ELYRIA

T he dawn light comes late in these mountains, delayed by the massive peaks that loom to the east. By the time the first rays spill across the uneven ground, my bones already ache from another night of restless vigilance.

We’ve been traveling for days since our bloody encounter in that ruined fortress—Korrin and I pressing deeper into the foothills, scavenging for shelter in whatever clefts or hidden alcoves we can find.

Each day pulls us farther from the roving patrols, but the tension never ceases.

Even in my sleep, I can’t escape the coil of fear lodged in my chest.

This morning, the sky glows peach and lavender, a deceptive promise of calm that does nothing to soothe the dread beneath my skin.

The chain at my throat feels heavier than ever, as if sensing the swirling anxieties in my head.

I wake stiff and chilled, curled under a makeshift blanket that does little to ward off the mountain air.

Across from me, Korrin stands watch, his broad back to the weak sunrise, wings half-furled.

He’s so still, I almost think he’s turned to stone again—a silent sentinel haunted by old ghosts.

I rise slowly, testing my limbs for soreness.

My ankle throbs from the climbs and descents, but I can still bear weight without too much pain.

A pang of guilt flickers, he’s been pushing me so hard, even though I know we have no choice.

I swallow the bitterness: we’re fugitives in a land that wants us dead. We can’t afford comfort.

Korrin hears me stir and turns his head slightly, enough for me to catch his golden eyes.

There’s a weariness there that makes my heart twist. We share a subtle nod—no words needed.

I gather our minimal belongings while he scans the horizon.

In this mutual routine, we find a sliver of companionship, each mindful of the other’s burdens.

Even so, an unspoken sense of threat lingers in the crisp morning air, as if the mountains themselves watch our every move.

We depart the small ledge we used for shelter, moving carefully through a maze of boulders.

The terrain here is punishing: steep inclines, loose rocks, patches of stubborn snow that glisten beneath a thin sun.

Korrin leads, ever watchful, occasionally pausing to sniff the wind or listen for distant footfalls.

His vigilance is a comfort, though I hate how the chain rattles each time I scramble to keep up.

We speak little, saving our breath for the trek.

My thoughts churn with a thousand worries: how far must we go before we’re truly safe?

How much more blood must Korrin spill in my name?

Each time I recall the fortress, the memory of his final blow resonates with both relief and sorrow.

He killed his own kind to save me, severing his last ties.

I ignore the almost suffocating feeling and push onward, matching his pace.

At midday, we pause to rest by a shallow trickle of water that runs between two rocky slopes.

I crouch, cupping my hands to drink, the icy liquid stinging my palms. Korrin sets his pack down, rolling his shoulders with a low grunt of discomfort.

I look at the bandage beneath his harness.

The crossbow wound he sustained is still healing, the scabs visible whenever he shifts. A wave of concern crests in me.

“How does it feel?” I ask, quietly. “Your arm?”

He shrugs, feigning indifference, but I see the tension in his jaw. “I’ll manage,” he says, voice gruff. Then his eyes soften, an unspoken apology for shutting me out.

I nod, letting it be. I won’t push him further.

Instead, I straighten, scanning the rugged hills.

Rocks rise in irregular formations, and far above, jagged peaks pierce a sky that grows darker by the hour.

Clouds gather, grey and heavy. Probably another storm.

My stomach knots at the thought of trying to scale treacherous paths in the rain.

“All right,” Korrin says after a moment, hefting his pack. “We push on. Let’s see if there’s a valley or ravine we can slip into before the weather turns.”

I tuck my cloak tighter, adjusting the chain so it won’t snag. Each step forward is a small defiance against everything that hunts us. Just keep moving, I chant inwardly, just keep living.

By late afternoon, the clouds have swelled into a solid mass, the wind picking up in chill gusts that howl between the boulders.

We make our way along a high ridge, the path so narrow that sometimes I have to press against the stone to let Korrin pass or shift my weight.

My nerves are on edge—this vantage offers a sweeping view of the valleys below, but it also leaves us exposed if any watchers are out there.

We spot what appears to be an old trail leading down a steep decline into a hidden valley.

Shrugging off our misgivings, we choose it in hopes of finding cover from the looming storm.

A sense of foreboding clenches my gut. The path, though well-worn, seems too convenient.

