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KORRIN

L ightning forks across the night sky, illuminating the jagged spires of our stronghold’s battlements and the pale stone statues perched along its walls.

Those statues look ancient—wings folded, eyes hollow—yet they bear a disquieting resemblance to the living gargoyles who are rousing all across Protheka.

Every time lightning flashes, I catch glimpses of them: silent sentinels that remind me how close we came to eternal sleep.

I stand on the highest rampart, the storm’s cold wind whipping across my face.

The air smells of ozone and distant pine, undercut by the stale tang of blood from earlier hunts.

I let my gaze sweep the dark landscape below, noting every flicker of movement—mortals scurrying near their watchfires, shadows shifting along the fortress walls.

They all look so small to me. Fragile. I can’t help the curl of my lip, a reaction born of the arrogance ingrained in my race.

Still, there’s no satisfaction in killing weaker beings; only a hollow sense of duty that’s been drilled into me since the moment I cracked free from stone a fortnight ago.

We gargoyles have awakened. At first, my memories came in fragments, the cold hush of stone sleep, the war centuries past that nearly destroyed us, the witches who wielded terrifying purna magic, the dark elves who conspired in that conflict.

They’re all pieces of a broken tapestry in my mind—battle cries echoing over canyons, the flash of magic bright as a small sun, winged figures clashing high above burning towns.

Now I’m confronted with a new command from the Alpha: Kill every human woman on sight.

It’s a culling meant to prevent the reemergence of purna magic.

I clench my jaw. I am an executioner, I remind myself. I have no illusions about my role. I’m the Alpha’s foremost hunter, a living weapon he wields without hesitation. When he says to kill, I kill. I should feel no doubt.

I sense a presence behind me, and the short spines along my shoulders prickle. I pivot, narrowing my eyes as I spot Tarmik, one of my gargoyle brethren. He has slate-gray skin and a jagged scar across his snout, souvenirs from battles he likely only half-remembers.

“Korrin,” Tarmik says, his voice like a low rumble of thunder, “the Alpha demands your presence.”

I grunt in acknowledgment. I’ve been expecting this summons since the scouts brought word of a dark elf fortress harboring human slaves.

There must be females among those humans—potential carriers of purna blood.

I spare one final glance at the storm-lashed horizon, then spread my wings in a single powerful motion.

The wind catches beneath them, and I leap from the rampart.

My stone-like muscles bunch, manipulating magnetic fields that grant me flight.

Even after centuries sealed in stone, flight still comes naturally to me—like breathing, but fiercer.

Below, in our courtyard, newly awakened gargoyles test their strength and sharpen weapons.

Torchlight casts twisting shadows that make them appear even more monstrous—horns, claws, fanged faces.

I circle once overhead, then drop to the courtyard with a dull thud.

My landing cracks the stone tile beneath my feet, sending shards of rubble skittering in every direction. Tarmik lands beside me, wings folding.

“Don’t keep him waiting,” Tarmik warns before stepping aside.

I enter the Alpha’s council chamber through massive double doors, each carved from dark stone and etched with runes. A cold blue glow emanates from arcane sconces on the walls, sending pale light rippling across black marble columns. At the far end of the hall stands the Alpha himself.

He’s enormous, even by gargoyle standards, eight feet of obsidian skin streaked with pulsing crimson veins.

His wings arch behind him, curved horns framing a face etched with swirling patterns that mark him as our patriarch.

The strongest among us. I cross the chamber and dip my head, my claws scraping against the marble as I stop.

“You summoned me,” I say, my voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling.

The Alpha inclines his head. “Yes. Our scouts have uncovered new intelligence about a fortress occupied by dark elves. They hold human slaves—among them, several females who may carry the seeds of purna magic. You know what must be done.”

My heart pounds, though my face betrays no emotion. “The humans must be culled.”

“Precisely.” He steps closer, and I feel the weight of his gaze.

“We cannot risk another war like the one that nearly ended our race. The purna lineage was never fully snuffed out. Rumors suggest one of them—maybe more—hides among these captives. If they awaken, we could face the same horror that forced us into stone sleep.”

I recall half-formed nightmares that haunted my slumber: witches shrouded in blazing magic, entire gargoyle clans reduced to rubble. I have no desire to see our kind decimated again. Even so, a part of me resists the notion of slaughtering so many. It’s fleeting, but I feel it all the same.

