Page 30 of Feral Gods

We cross the threshold, the lodge’s chill immediately swallowed by the hearth’s low-burning warmth, the crude stone structure a far cry from the temple's ancient grandeur.

A central hearth provides warmth and cooking fire, while rough wooden partitions create semblance of private spaces within the single large room.

Ravik and Zephyr look up from the makeshift table where they've been examining maps of the surrounding territory.

"Dark elf pursuit eliminated," I report without preamble. "Five elite warriors. One managed to activate a communications crystal before death."

Ravik's amber eyes narrow, the runes etched across his obsidian chest pulsing slightly with battle-readiness. "Range?"

"Unknown," I withdraw the broken crystal from my belt pouch, tossing it to Zephyr. "Short-range, most likely, but we should prepare for possible discovery."

Zephyr examines the shattered neptherium, his scholarly expression focused. "Limited broadcast capacity. Effective range perhaps five miles in ideal conditions. Less in these mountains."

"We should move regardless," Ravik decides, his commanding presence filling the crude space as effectively as it did the temple's grand halls. "This position was always temporary."

"The caves Zephyr mentioned yesterday?" Kaia suggests, setting down the water bucket near the hearth. "They're higher up the ridge, harder to access."

"And defensible," I add, appreciating her tactical thinking. "Single approach, natural chimney for smoke dispersal, multiple chambers for strategic withdrawal if necessary."

Ravik nods, decision made. "We move at dusk. Gather only essentials."

"Thane needs his wounds tended first," Kaia interjects, surprising all of us with her direct countermand of Ravik's implicit order to begin preparations immediately.

Ravik's amber gaze shifts to me, noting the injuries I'd dismissed as inconsequential. Something passes between us— unspoken male communication as old as competition itself. After a heartbeat, he inclines his head slightly.

"See to him," he tells Kaia, the command softened by a gentleness he rarely displays. "Zephyr and I will begin preparations."

As they move toward the rear of the lodge where our salvaged supplies are stored, Kaia gestures for me to sit on a crude bench near the hearth. "Let me get the healing salve."

I settle onto the bench, watching her retrieve a small clay pot from our medical supplies.

She returns to kneel before me, her proximity sending an unexpected jolt of awareness through my battle-heightened senses.

The scent of her—honey and clean skin with the subtle undertone of awakening magic—fills my nostrils, stirring primitive responses I've rarely experienced since our transformation.

"This might sting," she warns, dipping her fingers into the salve. "It's infused with tiphe sap for faster healing."

The coolness of the salve against my wounded forearm creates pleasant contrast to the warmth of her touch. I watch her work, fascinated by the delicate movements of her hands against my iron-black skin, the careful attention she gives to cleaning each wound before applying the healing mixture.

"You've done this before," I observe. "Tended battle injuries."

A shadow crosses her expressive features. "Lord Vathren's household included many guards. Sometimes they would return injured from skirmishes with rival houses."

"And they trusted a human slave with their care?" The concept seems unlikely given what I know of dark elf prejudice.

Her lips curve in a wry smile. "They didn't trust me. They simply considered me beneath notice—a tool rather than a threat. Invisible except when needed."

Anger flares at the casual cruelty implied in her statement. "Their arrogance will be their undoing."

"Perhaps," she allows, moving to the deeper gash across my ribs. "But it taught me useful skills. Hold still—this one needs proper cleaning."

She works in focused silence for several minutes, her gentle ministrations at odds with the brutal violence that caused my injuries. The dichotomy fascinates me—her capacity for tenderness despite the harsh realities of her existence, her strength emerging not from cruelty but from its opposite.

"Why did you follow us?" I ask suddenly, the question emerging unbidden. "That day in the temple, when we were retreating. You could have escaped through the tunnels alone, possibly avoided capture entirely without three conspicuous gargoyles drawing attention."

Her hands pause momentarily before resuming their careful work. "I never considered it."

"Why not?" I press, genuinely curious. "Self-preservation would dictate abandoning companions who bring additional danger."

She looks up, hazel-green eyes meeting mine directly. "Is that what you would have done? Abandoned wounded companions to save yourself?"