But we have no better option, so we descend carefully.

The valley below reveals itself as a long, narrow basin, ringed by jagged cliffs on three sides.

At first glance, it seems deserted —just patches of dry grass, a few scraggly pines.

The wind keens, rustling dead leaves. My ankle twinges with each step, the chain jangling softly in the oppressive silence.

Suddenly, Korrin halts, lifting a hand to signal me to stop. My pulse spikes. He senses something. I strain my ears, hearing only wind. But then, carried on the breeze, I catch a faint clatter of metal. My heart jumps. Armored footsteps?

“Korrin—” I begin, but he cuts me off with a gesture, eyes narrowed. He motions for me to step behind a large boulder. My heart hammers as I duck down, gripping the chain to silence its rattle. Korrin presses himself against the rock, wings tensed, scanning the valley’s rim.

The metal noise grows louder, accompanied by hushed voices in a language I recognize too well: dark elves. Fear surges. They found us again. My eyes flit to Korrin. He looks over his shoulder at me, concern blazing in those golden irises. “Get ready,” he mouths.

But before we can plan an ambush or route of escape, a new sound slices the air—rushing wings overhead.

My stomach plummets. More gargoyles? I crane my neck, glimpsing a shadow skimming the cloud-wreathed sky.

A silhouette passes across the sun. Korrin curses under his breath.

We’re surrounded—dark elves below, gargoyle(s) above. Panic flares.

We try to double back along the ridge, but the moment we step out from behind the boulder, a flurry of movement explodes around us. Dark elf scouts emerge from camouflaged positions among the rocks, crossbows aimed. My chain clinks as I freeze in alarm, Korrin shifting protectively in front of me.

“Surrender!” a dark elf barks, eyes gleaming with malice. He’s tall, wearing battered leathers with a sigil I recall from the fortress that once enslaved me. My blood runs cold. “You can’t win this time, gargoyle. We have reinforcements above. Our archers stand ready.”

Korrin’s wings snap open, a lethal display. Despite the crossbows leveled at him, he roars in fury, hooking an arm across me to shield me from immediate fire. “Get behind me,” he rasps.

My chest tightens. “We can’t—there are too many.”

He doesn’t respond, but I see the desperation in his face.

Another half-dozen dark elves stride forward, crossbows and short swords in hand.

They fan out, forming a semicircle. I glance upward; a gargoyle hovers overhead, circling with menacing slowness, ready to dive if we attempt flight or fight. Trapped.

“Hand over the girl,” the lead elf snarls. “We’ll let you live if you swear to stand down, gargoyle. Our alliance with your clan is… flexible. But the purna must die or be returned to her rightful owners.”

My stomach twists. Return me? They mean to drag me back to the fortress, to enslavement or execution. My entire body trembles. I cling to Korrin’s arm, fear pounding in my temples.

Korrin’s lips curl in a snarl. “Never,” he growls, voice low and dangerous.

The elves exchange glances, some shifting uncertainly.

They sense how deadly Korrin is, how many of their kind he’s slain.

Yet they close ranks, crossbow bolts trained on him.

More footsteps echo behind us—a second squad approaching from the ridge.

My heart clenches in despair. We’re truly surrounded.

Korrin glances at me, anguish flickering in his gaze. Then his eyes harden. He’s going to fight, I realize, terror surging. We can’t beat them all.

He lunges, roaring, wings snapping wide to strike the nearest elf.

The elf yelps as Korrin’s claws rake across his chest, but crossbow bolts fire in a staccato volley.

Korrin tries to shield me, but one bolt grazes his side, another thunks into his thigh.

He stumbles, hissing in pain. My scream lodges in my throat.

I scramble to help him, but the dark elves close in with chilling efficiency.

Two seize me from behind, yanking me away from Korrin.

The chain at my collar rattles violently as I struggle, arms pinned.

I glimpse Korrin slashing at an elf who tries to stab him from behind.

Blood spatters. Another bolt strikes his wing, and he staggers. My vision blurs with tears. No, no, no…

“Korrin!” I cry, voice raw. He roars in fury, trying to reach me, but more elves swarm him. I see swords flashing, hear pained snarls. It’s chaos, pure chaos. The gargoyle overhead swoops lower, snarling orders or threats—I can’t tell.