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ELYRIA

T he morning sky stretches clear and pale, as if the world has shed the raging storms that devoured our nights.

I stand at the edge of a jagged outcrop, surveying the valley that once echoed with the roar of gargoyle wings and the hiss of dark elf crossbows.

Now, it’s eerily quiet. The tang of scorched stone and lingering magic clings to my nostrils, reminding me that only hours ago, these foothills convulsed under the final clash that toppled the Alpha’s reign.

My heart thuds with a dull ache, the residual tremor of adrenaline still coursing through my blood.

He’s gone. The Alpha—obsidian-skinned, staff brimming with red lightning—laid to rest by Korrin’s dagger and my unleashed purna power.

It happened so fast, yet also felt like an eternity.

In those final moments, the entire fortress seemed to hold its breath as Korrin delivered that lethal strike, and I hammered the last wave of silver flame to seal our victory.

He died, and with him, the twisted rule that demanded my execution.

The aftermath unfolds in slow ripples. Gargoyles, once so fearsome in their tight phalanxes, break ranks and scatter across these rugged slopes.

Some slink away in shame, others flee in fear.

No new alpha emerges in the chaos. Without their leader, their cohesion fractures—packs dissolving into individuals with no unifying cause.

They have no reason to fight once the alpha is gone.

I watch from the ridge as small clusters vanish into the mountains, carrying their wounded.

The great fortress that once loomed behind us is silent, half-collapsed from the battles that raged inside. It belongs to ghosts now.

From the opposite corner of the battlefield, I glimpse the dark elves retreating in ragged lines.

Their crossbows droop at their sides, exhausted or broken, their sleek armor dusty and dented.

I don’t know if they slink back to their twisted fortress or scatter into the lower forests.

Either way, they’ve lost the impetus to remain.

Their uneasy alliance with the gargoyles collapsed the moment the alpha’s staff fell from his dead claws.

They have no reason to keep hunting me now—too many losses, too little reward.

My chain clinks as I shift from foot to foot, half-expecting an arrow to whistle from somewhere.

But none comes. The collar around my neck is half-melted, runes dark, no longer enslaving me.

My chest tightens with bittersweet relief.

We’re not safe, not entirely, but we stand beyond the worst of it.

I turn back from the ledge to glance at Korrin, who stands a few steps behind me, leaning heavily on a crag of rock.

His breath rasps in his throat, face pale from blood loss.

Even in the thin light, I can see the sweat beading on his brow.

My heart clenches. His wings—gone, severed in that final stand.

The stumps remain bandaged, but they glisten with fresh seepage.

His eyes flick to mine with a weariness that speaks volumes. He tries to smile, but it’s more of a pained grimace. “They’re really scattering,” he observes, voice low and raw, scanning the departing gargoyles. “I never thought I’d see the clan break apart like this.”

Guilt tugs at me. He lost his entire life for me.

In that single act—lifting the blade to hack his own wings—he severed not just bone and sinew, but the only home he’d known.

I swallow thickly. “They have no alpha,” I say softly, stepping closer.

The wind snags my hair, pulling it across my face.

“No reason to stay if they’re not forced to. ”

He nods, jaw clenched. For a moment, we share a look brimming with unspoken sorrow and relief. We survived. Then his legs tremble. A flicker of alarm rips through me. “Korrin?” I say, rushing to brace him.

He tries to wave me off, but it’s no use—his strength is nearly spent. “I’m fine,” he rasps, though the sweat on his forehead betrays him. Then his eyes roll back, and he collapses in my arms with a strangled groan, stumps brushing the air where wings once were.

I let out a panicked sob, easing him down onto the rocky ground.

“No—no, no, no.” My chest seizes, tears pricking my eyes.

My entire body shakes as I cradle his head, ignoring the metallic clink of the chain still looped around me.

“Stay with me,” I whisper, voice cracking.

“You gave too much for this—please don’t leave me now. ”

The hush of the ridge wraps around us. Gargoyles still pass in the distance, paying us no heed, and the dark elves are long gone. My heart thuds wildly, each beat a question: Is this the moment I lose him after all we’ve overcome?

He doesn’t respond, eyes shut, breathing shallow.

He’s alive, but so fragile. My tears slip like raindrops, landing on his battered face.

