Page 26 of Feral Gods

KAIA

T he flame of the ancient oil lamp flickers across the pages of Elowyn's grimoire, casting dancing shadows over flowing script I still cannot read but which now feels strangely familiar beneath my fingertips.

Dawn is hours away, yet sleep evades me, driven off by revelations too momentous for rest. I sit cross-legged on my makeshift bed in the small chamber adjacent to the inner sanctum, surrounded by bits of parchment where I've attempted to copy symbols that resonate with something buried deep within my blood.

Purna. Flamekeeper. Descendant of the very witch who cursed my protectors.

The knowledge sits like a stone in my stomach, heavy and undigested.

For six years, I defined myself solely by survival—the clever slave who endured Lord Vathren's household by becoming invisible, unremarkable, forgettable.

Now I learn I am something else entirely—heir to a magical lineage powerful enough to break curses that held for centuries.

I trace the birthmark on my left shoulder through the thin fabric of my sleeping tunic. The pattern I've always dismissed as a simple quirk of nature now reveals itself as something far more significant—the Flamekeeper symbol, passed through generations of women in my maternal line.

My mother. Did she know? Is this why she clutched me so tightly when the slavers separated us in the market square? Was she trying to tell me something more important than simple maternal love?

The questions pile upon each other, a mountain with no summit in sight.

I close the grimoire with a sigh, my eyes burning from hours of staring at indecipherable text.

Zephyr offered to translate more tomorrow, but some restless impulse drove me to examine it alone tonight, searching for connections I might feel rather than understand.

A soft sound from beyond my doorway draws my attention—the whisper of clawed feet against stone, too light for Ravik's commanding stride or Thane's purposeful movements.

Zephyr, then, still awake despite the late hour.

His revelation earlier today about my heritage clearly troubles him as much as it does me, though for different reasons.

Decision made, I wrap a woven blanket around my shoulders against the sanctuary's perpetual chill and step into the corridor.

The gentle blue glow of neptherium nodes guides my path toward the central archive where Zephyr spends most of his time.

As expected, I find him hunched over an ancient text, his silver-gray form illuminated by multiple lamps that highlight the intricate patterns etched into his stone-like skin.

He looks up at my approach, turquoise eyes brightening with recognition. "You should be resting."

"As should you," I counter, stepping fully into the chamber. "Yet here we both are."

A hint of a smile tugs at his mouth—a more frequent expression since our conversation about my heritage yesterday. "Scholars and secrets are rarely compatible with sleep."

I settle onto a stone bench across from him, adjusting my blanket more securely around my shoulders. "You're still translating the purna texts?"

"Attempting to, yes." He gestures to several scrolls spread across the table. "Their magical theory is fascinating—fundamentally different from dark elf approaches in several key aspects."

The scholarly enthusiasm in his voice would normally engage me, but tonight I'm driven by more personal concerns. "You knew about my heritage before yesterday, didn't you? I saw your reaction when I touched my birthmark. You recognized it immediately."

His expression shifts, scholarly passion giving way to something more guarded. "I had suspicions after your magical display with the temple defenses. The grimoire merely confirmed what I already suspected."

“You told me I can be purna but not the possibility of being a direct line. It’s a stark difference from being an ordinary purna to this one," I keep my tone neutral despite the accusation in my words.

Zephyr sets down his quill carefully, giving me his full attention. "I wanted certainty before potentially upending your understanding of yourself. Was that wrong?"

The direct question deserves an equally direct answer. "I don't know. I'm still processing what it means—who I am now, compared to who I thought I was yesterday."

"You are exactly who you've always been," he says with unexpected gentleness. "Your bloodline explains certain abilities and connections, but it doesn't define your character or worth."

"Doesn't it?" I lean forward, the blanket slipping from one shoulder. "Everything has changed, Zephyr. My relationship with you three, my understanding of why I'm being hunted, even my own body feels like a stranger now that I know what potential it carries."

"Change can be disconcerting," he acknowledges, "but it need not be destructive. Think of it as expansion rather than replacement—you are more than you knew, not less than you were."

