Page 24

KORRIN

A chill wind scours my skin, leaving an electric tingle that sharpens every sense I have.

The foothills we’ve been navigating have given way to a plateau of jagged rocks and twisted pines.

Over the past days, Elyria and I have encountered half-collapsed shrines, lonely monoliths, and ancient markers that hint at a vanished civilization—possibly the same that built the monastery we sheltered in.

In this wilderness, ruins sprout like old scars on the land, each one whispering of secrets best left buried.

Today, we discover a place that resonates with a particular eeriness: a ruined fortress perched on a rocky outcrop overlooking a narrow valley.

Its walls are half-tumbled, the gatehouse collapsed into rubble.

Broken statues line what used to be a courtyard, their stone faces worn away by centuries of rain and wind.

Barely any roof remains, just shards of timber and gaping holes that let in the harsh sunlight.

We approach in cautious silence. Elyria’s chain rattles softly with each step, and though we’ve grown adept at muffling it, the sound grates on my nerves.

We’re not sure if any danger lurks here—beasts or bandits, or worse, other gargoyles.

Yet we can’t ignore that the battered walls might offer temporary shelter from the wilds around us.

The day has been long, and we need a secure spot to regroup before nightfall.

“This place looks older than the monastery,” Elyria whispers, hugging her thin cloak tight against the wind. Her breath puffs white in the chilly air. “And more… savage somehow.”

I nod, scanning the broken battlements. A rotting banner, unrecognizable from the ravages of time, drapes one corner of the ruin.

“Likely a fort that changed hands many times,” I murmur.

“Its architecture is a clash of styles—some gargoyle-like buttresses, but also angles reminiscent of orcish fortifications. Hard to say who last controlled it.”

She glances at me, eyes flicking to my wings. We haven’t yet fully spoken about my old clan, about whether this place might have once served gargoyles. But we both know the risk: if any gargoyles still roam these foothills, they might be drawn to such a vantage.

“We’ll be careful,” she says, quiet but firm.

I sense the undercurrent of trust there, hesitant, but real.

Since our talk in the alcove, we’ve found a fragile understanding.

Even so, tension coils in my gut like a serpent.

Something feels off about this fortress, as though it still hums with leftover magic or memories of war.

My executioner instincts prickle, warning me that we’re exposed.

But Elyria’s footsore, and the sun is dipping low.

We need somewhere to rest. With a curt nod, I lead us through a gap in the shattered wall, picking my way across broken stones.

We remain poised for ambush, but the ruin seems deserted.

No fresh footprints or scent. Just dust and a faint tang of old decay.

We locate a portion of the fortress that still has part of its ceiling intact—a cramped corner room with half a roof, enough to keep out the worst of the night chill.

The space is littered with debris: splintered wood, scattered stones, a fallen archway carved with unreadable runes.

Elyria kneels to brush away dirt, clearing a patch for us to settle.

I keep watch at the threshold, scanning for any sign of movement beyond the crumbling corridors.

The wind keens through the broken halls, stirring shadows that flit across the tumbled stones. My wings twitch, uneasy. If any gargoyles approach, I’ll sense them first, I tell myself, trying to still the knot in my chest. But I can’t shake a faint sense of dread, as if we’re not alone.

When I finally step back inside, Elyria has laid out our meager supplies in the corner, near a collapsed window that admits thin, murky light. She meets my gaze, the chain at her throat glinting ominously. “All clear?” she murmurs.

“Seems so,” I reply, voice tight. “But I don’t like it here. Feels… haunted by old battles.”

She nods, lips thinning. “We won’t stay long.”

I exhale, relief flickering through me. “One night,” I agree, “then we move on.”

We set about making a small fire with the scraps of rotted timber, though there’s scant kindling that isn’t damp.

Our attempts produce more smoke than heat, but it’s enough to stave off the worst chill.

Elyria rubs her hands, hissing at the swirl of ash that drifts up.

I shift closer, offering the meager warmth of my body.

The chain rattles, an ugly sound in these dead halls.

Before we can drift into uneasy rest, a low rumble grips my gut. Not from hunger, but from my gargoyle senses picking up a vibration in the air. I still, every muscle tight. Elyria notices instantly, her eyes wide. “What is it?”

I hold up a hand, listening. My wings flare slightly, attuned to subtle changes in the wind.

