Page 7

7

ERYSS

T he stronghold is restless.

I hear it in the corridors, shifting bodies, muttered curses, the scrape of claws against the walls. Something unsettles the gargoyles, a tension coiling thick in the walls, pressing against my skin like the static before a storm.

It is not because of me.

But I’m certainly a part of it.

I press my back against the cool stone of my chamber, eyes on the heavy door that seals me inside. The manacles are gone, but the cage remains. Even unchained, I am watched.

Even unbound, I am not free.

The thought simmers, slow and hot, as I pace the length of my chamber. I press my palms against the cool stone of the balcony railing, staring down at the fortress below.

The few gargoyle sentries that remain perched along the ridges are watchful, their bodies carved from both flesh and stone, their eyes trained on the horizon.

They are waiting for something.

An attack? Enemies? I’m not sure but there’s a shift in power in the atmosphere.

I inhale sharply, the taste of the storm thick on the wind. The tension that lingers in this place is not one of triumph. They are not celebrating their victory, their warlord’s dominance over his captive bride. They are bracing for something worse.

I press my hands harder against the railing, the stone unyielding beneath my grip. The realization cuts deeper than I expect.

The enemy I was taught to fear is fighting a war of his own.

And the ones who sent me here never intended for me to leave.

A flicker of movement draws my attention below. The courtyard remains dark, the torches lining the walls burning low, casting enough light to reveal the figures moving toward the training grounds.

Naranus.

I stiffen.

He moves differently than he did earlier. Less controlled. His steps are sharp, his shoulders coiled with a tension that ripples through his wings as they flex and fold against his back. The molten fractures along his arms flicker brighter, a silent warning of magic straining against his will.

He is unraveling.

I need to see how far the damage spreads.

I push away from the railing and slip out the side entrance of my chamber, pressing into the shadows as I make my way down the winding stone corridors. The halls are mostly empty, the gargoyles who usually stand guard absent. Strange.

The warlord’s absence from the stronghold must be intentional.

Something is happening.

I reach the boundary of the training grounds and press myself against the archway, taking in the sight before me.

Naranus stands in the middle of the arena, facing off against another gargoyle, one nearly as large as him, his dark wings half-flared, his stance braced for combat. His challenger’s tail flicks once, slow and deliberate. The movement is not one of submission.

This is not a sparring match.

This is a test.

A challenge.

A warning.

The gathered onlookers stand at the edges of the arena, their silence suffocating, their expressions unreadable. They are waiting for blood.

Naranus rolls his shoulders, his head tilting slightly as he regards the challenger before him.

“You doubt me.”

The words carry through the stillness, laced with something quiet. Dangerous.

The other gargoyle shifts, his claws flexing. “You have become reckless,” he says. “We all see it. You let a purna slip a blade into your chamber.”

The tension in the air thickens.

A slow smirk pulls at the corner of Naranus’s mouth. “She failed.”

The challenger steps forward. “You let her live.”

Naranus remains motionless, his golden gaze burning, the cracks along his forearms pulsing brighter. “You question my rule.”

A breath of hesitation. “I question whether you are still fit to lead.”

The silence that follows is deadly.

In a single movement, Naranus moves.

He doesn’t lunge, he doesn’t need to. He steps forward, smooth and unhurried, like a predator closing in on prey that already knows it is doomed. His claws extend slightly, his wings shifting just enough to make the challenger brace himself, anticipating an attack that has yet to come.

He stops.

“You challenge me in front of my kin,” he murmurs. “You challenge me because you think I am weak.”

The challenger does not flinch.

Naranus exhales slowly, shaking his head. “You have no idea what weakness looks like.”

Before the other gargoyle can react, Naranus strikes.

The motion is brutal, effortless, his claws lash across the challenger’s chest, stone and flesh splitting open in the same breath. The force of the impact sends the gargoyle skidding back, wings flaring as he struggles to regain his balance. Blood spills onto the sand, dark and thick.

Naranus does not give him time to recover.

He closes the distance again, this time wrapping his hand around the challenger’s throat and slamming him against the stone wall of the arena. The impact cracks through the silence, a sharp exhale of pain escaping his opponent’s lips.

Naranus leans in.

“I let her live,” he murmurs, voice a low rasp, “because she is mine to destroy. Not yours.”

The words sink like a blade in my core.

Mine to destroy.

I swallow, pressing further into the shadows.

The crowd does not cheer. There is no applause, no celebration.

Only silence.

Only the sound of Naranus releasing the broken gargoyle, his body slumping against the stone.

Only the slow, deliberate turn of his head—toward me.

My pulse spikes.

His golden gaze burns into the darkness, unblinking, his lips parting slightly.

He sees me.

He feels me.

My breathing steadies.

I do not step back.

I do not turn away.

I hold his gaze, unflinching, as the rest of the gargoyles shift, their attention dragging toward the hidden alcove where I stand.

Naranus tilts his head, something unreadable flickering behind his molten eyes.

Slowly, deliberately, he turns back to the gathered crowd.

“The next one to question my rule,” he says, his voice even, measured, deadly, “will not walk away from this arena.”

Silence reigns.

Without another word, he steps past the broken gargoyle at his feet, wings unfurling slightly as he strides from the arena, the tension rippling through the gathered ranks in his wake.

He does not look back.

But I feel his challenge in my bones.

He has given me permission to try again.

I will. Somehow, this makes my blood boil, igniting an ember in me.