His philosophical approach would be comforting under normal circumstances, but frustration bubbles up inside me now.

"That's easy for you to say. You've had centuries to come to terms with your transformation.

I've had less than a day to accept that I'm descended from a purna witch powerful enough to curse three elite warriors into stone for hundreds of years. "

"A fair point," he concedes, surprising me with his willingness to acknowledge my perspective. "Though I would argue that transformation is rarely easy, regardless of timeframe."

Something in his expression—a flicker of ancient pain quickly masked—reminds me that his own journey from dark elf scholar to gargoyle warrior was likely filled with struggle I cannot fully comprehend. My irritation softens into empathy.

"I'm sorry," I offer. "I know your cursing was traumatic in ways I can't imagine."

"As is your current situation," he acknowledges. "Discovery of self is rarely a gentle process, especially when catalyzed by external threat."

The understanding in his turquoise eyes draws me out further. "I tried reading the grimoire tonight. The symbols mean nothing to me intellectually, but my fingers seem drawn to certain patterns."

Interest flares in his scholarly gaze. "Magical memory often manifests physically before mentally. The body remembers what the conscious mind has yet to grasp."

"Can you teach me?" I ask, the question emerging with unexpected urgency. "Not just theory, but practical application. If this power is truly mine by blood, I need to understand how to control it."

Zephyr hesitates, unusual for one typically eager to share knowledge. "Purna magic differs significantly from the arcane arts I studied. I can teach principles and theory, but the specific expressions of Flamekeeper magic may require intuition I cannot provide."

"But you'll try?" I press, leaning forward. "I refuse to be merely a passive vessel for power others seek to control. If this magic is my heritage, it should serve my will, not make me a target for everyone else's ambitions."

A smile of genuine approval lights his features. "Well reasoned. I admire your determination to claim agency rather than simply reacting to circumstances."

The unexpected praise warms me more than it should. Despite our difficult beginning, I've come to value Zephyr's good opinion—his thoughtful perspective balancing Ravik's protective intensity and Thane's blunt pragmatism.

"We could begin with basic principles," he suggests, setting aside the scroll he'd been studying. "Centering exercises to help you connect consciously with the magical current you accessed instinctively when activating the temple defenses."

"Now?" I glance toward the corridor. "Shouldn't we wait for Ravik and Thane?"

"Their presence might actually complicate initial attempts," Zephyr explains. "Multiple magical auras can create interference patterns that make it difficult for beginners to isolate their own energy signature."

The explanation makes sense, though I suspect there's more to his reasoning than purely practical concerns.

The dynamics between the three gargoyles have grown increasingly complex since my arrival—particularly since my intimate encounter with Ravik yesterday.

The memory sends heat flooding through me, both from the physical pleasure we shared and the complicated emotions that followed.

Zephyr rises from his seat, moving to a clearer space in the center of the archive. "We'll start with a simple visualization exercise. Come, sit here."

I join him in the open area, settling cross-legged on the cool stone floor as directed. He kneels opposite me, close enough that I can feel the subtle heat emanating from his stone-like body but not so near as to crowd me.

"Close your eyes," he instructs, his melodic voice dropping to a soothing cadence. "Breathe deeply and regularly. With each inhalation, imagine drawing energy from the ground beneath you, up through your spine. With each exhalation, allow tension to flow out through your fingertips."

I follow his guidance, focusing on my breath as it moves through my body.

At first, I feel nothing beyond the normal sensations of breathing—the expansion of my lungs, the slight movement of my shoulders.

But gradually, something else emerges—a subtle warmth beginning in my center and spreading outward with each breath.

"Good," Zephyr murmurs, his voice seeming to come from both outside and inside my consciousness simultaneously. "Now, try to direct that energy to your palms. Imagine it gathering there, a small flame cupped in your hands."

I visualize as instructed, picturing energy flowing down my arms to pool in my cupped palms. For several breaths, nothing happens beyond the continuing warmth in my core. Then suddenly, a tingling sensation erupts in my hands—like pins and needles but pleasant rather than painful.

"I feel something," I whisper, afraid speaking too loudly might break whatever connection I've established.