Chapter 1

Sariah

I press my back against the cold stone of a half-collapsed column, trying not to breathe too loudly. My heart thunders in my chest, and the wind howling across the barren mountain range of Prazh does nothing to mask the cacophony of my pulse. The night air is sharper than any blade, nipping my cheeks, numbing my fingers. I shouldn’t stop. Every second spent crouched here allows Drayveth to gain ground, and I have little strength left for another confrontation.

I can’t remember the last time I felt warm. The chill seeping into my bones has become a constant companion—perhaps it’s a reflection of my life these days, a never-ending struggle where hope flickers like a sputtering candle. Prazh’s rugged beauty holds no comfort tonight: jagged peaks rising like broken teeth, snow-driven winds slicing my face, and the occasional wail of distant creatures prowling the slopes. Even the sky seems hostile, stars glaring down without mercy.

Move, Sariah. I grit my teeth, glancing around the fragment of carved stone that once formed part of an elaborate temple gate. This place is ancient, older than my memory can place. Intricate glyphs span the remaining walls, half-eroded, half-buried under centuries of shifting ice and debris. I’m desperate, but not entirely foolish: heading into an unexplored ruin alone is idiotic at best. But Drayveth is close behind, and foolish or not, it might be my only chance.

My palm tingles where the old scar circles my wrist. I can almost hear Drayveth’s voice hissing that I should never have defied the coven. Traitor. I know what they call me now. They claim I’m too dangerous to live, that my magic is an affront to the purna way of life. But I refuse to crawl back to them or beg for forgiveness. They wanted me obedient and pliable, a pawn in their endless fight for power. Instead, I walked away, and apparently, that’s a sin worthy of death.

I steel myself and push off the column, sliding into a low sprint. My boots crunch over loose gravel as I dart between the remnants of tall pillars. Centuries ago, these stones must have arched over a grand entrance, perhaps for pilgrims or worshippers. Now, everything is in ruins. The gloom is cut by scant moonlight reflecting on patches of ice. Stumbling once, I catch myself just before toppling into a jagged patch of broken marble. My breath puffs white with every exhalation, each ragged draw of air reminding me how alive I still am—and how easily that can change.

I risk a glance over my shoulder. No sign of Drayveth yet, but he’s as relentless as a vulture, circling and waiting for the moment I weaken. He knows my strengths, but he also knows I’ve been running for too long. Exhaustion weighs on me like a heavy cloak, sapping my focus. My magic flickers unpredictably, half in my control, half tugging at me with dangerous potential. If I’m not careful, I might lose more than just my life. I might lose whatever last shred of humanity I cling to.

Skirting the perimeter of the ruins, I see a large archway leading further inside. A massive door, carved with swirling sigils, stands half ajar. My pulse quickens at the faint glow emanating from within. Could that be a wardsign? A relic from ancient purna magic, or something else entirely? I hesitate, chewing my lower lip. Every part of my rational mind screams that stepping into unknown enchantments is the surest way to die. But Drayveth is out there, and this glow might hint at a protective force. My best chance is to slip inside, see if I can find cover or something to shield me from detection.

I cross the threshold into a wide corridor littered with fallen columns. The walls tower overhead, curved inwards like an inverted rib cage, their surfaces carved with symbols older than any I’ve studied. The atmosphere hums with a faint resonance, each step magnifying an electric tension beneath my skin. It reminds me of the moment right before I unleash a spell: that razor-thin space between potential and manifestation.

Pressing forward, I catch my reflection in a cracked slab of polished stone. For a moment, I barely recognize myself, even though it’s my face staring back. Snow-damp chestnut hair hangs in waves around my shoulders, marred by streaks of silver that showed up the day I first tapped into my more potent purna magic. My golden-olive skin carries the smudges of days spent on the run, and there’s a thin brand around my wrist, the mark of my former coven—a permanent reminder that I once belonged, and now I’m exiled. My storm-gray eyes flicker, the silver flecks catching the reflective surface, making me look feral, on edge. I hold that gaze, inhale, and push onward.

The hallway ends in a cavernous chamber where the glow intensifies, emanating from glyphs inlaid into the floor. They form circular patterns, radiating outward like the ripples from a stone dropped in water. Ice drips from the ceiling, and the air is thick with expectancy. Carefully, I kneel at the edge of the largest glyph, adrenaline ricocheting inside my veins. There’s no dust here, no sign of the centuries that must have passed—only pristine lines shimmering faintly with an otherworldly sheen.

