Page 17

17

ERYSS

T he air sits thick between the rocks, the stench of stone, blood, and something wretched coiling in the narrow space where Naranus and I press against the jagged walls. His wings twitch, fractured and useless, his molten eyes watching the shadows stretch, waiting for the rogues to either find us or move on.

They don’t move on.

Footsteps scrape against loose gravel, slow, calculating. Their leader’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp with arrogance. “You’re just delaying the inevitable, Alpha. You can’t fly, you’re bleeding out, and you’re trapped out here with a Purna bitch who’s more liability than weapon.”

Naranus’ fingers tighten into fists, claws flexing at his sides. He doesn’t react otherwise. Doesn’t even breathe too loud. I press my spine harder against the rock, eyes locked on him, waiting for some kind of plan.

I have no magic. No blade. No way to fight on my own. I’m as useless as they think I am, and I hate it.

The footsteps pause. Then the voice comes again, edged with amusement. “Maybe we let her go.”

My muscles lock.

“Maybe we give her back to her kind, see if they even want her.”

My heartbeat slams against my ribs.

“I hear the Purna don't tolerate failure," the rogue continues, letting the words roll lazily. “She was supposed to kill you, wasn’t she? She failed that. She’s failing now. She’s not even worth the effort of a clean kill. They probably want her dead, too because they sent her to you.”

Naranus' head tilts, slow and deliberate, like a beast preparing to strike. His voice rumbles low, barely above a whisper, but the threat within it is absolute. “You talk too much.”

He moves.

Faster than my mind or eyes can track, faster than the rogue expects.

The gargoyle barely has time to react before Naranus is on him, claws ripping through his gut, his other hand catching him by the throat, slamming him into the rock wall with a sickening crunch.

The rogue gurgles, choking on his own blood.

Naranus’ eyes gleam, cold and unrelenting, his wings trembling under their uselessness. “You think you can touch what’s mine?” His claws tighten, bone snapping beneath his grip. “You think you can speak about her in my presence?”

The rogue doesn’t answer.

He can’t.

Because Naranus tears out his throat.

Blood splatters across the stone, warm against my skin.

I swallow hard, my pulse thrumming, my mind trying to process the sheer brutality of it. I have seen death. I have caused death. But there is something about his way of killing, raw, instinctive, effortless—that rattles deep in my bones.

The other rogues react immediately.

I throw myself back as one lunges, claws swiping through empty space where my throat was just seconds before. Naranus catches him mid-attack, flipping his weight, his knee slamming into the rogue’s gut before he drives his elbow into the back of his skull.

Another one moves in, but I see it too late.

Pain explodes through my ribs, my body slamming into the rock wall, my lungs struggling for breath.

Naranus turns sharply, his face twisting into something beyond rage. He doesn’t hesitate. He rips the attacker away from me, slamming him to the ground, pinning him with one massive clawed foot.

His gaze snaps to me.

“You’re slowing me down.”

I glare up at him, pressing a hand to my side where pain still throbs sharp and relentless. “Then leave me behind.”

He snarls, something dark flashing in his gaze. “No.”

He grabs my wrist, pulling me up before I can argue, before I can catch my breath, before I can even pretend I don’t need his help.

The other rogues are already recovering, regrouping. We won’t survive another fight.

"We need to keep moving," I force out, voice strained. "You’re already bleeding too much."

Naranus doesn’t respond, his grip firm, unyielding as he drags me forward, pushing through the winding terrain.

We stumble over loose stone, down narrow paths that lead further from the stronghold, further into unfamiliar land. The rogues don’t chase immediately. They know he’s wounded. They know he can’t fly.

They’re waiting us out.

Hunting us slowly.

We are not safe.

We are not even close.

After what feels like hours, Naranus finally stops, his body heaving with exhaustion, his hand braced against the rock wall for support. His wings hang limply behind him, blood still dripping from the wounds carved into his back.

I inhale deeply, trying to steady my own breath, trying not to think about how much worse this could have gone.

"We need to stop the bleeding," I say, stepping toward him, reaching for his arm.

He snaps his head toward me, his gaze fierce, warning.

"I don’t need your help."

I scoff. "That’s not what your body says."

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t stop me when I grab the tattered remains of his tunic and rip a strip of fabric free, pressing it against the wound at his ribs. He flinches, muscles tensing beneath my touch, but he lets me.

That unsettles me.

He is a warlord, a monster, someone who does not accept aid. Yet he stands here and allows my hands on him, allows me to patch him up like he is something fragile.

Like he trusts me.

I focus on wrapping the wound, my fingers careful, but the silence between us twists into something I can’t name.

When I finally look up, his gaze is already locked onto mine. Molten. Intense. Studying me in a way that makes my stomach tighten.

I should speak.

Say something cutting.

Something cruel.

Instead, my mouth parts and nothing comes out.

His fingers brush against my wrist, only for a moment, only long enough to make my pulse trip violently.

His voice comes low, rough. "This isn’t over."

I swallow hard. “The fight or whatever the hell this is between us?"

His lips curl slightly, almost like he’s amused, despite the pain still carving through him.

"Both."

I exhale sharply, stepping back, needing space, needing air that doesn’t feel thick with whatever this tension is becoming.

He watches me.

Still bleeding. Still standing.

Still looking at me like I am something worth keeping.

I have no idea what should I feel about that.