a weathered building of stone pillars and carved reliefs, half-buried by creeping vines.

Curiosity flares. Elyria halts beside me, eyes wide. “What is this place?” she whispers.

I scan the architecture. It’s not gargoyle craft—our style is more jagged, more imposing. Nor does it bear the signature of dark elf spires. The columns are carved with swirling patterns, reminiscent of something older, more earthly. A rotting wooden door, partially ajar, creaks in the wind.

“We should check it,” I say. “Could be a monastery. Humans or older tribes might have built it. Maybe it’ll provide better shelter than sleeping under a tree.”

Elyria tenses. “What if something else lives here? An orc band, or a… ghost?”

I almost smile at the fear in her voice, though I share her wariness. “We’ll find out. Stay close.”

Her chain rattles softly as we approach the entrance.

My claws graze the worn threshold, brushing aside a clump of ferns.

Inside, the space is dim and musty. Shafts of dust-laced light pierce through cracks in the walls.

The ceiling is supported by tall columns etched with faded glyphs.

An eerie hush blankets the room, broken only by the drip of water somewhere deeper within.

I move carefully, wings folded tight to avoid scraping the low beams. Elyria trails behind, eyes roving across the walls.

The place feels ancient, older than the fortress that once trapped her, older than my memory of gargoyle strongholds.

I sense no immediate presence—no fresh footprints, no lingering smell of orcs or elves.

She gently touches one of the carved glyphs. “These symbols… I’ve never seen them. They look… arcane.”

I step closer, scanning the pattern. They do appear magical. The lines swirl like vines, circling a stylized crescent moon. “Maybe it was some old druidic shrine or purna temple,” I muse aloud, recalling half-forgotten stories about human witches who venerated the moon’s cycles.

Elyria stiffens at the word purna, but remains silent. The moment sours with tension—my kind hunts purna out of fear, after all. I sense her unease, but we keep exploring.

We find a main hall, strewn with rubble.

A collapsed statue of a robed figure lies near the center, its face eroded.

I test the floor, discovering a mosaic design under the dirt—more swirling patterns and a large moon emblem.

Something about this place sets my body on edge, yet it feels oddly serene, as if the centuries have muffled whatever power once thrived here.

“There’s a side corridor,” Elyria says softly, pointing to a darkened archway. “We should see if it leads anywhere safer to sleep.”

My instincts bristle at the idea of diving deeper into unknown territory, but a glance outside shows the sky growing dark. A storm roars in the distance. This might be our best option for the night. Gritting my teeth, I gesture for her to stay behind me. “All right. Let’s go.”

The corridor is narrow and damp, the walls slick with moss.

We edge along, footsteps echoing. After a short turn, the passage opens into a smaller chamber.

Shelves carved into the walls sag under rotted scrolls and tattered books.

The musty stench of old parchment and mildew hits me. Elyria’s eyes widen.

“This is… an archive?” she murmurs, brushing her fingers lightly over a bundle of parchment crumbling to dust.

My heart pulses with a flicker of awe. It’s rare to find intact writings outside major strongholds or libraries. “Careful,” I warn. “They could be fragile.”

She nods, plucking a scroll that seems less deteriorated than the others. Carefully, she unravels it on a nearby slab. I stand guard, scanning the corners for any sign of lurking creatures. The chain at her throat clinks quietly as she bends over the text, frowning in concentration.

“These symbols…” She squints at them. “Similar to what we saw on the walls. Some… moon phases… references to purna?” She looks up at me, throat bobbing. “I think it’s about purna lineages.”

A knot forms in my chest. Purna lineages. My people’s greatest fear. The reason I was once commanded to cull human women on sight. “Let me see.”

I approach, leaning over her shoulder. The scroll is indeed inscribed with looping glyphs, interspersed with sketches of moon cycles.

Snippets of text in archaic script mention ‘bloodlines of the High Moonsong’ and ‘silver-streaked hair, marked by starlight.’ My gaze snags on a small illustration: a stylized woman’s face, framed by hair streaked with pale silver, a faint crescent birthmark behind her ear.

My stomach clenches. Silver-streaked hair. My eyes dart to Elyria’s dark locks—highlighted by that single silver streak. “This… might be describing you,” I say hoarsely.

She pales, fingers trembling on the parchment. “It’s just a coincidence, right?”

I swallow, scanning more text. My old lessons about purna come flooding back.

I recall how my gargoyle elders taught me to spot the signs of a High Purna: unique markings, dormant powers that could devastate armies if awakened.

And here we see mention of ‘the last scion shall bear the mark of stolen magic, cursed to undo the old wars.’ The pit of my stomach grows cold.

“No,” I whisper. “This is describing your lineage. The High Purna. ”

She staggers back, nearly dropping the scroll. “That’s impossible. I’m not even sure I have any magic, let alone being some… legendary bloodline.”

I close my eyes, grappling with swirling memories of gargoyle lore: the High Purna were the ones who nearly obliterated my race centuries ago, wielding catastrophic spells. The entire reason the Alpha decreed we cull potential purna. And I’m harboring the last of them. My breath quickens.

Elyria’s chain clinks as she paces, panic flashing in her eyes. “I was just a slave. The dark elves suspected I might be purna, but they never confirmed anything. I never showed any real power.”