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Varzak pushes me through the doorway. The hall is more crowded than before—many gargoyles stand on the periphery, possibly drawn by the scandal.

The braziers glow with an almost celebratory malice, as if the clan awaits a savage show.

My eyes flick to the dais. The Alpha stands, massive wings partially spread, staff in one clawed hand. His gaze pins me with cold fury.

“Korrin,” he says, voice reverberating. “Your time of judgment arrives. The dark elves will bring the purna soon. We shall test your loyalty at last.”

I manage a trembling breath, forcing myself not to collapse under the hateful stares. My injuries throb. “If she arrives… what do you intend?”

A sneer curves his lips. “You will execute her before the entire clan. Prove you remain our executioner, loyal to our survival above all else.” His eyes narrow. “Defy me, and the clan tears you both limb from limb. Slowly.”

An elder steps forward, a female gargoyle with silver-streaked horns. She regards me with grim disapproval. “The clan has no use for an executioner who loves a purna. Will you uphold our ancient vow, Korrin, or confirm your betrayal?”

I clench my chained fists. All the clan is here. If I refuse, they’ll kill her. My breath hitches. But if I do as they say, I become the monster she once feared. My heart writhes in agony. There must be a third path. But how?

The Alpha’s gaze intensifies, seeming to peer into my soul.

“I smell your hesitation,” he hisses. “Do not hope for a miracle. The moment she arrives, you’ll have a blade in your hand.

And the clan will watch. One clean strike, or we punish you both.

Decide now, Korrin. Surrender to your sworn duty. ”

The hall is deathly silent, every gargoyle’s eyes locked on me. My mind whirls, searching for any flicker of hope. I can’t kill her. But if I openly refuse, they’ll tear me apart, then likely kill her anyway. Is there any chance to turn the clan’s loyalty? Could I sabotage the moment of execution?

My voice trembles. “You will see my choice,” I manage, struggling to keep defiance from betraying my plan. “When the time comes.”

A low rumble of disapproval passes through the onlookers. The Alpha’s mouth twists, displeased by my evasive answer. Yet he says only, “Take him below, keep him under watch. When the purna arrives, we hold the ceremony.”

Varzak seizes my arm, marching me out again. Gargoyles hiss curses as we pass, spitting at my feet. My soul feels numb. Elyria is alive, at least. But I must kill her or face the clan’s wrath. My breath shudders with silent grief.

Varzak leads me to a small antechamber, not the full dungeon. A cluster of younger gargoyles stand guard. I’m pinned to a thick chain bolted in the center of the floor, forced to kneel. A hush falls as Varzak leans in close, voice dripping with malice.

“Soon, the dark elves bring your precious human. We gather in the main arena, and you’ll do your duty. Or I’ll carve her heart out myself. Slowly.” He runs a claw across my throat, eyes bright with sadistic glee. Then he departs, leaving the guards to watch me.

I slump, chest tightening with dread. The “arena” is an open cavern near the fortress’s core, used for clan rites—birth celebrations, challenges, punishments.

I recall witnessing traitors executed there, the crowd roaring.

Now, I’m forced to stand in that circle, a blade in hand, Elyria at my mercy.

I’d sooner slice my own throat. But that saves no one.

Time blurs. My entire body shakes with exhaustion, old wounds throbbing. But the emotional agony dwarfs physical pain. I keep recalling Elyria’s trembling form, how she looked the first time I spared her. What if I have to look into her eyes and see trust or betrayal?

A door slams outside. Footsteps pound the corridor.

Gargoyles come and go, whispering about the dark elves’ arrival.

My breath comes in ragged gasps. It’s happening.

Soon they’ll drag me to that arena. I must do something.

My mind churns—maybe I can feign compliance, then turn on the Alpha.

But the clan’s enforcers will be everywhere.

Suicide. Still, that might buy Elyria a chance to flee.

She’s collared, likely shackled. She can’t outrun them alone.

My heart sinks further. Is there truly no hope?

At last, a guard steps in. “It’s time,” he grunts, unchaining me from the floor but keeping my wrists bound in heavy manacles.

“Don’t struggle.” I clench my jaw, letting him yank me upright.

My ankles quake, wings pinned behind me.

Two more guards flank me, each gripping an arm.

The corridor is thick with tension. Every gargoyle we pass stares with contempt or curiosity.

I see no friendly faces, no hidden allies. Trapped.

They march me down a flight of stairs, across a wide corridor lined with torches.

The air thickens with excitement, as if the entire fortress hums with anticipation.

My chest aches. I catch glimpses of gargoyles gathering in droves around the entrance to the central arena—a cavernous space where I once trained.

My stomach flips. It’s real. They’re going to force me to do this in front of everyone.

We enter through a side gate, stepping into a vast circular chamber.

Tiered stone benches rise around the perimeter, jammed with gargoyles—warriors, elders, novices.

Torches mounted high on pillars cast harsh light over the central ring, an open floor of polished stone.

My wings fold in tight, an instinctive reaction to the throng of watchers.

A hush ripples through the crowd as they see me.

They came to watch a spectacle. My heart pounds, fear and hatred mingling in my veins.

At the far side stands the Alpha on a raised platform, staff in hand.

Varzak stands near him, arms folded, expression triumphant.

The crowd parts, letting me see a second set of metal gates across the ring.

My breath catches. A group of dark elves stand there, elves I half-recognize as fortress overlords, with a single chained figure among them. My vision blurs with tears. Elyria.

She looks gaunt, bound at the wrists, collar still around her neck.

A fresh bruise darkens her cheek, and her eyes dart frantically across the arena.

When she sees me, her face twists with heartbreak.

I swallow a broken cry. She’s alive, but battered.

They said they’d deliver her to the Alpha—and here she is, an offering of cruelty.

The crowd hushes as the Alpha raises a claw. “Clan,” he booms, voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “We gather to witness an act of redemption—or final justice. Korrin, once our proud executioner, has strayed. But we give him a chance to reclaim honor. By slaying this purna, he atones for all.”

A murmur ripples among the gargoyles, some cheering, others looking grim. My stomach roils. The dark elves push Elyria forward, into the ring. She staggers, chain rattling. The Alpha turns to me. “Korrin,” he calls. “Step forth.”

I close my eyes, the entire arena watching. My heart roars: I cannot kill her. But how can I save us both from the alpha’s wrath?