A breathless laugh escapes my lips. By the Source. This is big. Very big. Could these inscriptions be a protective seal left behind by some ancient purna? Or maybe they’re wards cast by the gargoyles who once fought my kind. Either possibility sends goosebumps across my arms.

Footsteps echo down the corridor behind me. I snap my head around. Drayveth. His voice cuts the hush: “Sariah! Stop running, child. Let’s talk.”

Child. He always called me that, even when I surpassed every test he threw at me. He used to protect me from the harsh judgment of the coven; back then, I believed he cared. Now, his tone is layered with coldness. He’s not going to spare me.

I press my palm to the glyph, more from desperation than understanding. My magical sense tingles, urging me to try something. My mind scrambles through half-forgotten incantations, scraps of archaic chanting I gleaned from a thousand coven lessons. Maybe I can turn this place into a shield. It’s worth a shot.

“Are you here?” Drayveth’s footsteps quicken. His voice ricochets off the stone walls, and I’m out of time.

Closing my eyes, I whisper incantations that come to mind in a patchwork of terror-fueled memory. My breath trembles, words tumbling in a mixture of old purna tongues. Heat flares beneath my hand, and a surge of raw magic crackles up my arm. I pour my last dregs of power into the glyph, begging it to respond, to erect a barrier between Drayveth and me. My heart hammers louder than the chunk of ice slipping from the ceiling and shattering at my feet.

A faint hum builds. My fingertips tingle. The lines across the floor begin to glow brighter, turning from pale silver to a fierce white. I open my eyes to see the glyph swirl, arcs of light dancing across the chamber like living serpents. Yes. Relief warms my insides—maybe, just maybe, I’ll survive this.

“What are you doing?” Drayveth steps into the chamber, robes swirling around his tall frame. Shadows drape his features, but I know his expression is pinched with disapproval. His eyes zero in on me, then on the glowing glyph under my hand. “Are you insane? These wards are not for you to tamper with!” He lunges, arms raised, conjuring a sliver of green-black energy in his palms.

I flinch, bracing for impact. My concentration falters, the incantation slipping from my mind like water through a sieve. Light flares beneath me, so blinding it sears the edges of my vision. The ground rumbles. A roaring force rips the air from my lungs, and suddenly, it feels like the floor buckles.

Drayveth staggers, looking stunned. “Sariah, what have you done?” he hisses, attempting to shield his eyes from the sudden brilliance.

I clamp my teeth together, barely able to keep my balance as the floor cracks. An unearthly howl echoes from below, a sound that rattles my bones. The glyph’s glow shifts, pulses of red emerging within the white. My heart seizes. Red—always the color of war, of gargoyle magic, of chaos in the purna histories. The stories say gargoyles once warped the earth with that red hue, their ferrous bloodlines steeped in destructive power.

An explosion of energy courses through my body. I scream, falling forward onto the glyph. My brand scorches, the symbol around my wrist momentarily flaring silver against my skin. For a frantic heartbeat, I can’t see. Everything is noise and brilliant light. Then, darkness.

In that suffocating blindness, a presence brushes against my consciousness. It’s immense, ancient, filled with restrained fury. My pulse throbs in my ears. Who—? No answer, just the sensation of something stirring deep underground, as if roused from a centuries-long slumber.

When my sight returns, Drayveth is gone—his shape is a blur sprinting back into the corridor. The entire chamber groans, the carved walls trembling like they might collapse. Chunks of debris crash down, dust billows upward, and I lurch upright, coughing. The glyph is dim now, cracks spiderwebbing through it. Whatever force it once contained must be broken, the magic undone.

I push myself to my feet, nearly tripping over a loose slab. Think, Sariah. If Drayveth is fleeing, that means something truly terrible must be happening. He’s never been one to run from a fight unless there’s a threat beyond his ability. Which implies I’ve just unleashed something far more dangerous than my old mentor’s wrath.

My legs feel like lead, but I force myself forward, scanning the chamber for an exit or any immediate signs of danger. My ears ring, and a fine layer of dust coats my lashes. Darkness seeps into every corner where the moonlight doesn’t reach. A faint rumbling persists, traveling beneath my feet like a living heartbeat.

“Sariah.” The voice resonates through the stones, a low vibration that makes every hair on my arms lift. It’s not Drayveth’s voice. It’s deeper, filled with an unearthly quality.

