Page 6

I remain perfectly still, listening as another soldier calls him away. Something about fresh gargoyle tracks found on the ramparts. The soldier mutters a curse, then jogs back toward the group. Thank the gods. My entire body trembles with relief.

I wait another few heartbeats before I dare move.

The soldiers are once again engrossed in discussing how best to repel future gargoyle attacks.

They’re not even looking at me. I risk a quick glance left and right.

The path to the main gate is too exposed—I’d be seen instantly.

However, there’s a smaller side gate along the southeast corner, typically used for supply wagons. Sometimes the watch is minimal there.

I crawl on hands and knees toward the rope coil, snatching it up. Maybe I can use it to lower myself from an outer wall if I can’t get through the main gates. The chain around my collar clinks softly with each movement. My knees ache against the wet stone, but I swallow the pain.

When I near the southeast corner, I see a single guard posted near that supply gate. He leans against the wall, crossbow in hand but gaze distant. He’s younger than most, his expression betraying nerves. He’s probably rattled by the gargoyle infiltration.

Hope surges in my chest. If I can slip behind him… But how? The courtyard is too open.

I tuck the rope under one arm. Then I spot a narrow passage—an alcove that might lead around the perimeter. If I can follow it, maybe I can slip up the steps to the outer wall, then find a vantage to see if any section is climbable.

I dart across a short gap of open ground, every sense screaming that I’ll be spotted. My chain rattles, but the soldier remains oblivious, apparently lost in his own fear. I press myself to the fortress wall and inch into the alcove, finding a steep, twisting stair. Yes.

I climb, careful to stay low, the rope slung over one shoulder. The steps are slippery with rainwater. Once or twice, I nearly lose my footing. My heart is in my mouth each time I wobble. No. Focus.

At the top, I discover a small walkway running along the inside of the fortress wall.

The vantage here reveals the courtyard below—and, beyond it, the wide ravine.

If I peer carefully, I see the drawbridge is raised.

Figures in black armor move along the battlements on the opposite side. No luck crossing there.

A crack of thunder rumbles overhead, or maybe it’s just the fortress settling under its own weight.

My thoughts spin: If I can’t use the main gate or the drawbridge, is there a portion of the wall low enough to climb with the rope?

The ramparts appear uniform and steep, but maybe there’s a collapsed section…

I hurry along the walkway, searching. My pulse quickens when I spot crumbling masonry near a corner tower. Loose stones jut out, and part of the parapet has fallen away. Rain from last night’s storm must have loosened it further. This might be my best shot.

I approach cautiously, scanning for guards.

The walkway is suspiciously empty, likely because the fortress’s forces are gathered elsewhere, investigating the gargoyle infiltration.

My muscles tense at the memory: a towering figure of stone and sinew smashing through windows, leaving dead elves in his wake.

A flicker of something, not exactly fear, rakes my mind.

For a moment, I picture golden eyes meeting mine through the haze of rain—an image so vivid it makes my heart spasm.

Why does it feel like I’ve been seen already by those eyes?

I swallow. Focus, Elyria.

I kneel by the broken parapet, checking the drop.

The ravine is too far to jump, but the wall itself is about thirty feet high from this point.

If my rope is long enough, I might be able to rappel down the outer face, then scramble the rest of the way.

The ground outside is rough and rocky, a slope leading into a dense forest. That forest could be my salvation—or a hunting ground for gargoyles.

I tie one end of the rope to a sturdy piece of stone with my shaky hands. The rope looks old but thick enough. I tug on it. Seems it might hold my weight if I descend carefully.

A shuffle of footsteps behind me makes my blood run cold. I spin, chain rattling. A dark elf guard stands only a few strides away, crossbow aimed at my chest.

“Trying to leave so soon?” he sneers. His voice trembles with anger or maybe fear.

My mouth goes dry. “I—I just?—”

He doesn’t let me finish. He fires. Instinct kicks in; I fling myself sideways. The bolt slams into the stone, narrowly missing my shoulder. Splinters of rock spray my face. Pain stings my cheek, but I ignore it, launching myself forward before he can reload.

With a desperation-born strength, I crash into him, grappling for the crossbow.

He’s stronger than I am—muscles honed by training, while I’ve been half-starved—but I have nothing to lose.