An unmistakable echo reverberates from somewhere beyond the fortress’s outer ramparts: the heavy footfalls of multiple creatures.

Gargoyles. Possibly more than one. My heart lurches.

But wait—there’s also a different cadence, lighter, clipped steps that might belong to elves or men. Fear twists in my belly.

“We have company,” I whisper.

Elyria’s face pales. “Dark elves?”

“And gargoyles,” I confirm, teeth gritted. “They’re heading this way. Probably caught sight of the ruin or our smoke.”

She curses under her breath, shooting a frantic glance around. “What do we do? Hide? Run?”

A pulse of savage protectiveness flares in me.

If they find us, it means confrontation—especially if they see me with Elyria, let alone the chain indicating she’s not a typical captive.

“Running might be an option if we can slip out unseen,” I mutter.

“But we can’t outrun gargoyles in open terrain, and the dark elves might have archers.

We’ll have to be clever, or—” My voice falters.

Or I fight. The old executioner within me stirs, half-terrified, half-thrilling at the idea.

Her eyes spark with determination. “I won’t let them take me.”

“Then we stand ready,” I say, forcing a calm I don’t feel. “We might find a vantage to observe them first. If it’s only a few, we can slip away or pick them off. If more come, we retreat deeper into the fortress.”

She nods, swallowing. “I trust you.”

The quiet admission tugs at something deep inside me.

I can’t fail her now. “Stay close,” I murmur, gripping her hand briefly.

Then I hurry to douse our feeble fire, scattering the coals.

The chain rattles as we creep into a corridor that might lead to higher ground—perhaps we can peer out from a broken tower or parapet.

We move fast but silently, my wings pulled in tight to avoid brushing the walls.

The corridor spirals upward, leading to what might have been a second-floor walkway.

Much of it is collapsed, open to the sky.

Squeezing through a half-blocked arch, we emerge onto a partial rampart ringed by rubble.

The vantage overlooks the fortress courtyard—cracked flagstones, broken columns, and a wide breach in the far wall.

And there, stepping over the debris, are figures that seize my heart in dread.

Three dark elves in black leather, crossbows slung across their backs, pick their way cautiously.

Their expressions are alert, scanning each shadow.

Close behind them, to my horror, marches a gargoyle.

A real gargoyle, wings folded, skin a dark slate color.

He’s big, though not quite as tall as me, and he moves with the lethal grace of a trained hunter.

My mind reels, recognizing insignias on his bracers.

He’s from my clan. Possibly a scout or mid-level executioner, dispatched to find me or any sign of my defection.

Elyria stiffens behind me, nearly pressing herself into my back.

Her breath shudders. I sense her fear—the dark elves alone are bad enough, but a gargoyle from my own clan is an even bigger threat.

The fact that they’re working together is worse.

What unholy alliance is this? Possibly the dark elves have offered intelligence, or a temporary truce, if it means capturing the fugitive gargoyle and the rumored High Purna.

They speak in low voices, though I can’t catch every word from our vantage.

The gargoyle’s tone is guttural, the dark elves hiss in their harsh tongue.

Then they spread out, fanning across the courtyard.

One elf tests a side passage that might lead to the interior.

Another paces near the collapsed gatehouse.

Meanwhile, the gargoyle stands in the center, scanning the half-fallen towers with keen eyes.

I pull Elyria down behind a portion of the parapet, heart hammering. “We can’t let them corner us,” I whisper. “That gargoyle might catch my scent if he gets too close. He’ll sense you too.”

She nods, hands shaking slightly around the chain. “We need a plan.”

A swirl of old instincts floods me: Identify the biggest threat, neutralize swiftly. As an executioner, I know these tactics. I steel myself. “If they spread out, we might pick them off in smaller numbers. But if the gargoyle uses any psionic or elemental magic, we could be trapped.”

She pales, nodding. “I’ll follow your lead.”

I press a clawed hand over hers, a silent vow.

Then I peer over the parapet again. The group has split up.

Two elves vanish into a corridor below, likely searching rooms. The third elf stands near the gargoyle, scanning.

My breath catches as the gargoyle moves, turning slowly in a circle.

His wings flicker. He’s definitely a scout—body language says he’s sniffing the air. He suspects we’re here.