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ERYSS

T he walls breathe.

Not in the way flesh does, not with lungs or warmth, but with something deeper, an exhalation of stone, an ancient pulse that thrums beneath my bare feet. The fortress isn’t dead, nor is it truly alive. It exists somewhere between, its bones fused with the lingering magic of its cursed inhabitants.

Now, I am caged within it.

The door slammed shut behind Naranus hours ago, but I still feel the finality of it rattling in my chest. The silence left in his wake stretches long, coiling around me like a beast waiting to sink its teeth into my throat.

I drag my fingertips along the jagged carvings lining the chamber’s walls, tracing the unreadable symbols cut deep into the stone. The language of his kind. The sigils hum beneath my touch, faint and electric, like a whisper beneath my skin.

Magic.

Not mine.

I exhale through my teeth and step away, surveying the space. The chamber is vast, built to house something larger than a human body. The bed, monstrous in size, sprawls in the center, draped in dark furs that hold the faintest metallic tang of something primal. A balcony juts out past a set of heavy doors, its arched entrance framed with gnarled obsidian columns. The wind howls through it, carrying the stench of scorched rock and the distant smolder of the forge below.

I tilt my head.

Chains dangle from the ceiling, thick as my wrist, anchored into the stone beams like relics of an uglier history. The metal gleams dully in the low light, worn smooth by time and use.

I trace their length with my gaze, following the path of their descent, the way they drape across the walls, the bedposts, the bolted rings in the floor. The king size bed.

A message, silent and damning.

This room was made for something other than comfort.

A chill brushes my skin, and I force myself to move, to take stock of the exits. The doors leading into the hall remain sealed, locked from the outside. The balcony is too high, the drop unforgiving. And even if I could scale the wall, I’d never make it past the sentries perched along the ridges.

Not without my magic.

I swallow back frustration and turn my focus elsewhere. My hand trails along the heavy wooden dresser, finding no weapons, no tools. Just cloth, thick, soft garments folded with meticulous precision. The realization prickles at something unwelcome.

This room is meant to keep me. Not break me.

I shake the thought loose and move toward the balcony, shoving the doors open. The wind rushes past, tangling in my hair, licking cool against my fevered skin. My pulse steadies. Below, the stronghold sprawls wide, its structures forged from the cliffs themselves, as if the land had swallowed a city and spat it back out as something terrible and unyielding.

I grip the railing, watching.

Gargoyles move through the stone walkways, their bodies shifting between flesh and rock, their wings flicking in agitation as they speak in hushed tones. No laughter, no idle conversations. Only watchful eyes, hunched shoulders, and the occasional scrape of claws against the ground.

Unease thickens in my chest.

These creatures do not revel in victory. They do not celebrate their supposed triumph in securing a bride for their lord.

They do not look like conquerors.

They look like men waiting for the blade to drop.

I press my lips together.

The purna told us the gargoyles were monstrous. Brutal. Bloodthirsty. That Naranus ruled them through fear and strength alone, that they would sooner tear out their own throats than submit to another’s rule.

But this?

This looks like a kingdom on the brink of collapse.

Movement catches my eye.

I shift my gaze toward the western ledge, where a figure stands near the boundary of a crumbling terrace. Taller than the others. Sharper. Firelight from the forge below flickers across his skin, illuminating the jagged fractures cutting across his back, his wings half-furled, shifting against the wind.

Naranus.

I go still.

He hasn’t moved in minutes, hasn’t acknowledged the soldiers who pass him by with cautious glances. He stands rigid, hands braced on the stone railing, his focus locked on something unseen in the distance.

The tension in his body isn’t the easy, deliberate kind of a predator waiting to strike.

It’s something else.

Something brittle.

His claws dig into the stone, cracking the surface. A slow inhale flares his nostrils, his wings twitching before settling again.

The sight roots me in place, breath held tight in my throat. He does not turn. Does not sense me watching.

He is alone.

The realization unsettles me more than it should.

I shift away from the railing, retreating back into the chamber, closing the balcony doors behind me. My pulse is an uneven rhythm, a sharp counter to the silence pressing in around me.

I pace.

Studying him will be difficult. He is not predictable in the way the purna described. There is no clear weakness, no single fault to exploit. He is not merely cruel or power-hungry.

He is something worse.

Unstable.

A creature unraveling at the edges, barely held together by whatever magic still thrums beneath his skin.

My fingers twitch at my sides.

This will require patience. Precision. I will have to stay close, wait for the cracks to widen, for the right moment to strike.

A breath shudders through my lungs, and I force my hands to still.

He is not the only one who can wait.