“Understood,” I say, steadying my voice. “Do we have any names or descriptions?”

At the Alpha’s gesture, a lesser gargoyle steps forward.

He carries a rolled parchment and unspools it, revealing sketches and marks that I assume come from interrogation or captured intelligence.

“Many are inconsequential,” the gargoyle explains, his tone even.

“But one stands out. A young woman named Elyria.”

My gaze slides to a charcoal sketch on the parchment, a slender figure with black hair streaked silver, a brand at her neck. The rush of adrenaline in my veins surprises me. Something about those scrawled features unsettles me.

“She has certain markings,” the gargoyle continues. “A birthmark behind her ear, rumored to be purna in origin. The dark elves haven’t executed her, implying they see potential benefit—or danger—in her existence.”

The Alpha’s eyes burn with intensity. “You, Korrin, will lead the strike. Infiltrate the fortress, exterminate the human females, and bring me proof. If any show a hint of purna magic, kill them. We cannot allow the threat of another war.”

I force down the unease gnawing at the back of my mind. I am the executioner. This is my purpose. “It will be done.”

The Alpha’s lips curl in a grim smile. “Go, then. Tonight, we reclaim blood in the name of our survival.”

I say nothing more, merely pivot and stride from the chamber. The weight of the Alpha’s decree hangs on my shoulders like an invisible chain, heavier than any stone I’ve ever carried.

Outside, the storm intensifies. Rain lashes my skin, lightning rips across the sky.

A few gargoyles pause in their tasks to watch me pass.

I sense their respect, their fear. At the stronghold’s edge, I halt, scanning the horizon.

Beyond the black ridges of rock and stunted forests lies the dark elf fortress—a place of cruelty, if rumors are true.

The dark elves don’t worry me; they’re cunning but fragile.

My real interest lies in the slaves…particularly the woman who might carry the purna spark.

A flash of lightning brightens the ramparts, and I launch myself into the storm, wings snapping wide.

Sheets of rain pummel me, but I slice through the deluge with practiced grace.

Three gargoyles peel away behind me, subordinates under my command.

We fly over jagged cliffs, their wet faces reflecting the occasional lightning strike, then across stretches of pine forest that sway in the gale.

Despite the grim mission, I feel raw power coursing through me.

At least I’m awake again, not condemned to perpetual stone sleep.

But I can’t shake thoughts of Elyria. Over the howl of the wind, I picture the hasty charcoal lines: black hair, silver streak, a brand around her neck. Why is she singled out? What is so special about her?

Rain slashes at my wings like shards of ice.

I force my mind back to the present, angling westward toward flickering torchlights that trace the dark elf fortress’s outer wall.

The fortress rises abruptly from a rocky plateau, towers thrusting upward in a jagged silhouette.

I signal for my subordinates to circle and find weak points. At once, they scatter into the storm.

Lightning flashes again, revealing archers along the ramparts. I hover behind an outcropping of rock, assessing. There, on the east side—a smaller tower with fewer guards, partially concealed by swirling storm clouds. Perfect.

I grip the magnetic fields tighter, ascending in near silence.

My claws clamp onto the tower’s slick apex, and I crouch, wings folded.

Rain patters around me, the wind masking my presence.

The stench of fear drifts from somewhere below—perhaps the fortress dwellers know we’re out here.

Maybe they sense it in the shifting air.

I scale the wall with claws and toes, inching toward a narrow arrow slit. Dim lantern glow flickers inside, revealing an empty stretch of hallway. I slip in through the slit, landing quietly on the damp floor. The corridor is cold, smelling of mold and decay. My senses stretch, searching.

Every step I take is careful, measuring the labyrinth I suspect has changed since gargoyles once prowled these halls.

Still, I feel the echoes of our old architecture beneath the dark elves’ alterations.

Hiding in a recess, I wait until two guards approach.

Their footsteps clatter on the stone. Black armor adorned with a serpent sigil. Swords on their hips.

I spring. My claws rake across the first guard’s throat, and his strangled cry dies instantly. Blood spatters the wall. The second guard tries to shout, but my tail whips him off balance, and a single crushing blow to his head ends him. Silence returns, broken only by the drip of blood.