I ram my knee into his groin, and he gasps.

His grip loosens just enough for me to yank the weapon away and fling it over the parapet.

It clatters down the outer wall, lost in the ravine.

He snarls, baring pointed teeth as he draws a short sword. The blade glints in the overcast light. My entire body shakes. I have no weapon beyond the chain coiled around my neck, but desperation makes me swing that coil like a whip. The links strike his wrist, knocking the sword aside.

“Filthy slave,” he hisses, lunging. I dodge as best I can, yet he manages to slam me against the parapet. My back hits hard stone, and the breath rushes out of me. Stars dance in my vision. The next thing I know, his hand grips my collar, yanking me up to glare into my eyes.

I see pure malice there. “You think you can run?” he spits. “I’ll carve your?—”

He never finishes. I twist the slack of my chain around his forearm and jerk with all my might, forcing him off balance.

He stumbles, foot catching on a loose chunk of masonry.

For a breathless moment, we both teeter at the edge.

Then, with a guttural scream, he topples backward over the broken parapet.

He claws at me, trying to drag me with him, but I wrench free at the last second.

The world slows as he plummets. I watch, horrified, as his body hits the stone ledge below with a sickening crunch. Blood smears across the collapsed wall. My stomach churns. I’ve never killed anyone before.

For a heartbeat, I stand there, chest heaving. Move, Elyria. You have no time.

I rush to the rope. Shouts rise from below—someone must’ve heard the struggle or seen the guard’s fall. My head throbs, my heart pounding loud enough to drown out everything else. I clutch the rope, praying it’ll hold. If I stay, I’m dead. If I go… I might still die.

But I’ve made my choice. I hoist myself over the edge, wrapping the rope around one forearm to control my descent.

The chain around my neck scrapes painfully, and the collar digs into my skin, but I bear it, gritting my teeth.

My feet scramble against the wet stone. My hands burn as the rope slides.

Thunder—or something like it—rumbles overhead, and the wind buffets me, making me sway.

I’m about fifteen feet down when the rope suddenly creaks, threads snapping. I gasp, clinging tighter. Not now, not now. Another snap. A jolt as the rope gives an inch. My nails bite into my palms. If it snaps entirely, I’ll fall the rest of the way.

Above, a dark elf shouts, “There she is!” I dare a glance upward. Two silhouettes lean over the broken parapet. One raises a crossbow. Gods.

Desperation fuels me. I let go, dropping the remaining distance. The impact slams into my legs, sending me sprawling on jagged rocks. Pain flares through my left ankle and my shoulder. Gravel tears my palms. I roll onto my side, fighting nausea. Keep moving.

Bolts whistle past, clattering against the stones. Some ricochet, sparking in the drizzle. I scramble to my feet, ignoring the fiery pain in my ankle. The forest lies maybe a hundred paces downhill, separated from me by a tumble of rocky slope.

Bent nearly double to keep my head down, I half-run, half-limp across the loose rocks. My chain rattles with each jarring step, but the adrenaline drowns out the discomfort. More shouts echo behind me, but I don’t look back. Don’t slow down, don’t let them see you.

At last, I reach a cluster of scraggly trees near the bottom of the slope. I duck behind one, panting. My vision blurs with pain, but I can’t let that stop me. I press a hand to my throbbing ankle, wincing. Probably a bad sprain, but I can still stand on it, more or less.

Better to face a battered foot than face the dark elves again.

Through the branches, I see movement along the fortress wall. A group of elves points in my direction. The clang of metal suggests they’re gathering a party to follow. I have minutes—if that.

I push deeper into the wild growth. Twisted roots snag my feet.

The stench of damp earth fills my nostrils, mixing with pine needles and rotting leaves.

The forest is thick enough to hamper direct pursuit, but it also slows me down.

My ankle screams with every step, sending jolts of agony up my leg. I can’t stop.

Tangled bushes claw at my clothes, scraping my arms. My collar snags on low-hanging branches, and I have to yank myself free. Rain, or maybe just leftover drizzle, patters on the canopy overhead. My breathing grows ragged.

Branches snap behind me. I freeze, heart lurching. Are the dark elves already on my trail? Or is it something else? Gargoyles. A wave of dread washes over me as I recall the stories: they can track human women across impossible distances, especially if they suspect purna blood.