Page 33 of Feral Gods

KAIA

M ountain air flows cool and crisp through the cave entrance, carrying the scent of tiphe needles and distant snow.

Two days have passed since we abandoned the hunting lodge for this higher refuge—a network of natural caverns expanded generations ago by someone with considerable skill in stone-working.

Zephyr believes it might have been a purna sanctuary during one of the periods when dark elves hunted their kind, though the evidence is circumstantial at best.

I sit cross-legged on a flat stone near the cave mouth, hands extended palms-up on my knees, practicing the breathing techniques Zephyr taught me yesterday.

The mountain panorama stretches before me—jagged peaks piercing a cloudless sky, ancient forests clinging to steep slopes, a ribbon of silver marking a distant waterfall.

The vastness should make me feel small and insignificant.

Instead, I find it oddly comforting, as if the ancient landscape puts my personal troubles into perspective.

"Visualize your energy as a flame," I murmur to myself, recalling Zephyr's patient instruction. "Not consuming but illuminating, revealing what already exists within."

The familiar warmth builds in my center, flowing outward along invisible channels to pool in my palms. After several days of practice, I can manifest the magenta light at will, though controlling its intensity and duration remains challenging.

According to Zephyr, the Flamekeepers were named for their affinity with this particular manifestation of magical energy—neither elemental fire nor divine light, but something uniquely their own.

My bloodline's legacy. My inheritance. My burden.

The magenta glow pulses between my hands, responding to the conflicted emotions the thought generates. I take another deep breath, focusing on stabilizing the manifestation. The light steadies, forming a perfect sphere that hovers an inch above my palms.

"Impressive progress."

The voice—familiar yet unexpected—breaks my concentration.

The sphere flickers and vanishes as I turn toward Ravik, who stands silhouetted against the deeper darkness of the cave interior.

His massive obsidian form moves with surprising grace as he approaches, amber eyes reflecting the late afternoon sunlight.

"Three days ago I couldn't create it at all," I point out, shifting to make room for him on the stone ledge. "I'm still far from controlling it properly."

He settles beside me, wings folded neatly against his broad back. "Control comes with practice. The raw power was always there, merely dormant."

The observation brings a wry smile to my lips. "Like having a volcano beneath my skin without knowing it."

"An apt metaphor," he agrees, his deep voice rumbling pleasantly. "Though perhaps less destructive than you imagine."

I stretch my fingers, still tingling with residual energy. "Tell that to the purna witch I blasted through a doorway."

"Defensive instinct," Ravik dismisses with a casual wave of his clawed hand. "Protection of self and allies is a natural expression of power, not evidence of destructive tendency."

His matter-of-fact acceptance continues to surprise me.

Since the revelation of my heritage, all three gargoyles have adapted to my changing nature with remarkable equanimity Zaphyr with scholarly enthusiasm, Thane with practical assessment of tactical advantages, and Ravik with this unexpected calm acceptance.

Their adjustment seems easier than my own. Despite five days of increasingly successful magical practice, I still feel like an impostor—a slave girl playing at being a purna witch, neither identity fitting comfortably.

"What troubles you?" Ravik asks, his amber gaze unnervingly perceptive. "Your progress exceeds expectations. Even Zephyr is impressed, though he hides it behind scholarly reserve."

I hesitate, uncertain how to articulate the conflict churning within me. "I spent six years erasing myself," I finally explain. "Becoming invisible, unremarkable, safe. Now I'm supposedly heir to an ancient magical bloodline with power that makes kings and witches hunt me across continents."

"The contradiction disturbs you."

"Wouldn't it disturb you?" I challenge, meeting his gaze directly. "To discover everything you believed about yourself was incomplete at best, deliberately hidden at worst?"

His expression shifts, something ancient and pained flickering in those amber depths. "I understand more than you might imagine. Our transformation was similarly disorienting—dark elf warriors reborn as creatures of living stone, memories intact but bodies and instincts forever altered."

The comparison gives me pause. I've been so focused on my own identity crisis that I've given little thought to what the gargoyles endured during their transformation and subsequent imprisonment. "How did you reconcile who you were with what you became?"