For a breathless moment, I recall every step of our harrowing journey—his resolute vow in the fortress courtyard, our nights sheltering under broken walls, the scorching bond we forged that fueled our final battle.

All that, only to watch him fade from blood loss on a barren ridge. The injustice of it roars in my chest.

I press my palm to his brow. Feverish heat simmers beneath the sweat.

The stumps of his wings seethe red at the edges, bandages soaked.

He needs healing we cannot provide. My purna power soared magnificently in moments of desperate battle, but healing is something else entirely.

I have no skill for that, no control. The memory of my partial attempts stabs me: I seared his wounds in that cave, but that was hardly controlled healing.

“Tend him,” a faint voice in me insists, some leftover spark of magic whispering at the edge of my mind. “He gave everything for you.” My throat tightens, tears sliding down my chin. I have to try.

I steady myself, kneeling over him. My collar rattles, half broken, the runes extinguished.

The chain rests limp in the dust. At least it can’t stop me now.

Gently, I place one hand on his chest, the other brushing over the bandage nearest his right wing stump.

The scorching memory of my destructive power unleashing silver flame floods me with dread— What if I burn him again instead of healing?

But no alternative remains. He’s slipping away.

I inhale a trembling breath, closing my eyes.

My entire body hums with leftover magic, the raw purna inheritance stirring.

Focus, Elyria, I command myself, half terrified.

I conjure the memory of the intangible bond we shared in that moment of intimacy, how our auras merged.

We tasted each other’s strength then. Perhaps that synergy can do more than slay foes.

A faint glow stirs beneath my palms, not the raging silver arcs that destroyed so many, but a softer luminescence, tinted with warmth.

My breath hitches in wonder, tears stinging.

Yes, gently. I murmur a half-formed prayer, calling on the essence of my bloodline for healing, not harm.

The glow spreads over his chest, illuminating the battered bandages.

He moans softly, brow furrowing in pain.

My heart leaps with hope. He’s reacting.

I let the energy flow, mind swirling with images of growth and life rather than destruction.

It’s precarious—my power yearns to flare in unstoppable waves, but I keep it contained, focusing on mending.

A surge of heat pulses from my core down my arms, seeping into his wounds.

He groans, head tossing as if in a fever dream.

I press closer, tears slipping. “Don’t die,” I whisper, lips trembling. “Stay with me.”

Gradually, the raw edges of his injuries ease, swelling receding, the flow of blood slowing.

My chest tightens with relief. I’m no grand healer, but perhaps I can reduce the mortal danger.

The sweet ache of magic in my veins intensifies, leaving me lightheaded.

I’m pouring everything into him. The silver glow dims after a minute, the last flickers dancing around my fingertips.

I slump forward, resting my forehead against his uninjured shoulder, vision spinning. I can’t do more.

Korrin’s breath comes steadier now, though still labored.

I glance up, breath catching at the sight: his face is drawn with pain but not as ghastly pale as before.

A gentle relief spreads across his features, eyelids fluttering.

He’s not fully healed, but I’ve pulled him back from the brink.

My tears overflow, chest shuddering with gratitude.

He stirs, blinking sluggishly. “Elyria?” he rasps. I exhale a sob, smoothing his hair from his forehead. “I’m here,” I breathe, biting back tears. “I… I tried to help. It’s not perfect, but…”

He offers a faint, wobbly smile that cracks my heart open. “You… did something,” he murmurs, confusion and awe tinging his voice. His eyes flick to the bandaged stumps. They remain gruesome, but the bleeding has indeed lessened, the skin less inflamed. “Feels… not as bad.”

I let out a shaky laugh that dissolves into weeping. He tries to reach up, wiping my tears, but his arm quivers with exhaustion. “Thank you,” he says, voice cracking. A single phrase that resonates deeper than any speech.

I cradle him against my chest, tears falling onto the dust. For a heartbeat, we hold each other in the quiet of the ridge, letting the last stragglers of gargoyles and elves vanish from our minds.

The alpha is slain, the clan scattered, the dark elves retreating.

We remain—battered, alive, bound by love.

That knowledge pulses in my chest, a fragile joy overshadowed by the permanent damage to his wings.

He can’t fly ever again. A wave of grief surges.