"No," I admit. "But I am a warrior. My code demands loyalty to battle-brothers."

"And you think I have no code?" Her question carries no offense, only genuine inquiry. "No principles worth upholding?"

The concept gives me pause. I've thought of Kaia in many ways—as the miraculous key to our awakening, as a tactical vulnerability requiring protection, as a surprisingly resilient survivor, and increasingly, as a desirable female whose company brings unexpected pleasure.

But I've not considered her as a being with her own moral framework, her own code of honor.

"What are your principles, then?" I ask, fascinated by this new dimension of her character.

She resumes cleaning my wound, considering her answer with characteristic thoughtfulness.

"Survival, yes. But not mere existence. Living with purpose.

With meaning." Her fingers press slightly harder as she works salve into the deepest part of the gash.

"And never abandoning those who've shown me kindness, regardless of convenience. "

"We've shown you kindness?" The question emerges with uncharacteristic uncertainty.

Our protection has been driven by multiple complex motivations—obligation for breaking our curse, strategic value of her purna bloodline, and increasingly, personal attachment.

But kindness seems an inadequate description for the primal possessiveness all three of us have displayed.

"Yes," she answers simply, finishing with the wound and sitting back on her heels. "Behind all the growling and commanding and territorial displays, you three have shown me more genuine consideration than I've experienced in six years of captivity."

Her assessment strikes deeper than anticipated, challenging my self-perception.

I've never thought of myself as kind—effective, loyal, lethal when necessary, but not gentle or considerate.

Those qualities belonged to my life before transformation, buried beneath the primal nature of my gargoyle existence.

"You give us too much credit," I mutter, uncomfortable with her perception.

"Do I?" She rises gracefully, returning the healing salve to our supplies before coming back to sit beside me on the bench.

"You hunted me food when I was too weak to forage.

Zephyr taught me history and magic without condescension.

Ravik..." A faint blush colors her cheeks.

"Well, Ravik has his own ways of showing consideration. "

The reminder of her intimacy with our commander sends a complicated surge of emotion through me—not pure jealousy as I might have expected, but something more nuanced.

Desire, certainly. Competitive instinct, absolutely.

But also a strange acceptance, an understanding that her connection with Ravik doesn't diminish whatever grows between her and myself.

"Does it bother you?" she asks, reading my expression with uncanny accuracy. "What happened between Ravik and me?"

I consider lying, presenting the facade of complete indifference, but something in her direct gaze demands honesty. "Yes. And no."

Her eyebrow quirks upward. "That's impressively noncommittal."

A rough laugh escapes me, the sound surprising us both. "I am not known for verbal nuance. I prefer direct action to complicated explanations."

"Then act directly," she challenges, her tone shifting subtly. "Tell me what you want, Thane. No evasions, no tactical considerations. Just the truth."

The directness of her challenge ignites something primal within me—battle-lust transformed into a different hunger entirely. I turn to face her fully, crimson eyes meeting her steady gaze without flinching.

"I want you," I state plainly, the admission bringing unexpected relief.

"Have wanted you since you stood your ground against Ravik during the attack, showing more courage than warriors twice your size.

I want to discover every sound you make in pleasure, every expression that crosses your face when touched just right. "

Her breathing quickens, pupils dilating as she absorbs my blunt declaration. "And Ravik? The fact that he and I have already..."

"Ravik claimed first rights, as is his privilege as commander," I acknowledge, the words less difficult than anticipated.

"But we are not dark elves, bound by rigid hierarchies of exclusive possession.

We are gargoyles—primal, territorial, yes, but capable of more complex arrangements when necessary. "

"When necessary," she repeats, a hint of amusement touching her lips. "Is that what I am? A necessity?"

"You are far more than that," I growl, the admission dragged from somewhere deep and previously untapped.

"You are courage and resilience given physical form.

You break curses with your voice and create magic with your touch.

You tend wounds received defending your safety, then question philosophical principles as casually as discussing the weather. "

Her eyes widen at my unexpected eloquence, and I find myself similarly surprised by the torrent of words that emerge when the dam of reticence finally breaks.