I freeze. “Who’s there?” My voice is hoarse, scraping against the silence. Nothing answers. But I can still sense the presence, an immense aura pressing against my senses.

Swallowing hard, I pick my way toward the far side of the chamber, where a portion of the wall has collapsed inward. A faint swirl of air tugs at the back of my cloak—there must be an opening behind the rubble. If there’s a chance to slip out, I’ll take it. Better to face the wilds of Prazh again than remain at the epicenter of this magical quake.

Before I move more than three steps, the floor cracks anew. A jagged line splits across the chamber, and I stumble back, arms flailing. The ground to my left crumbles inward, exposing a sinkhole that plunges into blackness. I don’t see a bottom—just swirling dust and the faint reflection of glimmering stone. My chest tightens. This place is a death trap.

“Sariah.” The voice thrums again, closer somehow. A wave of pressure knocks me off balance, forcing me to my knees. My brand flares in pain, drawing a cry from my throat. I press a trembling hand to my wrist as if that can dull the burn.

“I—” I try to form a question but my words tangle with my fear. Another rush of energy surges through the chamber, and the sense of some colossal entity stirs beneath the broken glyph. I force myself upright, ignoring the dusty sting in my eyes. Step by step, I maneuver around the sinkhole, refusing to look too long into that hungry darkness.

When I near the collapsed portion of the wall, I wedge my shoulder against a fallen pillar. It shifts with a grating sound, and I wedge myself through the gap. The corridor beyond is narrower and slopes downward. Flickering light from the original glyph dances across the walls, casting them in red and white strobes like some nightmarish heartbeat. There’s no telling if this passage leads out or deeper into the temple’s bowels, but I have no choice.

A memory pricks at me: I recall reading that in the oldest temples, labyrinthine corridors led to hidden altars or crypts. Places best left undisturbed. That knowledge does nothing to help my mounting dread. But anything is safer than the main chamber, where the floor might give way at any moment.

I force my tired limbs forward. My mind scrambles to process what just happened. A protective glyph twisted into something else. The color shift to red suggests gargoyle energy—did I awaken a gargoyle? A shudder grips me. The purna told countless stories about their wars with gargoyles, how brutal and ruthless those creatures could be, how they once nearly overran an entire continent. My coven believed them dead or slumbering. If they were locked away, someone in the past wanted them out of reach. Have I just undone centuries of a powerful seal?

“Breathe, Sariah,” I mutter to myself, turning a corner in the corridor. The sound of my footfalls echoes, the darkness heavy, pressing in from all sides. If I’ve freed a gargoyle, that might be my downfall. They hate purna. And if one is truly stirring, it won’t rest until it’s certain I pose no threat or until I’m dead.

The passage slopes steeply now, littered with shattered tiles and rock fragments. My thighs burn with each cautious step downward. Sweat beads on my brow. My cloak snags on a jagged outcrop of stone, forcing me to pause and yank it free. This small annoyance is enough to send fresh waves of panic through me. Drayveth is probably regrouping, or maybe he’s run off entirely. Unlikely. He won’t abandon his goal of seeing me captured or killed. All that matters is I stay ahead of him—or find a way to defend myself if cornered again.

Another quake rattles the walls. I press a hand against the stone to keep from falling. A muffled crack reverberates overhead, like thunder trapped in the earth. With a jolt, I look up—and see the roof fracturing. My breath hitches. Fine fissures crawl across the ceiling in chaotic lines. No, no, no. I lurch forward, desperate to escape, but then the corridor floor abruptly gives way beneath me.

I plunge into darkness. My scream chokes off as I hit a slope of rubble, tumbling down a steep decline. Stone tears at my arms, my hip slams into something sharp, my knees bruise on impact. Finally, I slide to an undignified halt in a small, circular chamber illuminated by an eerie glow from somewhere overhead. Pain lances through my side. I groan, rolling onto my back, fighting the sting in my eyes.

A crumbling avalanche of debris follows me, settling with a final clatter. That’s it, I think grimly, no going back up that way. As I push to my feet, the world sways. Pinpricks of light dance before my gaze, and I suck in a ragged breath, pressing one hand against my bruised side. The pungent smell of dust and centuries-old air fills my nostrils. The chamber around me is small, the walls close, carved with swirling patterns reminiscent of the glyph above. However, one detail stands out immediately: a massive statue occupies the far wall, overshadowing everything else.