"Through necessity," he answers with characteristic directness. "I could rail against fate or adapt to new circumstances. Only one option offered survival."

"Survival isn't identity," I counter softly. "It's mere existence."

Ravik studies me for a long moment, head tilted slightly in consideration. "Perhaps that is the difference between us. I defined myself through purpose—protect, defend, lead. The form was secondary to function."

His insight strikes deeper than anticipated. I've defined myself by circumstance rather than purpose—slave, survivor, fugitive. Reactive rather than intentional. The realization offers a new perspective on my current dilemma.

"What if I don't know my purpose?" I ask, the question emerging more vulnerable than intended.

"Then you discover it," he replies simply. "Through choice and action rather than bloodline or circumstance."

Before I can respond, a low whistle echoes from deeper within the cavern Thane's signal that he's returning from patrol. Moments later, the massive warrior appears at the tunnel junction, his iron-black form streaked with forest debris from his reconnaissance mission.

"The lower paths remain clear," he reports, crimson eyes flickering briefly to where Ravik and I sit together before continuing. "No sign of pursuit from either dark elves or the witch."

Relief washes through me. After days of constant vigilance, the possibility of temporary safety feels almost too precious to believe. "They've lost our trail?"

"For now," Thane confirms, moving to join us at the cave entrance. "Zephyr's cloaking spell on your magical signature appears effective, and the storm two nights ago obscured our physical trail effectively."

"We should not grow complacent," Ravik cautions, though his posture relaxes incrementally. "The purna witch tracked us from Liiandor to the temple sanctuary. She will not abandon the hunt easily."

"Let her hunt," Thane growls, settling on my other side with casual possessiveness. "She'll find more than she bargained for if she locates this position."

The confidence in his tone warms me even as I recognize the danger still lurking beyond our temporary haven.

Both gargoyles radiate protective heat from either side, their massive forms dwarfing mine without making me feel diminished.

The comfort of their presence Ravik's steady command, Thane's fierce devotion—has become essential to my equilibrium in ways I never anticipated.

"Where's Zephyr?" I ask, noting the scholarly gargoyle's absence.

"Testing the boundaries of his detection spell," Ravik answers. "He believes he can extend its radius while maintaining effectiveness."

Thane snorts, a sound expressing both amusement and respect. "Always tinkering with magical theory while the rest of us handle practical concerns."

"His 'tinkering' has kept us one step ahead of pursuit," Ravik points out mildly. "Each of us contributes according to our strengths."

The easy exchange between them—teasing without malice, competitive without rancor—represents significant progress from the territorial tensions that marked our early days together.

Something has shifted in their dynamic since our flight from the temple, a new equilibrium forming around our shared circumstances.

And around me. The realization brings heat to my cheeks as I recall the intimacies shared with both Ravik and Thane.

Neither has pressed for exclusivity, seemingly reaching some unspoken agreement about our evolving relationships.

Even Zephyr, though he has not yet approached me physically, watches with scholarly interest rather than jealousy.

"I should prepare the evening meal," I say, rising from the stone ledge partly to escape my increasingly heated thoughts. "The root vegetables we gathered yesterday should be ready for cooking."

"I brought fresh meat," Thane announces with evident pride, producing a brace of mountain hares from his hunting pouch. "These were running near the eastern slope."

"Perfect," I smile, accepting the offering. "They'll make an excellent stew with the burgona roots."

As I turn toward the cave interior where we've established a crude cooking area, movement at the forest edge below catches my eye—a flash of color against the deepening shadows, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

"Did you see that?" I ask, pausing mid-step.

Both gargoyles are instantly alert, rising to flank me protectively. "Where?" Ravik demands, scanning the terrain with predatory focus.

"Just beyond the tallest tiphe tree," I point to the spot, doubt creeping in as I see nothing further. "A glimpse of purple or blue, moving unnaturally fast."

"Dark elf scout," Thane concludes grimly. "Their elite scouts wear cloaks in that shade."

"Or purna," Ravik counters, wings extending slightly in unconscious threat display. "The witch's cloak was similar."

Anxiety tightens my chest. If they've found us again so quickly, Zephyr's cloaking spell must have failed or been circumvented. "Should we prepare to move again?"