Page 67 of Feral Gods
S pring transforms our valley into living artwork—crystalline waterfalls reflecting rainbow light, meadows carpeted with wildflowers whose scent perfumes the air, fruit trees heavy with blossoms promising abundant harvest in seasons to come.
One full year since we established our hidden sanctuary, and nature has responded to our care with extravagant beauty that sometimes catches my breath with its perfection.
From my perch on the natural stone terrace overlooking our expanded garden, I watch as two figures move among the cultivated plots—one copper-hued and powerfully built, the other small and delicate with pale blue skin.
Thane and Lyria, the young gargoyle girl who arrived last month after wandering lost through Causadurn Ridge for weeks following her awakening.
His massive hands demonstrate proper planting technique with surprising gentleness, her delighted laughter carrying upward on the spring breeze when her first seedling settles successfully into fertile soil.
"Another gardener in training?" Zephyr's melodic voice comes from behind me, his approach deliberately audible despite his natural grace.
Since our binding ceremony nine months ago, such small considerations have become instinctive between us—tiny acknowledgments of respect and care that require no discussion.
"Thane claims she has natural talent," I reply, leaning comfortably against his slate-blue chest as his arms encircle my waist. "Though he says that about every child who shows the slightest interest in his plants."
"Accurate assessment nonetheless," Zephyr observes, turquoise eyes tracking the pair with scholarly precision softened by genuine affection.
"Lyria demonstrates remarkable aptitude for nurturing growth—both botanical and personal.
Her recovery progression exceeds statistical expectations for traumatic awakening circumstances. "
The clinical phrasing fails to mask the pride in his voice.
Though our sanctuary has welcomed dozens of awakened gargoyles over the past year, Lyria holds special significance—the first child found preserved in stone sleep, her age equivalent to human eight-year-old when transformation occurred centuries ago.
Her arrival challenged and expanded our sanctuary's purpose in ways we never anticipated.
"The network messenger arrives within the hour," Zephyr continues, referencing our established communication system that operates through trusted contacts across Protheka. "Ravik awaits your presence for message review before responding."
Though phrased as casual information, the subtle request beneath his words speaks to the continued balance we maintain between individual autonomy and collective decision-making. No orders or commands, merely information allowing informed choice.
"Important news?" I ask, already rising from my comfortable position.
"Potentially significant," he confirms, falling into step beside me as we follow the winding path toward our main dwelling. "Preliminary indications suggest increased underground resistance activity in Liiandor and corresponding escalation in King Kres's suppression tactics."
The information sends familiar tension through my shoulders despite our sanctuary's remote security. One year of safety hasn't completely erased survival instincts honed through years of slavery and months of desperate flight.
Zephyr's hand finds mine, his touch grounding and reassuring. "Our security protocols remain uncompromised," he reminds me gently. "Multiple defensive layers, both conventional and magical, protect our location from discovery."
"I know," I acknowledge, squeezing his hand in gratitude for understanding the anxiety I didn't need to verbalize. Our binding connection allows such emotional resonance without requiring explicit expression—one of countless benefits from the ceremony that formalized our unusual family.
Our dwelling has expanded over the year, growing from simple structure to harmonious complex that incorporates living spaces for permanent residents and temporary quarters for those seeking brief sanctuary.
The central building—our original home—remains private space for just the four of us, while satellite structures accommodate both long-term companions like Lyria and transient visitors seeking respite or guidance.
Ravik awaits in the communication room, his transformed indigo form bent over detailed maps spread across the circular table dominating the space. Amber eyes lift at our approach, his serious expression softening slightly upon seeing us together.
"Perfect timing," he greets, straightening to his impressive height. Wings folded neatly against his back, he gestures toward the maps with characteristic precision. "The latest intelligence reports suggest significant developments in three key regions."
I move to his side, studying the marked locations with practiced eye developed through months of similar briefings.
No longer the terrified slave who stumbled through wilderness seeking any escape, I've become strategic partner in maintaining our sanctuary network—my personal experience providing insights even Ravik's military brilliance sometimes overlooks.
"Underground resistance in Liiandor grows bolder," Ravik continues, indicating the capital city with talon tip. "King Kres responds with increasingly desperate measures—public executions, extended curfews, magical monitoring in previously exempt districts."
"Signs of weakening control despite escalating response," I observe, recognizing patterns similar to noble household dynamics when master's authority begins crumbling. "He projects strength precisely because his actual power diminishes."
Ravik nods, approval warming his amber gaze. "Precisely. Meanwhile, purna activity increases along eastern territories—" his talon moves to relevant map section "—suggesting Morwen consolidates power separate from dark elf alliance."
"The magical restructuring continues affecting traditional power structures," Zephyr contributes, scholarly analysis complementing tactical assessment.
"Conventional hierarchy based on magical dominance becomes increasingly unstable as transformation magic spreads through awakened gargoyle population. "
Our revolution progresses without our direct leadership—organic transformation spreading through example rather than conquest, through information rather than indoctrination. Exactly as we intended when establishing our sanctuary network one year ago.
A gentle chime announces our messenger's approach—magical alert system triggering as they cross the first security perimeter with proper authorization.
Ravik moves to prepare formal response documents while Zephyr gathers statistical information the messenger will carry back to other sanctuary nodes.
Left momentarily alone with the maps and reports, I trace the expanding network of sanctuary locations now established throughout Protheka—thirty-seven confirmed safe havens providing temporary refuge and permanent options for those seeking freedom from oppressive systems. Not centralized authority but connected constellation of independent communities, each reflecting its founders' unique vision while adhering to core principles we established.
Freedom through choice. Strength through diversity.
The messenger—a transformed gargoyle named Veran whose wings bear distinctive silver markings along their trailing edges—arrives with characteristic punctuality.
His copper-hued form, leaner than Thane's but similarly powerful, moves with the quiet efficiency that makes him perfect for his dangerous role carrying information between sanctuary nodes.
"Sanctuary Seeker," he greets me with formal title I've never quite grown comfortable wearing despite its practical necessity for organizational purposes. "The network flourishes despite increasing challenges in central territories."
"Welcome, Pathfinder," I return with equal formality before relaxing into more natural interaction. "Your journey passed without incident?"
"Minor complication near Mirrored Lakes," he reports, accepting refreshment from Zephyr with grateful nod. "Dark elf patrol expanded their search pattern beyond established boundaries. Necessitated alternative route adding approximately eight hours to journey time."
Ravik's expression darkens at this information. "Expanded patrol range suggests increased search parameters. Potentially concerning development requiring additional monitoring."
"Already implemented through Sanctuary Seven and Twelve," Veran assures him, producing sealed message pouch from his travel pack. "Complete intelligence reports within, including updated patrol schedules and identified safe passages."
While they discuss tactical details, my attention shifts to smaller pouch Veran removes from inner pocket with greater care. "For you specifically, Sanctuary Seeker. From recent arrivals at Sanctuary Twenty-Three."
The simple leather container bears no external markings, yet something about it sends anticipatory tingle through my fingertips as I accept it. When opened, it reveals a small carved wooden figure—crude but recognizable representation of female form with distinctive physical characteristics.
My breath catches as recognition dawns. "From the palace kitchens in Liiandor?"
Veran nods, understanding my intentionally vague question. "Six individuals arrived together three nights ago. The eldest asked specifically that this token reach you personally. Said you would recognize its significance."
Tears blur my vision momentarily as fingers trace the wooden figure's familiar contours.
Melia—the kitchen overseer who showed what kindness she dared during my years in King Kres's household.
The woman who slipped extra food when she could, who treated injuries palace guards inflicted, who whispered warnings when noble tempers turned particularly dangerous.