At least, I think it’s a statue. It’s hewn from obsidian-hued stone, nearly eight feet tall, wings folded behind a broad, powerful frame. The figure’s face is sharp, features regal yet ominous. Claws tip its hands, and a tail curls around its feet. My heart drums dangerously. A gargoyle. It has to be. The legends describe them just like this—towering, built of living stone, often found in old temples or fortresses. But… it’s unmoving, eyes closed, as if sealed in place.

Instinct screams for me to run, but there’s nowhere left to go. Another corridor might open up, but from a quick glance, I see only a single archway that’s heavily caved in. If I want to reach it, I have to pass this massive figure. Adrenaline sparks, but so does curiosity. Why here? A memory flutters at the back of my mind: gargoyles once used temples as prisons or strongholds, especially if they needed solitude to slip into stone sleep, their regenerative slumber.

I edge closer, nerves fraying. He—I can’t help but think of it as a “he,” given the formidable masculine shape—looms with silent power. My brand stings again, and the echo of that voice, Sariah, grazes my mind. The statue’s eyelids remain shut. There’s no movement. Even so, the air in this chamber feels charged, as if lightning crackles invisibly around me.

Should I try an incantation? My entire body trembles at the mere thought. The last time I messed with the wards, I nearly brought the temple down. But if this gargoyle is truly in stone sleep, he might be the reason the glyph above was so heavily warded. My downfall might already be sealed. Drayveth alone is lethal. A gargoyle woken from centuries of slumber might be worse. But if I do nothing, I might just be waiting for him to wake and tear me to pieces.

Deciding caution is the lesser evil, I inch closer, raising a hand to see if I can sense any magical aura. The moment my fingers hover near the statue’s chest, a faint warmth radiates from the stone. My heartbeat rockets as a trickle of energy slides through me, like a spark dancing across the surface of water. He’s alive. The stone is not cold as any inanimate object would be; it hums, a reservoir of dormant power.

Gently, I let my fingertips graze the carved runes across his chest. In an instant, my breath catches, and I see a flash—a swirling red sky, gargoyles roaring in flight, and a woman’s laughter echoing in the distance. My entire being recoils. What was that? I snatch my hand away, breathing hard. The statue remains still, but that single moment felt like I dipped my consciousness into a vast well of memories.

A series of tremors run through the floor again, though softer. Dust trickles from the ceiling. I suspect the rest of the temple might collapse if another quake hits with enough force. I can’t stay here. Yet, the half-buried archway on the far side seems impassable. My gaze returns to the statue. This can’t be a coincidence. The magic in the glyph led me here, or I led it here. Whichever the truth, I suspect I’m meant to do something with this gargoyle—and time is running out.

Gritting my teeth, I press my palm flat against the carved symbol at the center of his broad chest. Closing my eyes, I focus on the incantations swirling in my mind, the fragments I used above. But I alter them this time, searching for a gentler approach, as if coaxing a locked door rather than forcing it open. “Let me out of this place,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “If there is a spirit here, a soul bound in stone… guide me.”

The moment I speak, I feel an answering thrum. Heat blooms under my palm. The runes etched across his obsidian flesh light up, faintly at first, then shining with the intensity of molten lava. A whisper of air sighs through the chamber, an exhalation that seems to come from the gargoyle himself.

My eyes fly open, and I witness the statue’s eyelids shift. A flicker of gold sparks beneath them, like smoldering embers. My mouth goes dry. He moves—barely, but enough to jolt me into taking a step back. Tiny shards of stone flake from his wings and shoulders, as if he’s shedding an outer layer. Each crack and pop resonates like distant thunder.

“Sariah,” that same low voice from before vibrates in my thoughts. This time, it’s tethered to the gargoyle in front of me. My entire body seizes with alarm, but I’m too mesmerized to look away. A thousand warnings flare through my mind: Gargoyles hate purna. I have no backup. He’s enormous. And I just helped break his seal.

He lifts his chin, as if testing the weight of his newly freed form. Thick dust drifts off his shoulders. For a heartbeat, his glowing eyes meet mine, fierce and ancient. A ripple of fear flutters through my stomach, mixing with something inexplicably electric, like fascination laced with dread.

His lips part, revealing sharp canines. “What's your name purna?”.

“Sariah.”

“Why,” he growls, voice more audible now, “have you unleashed me?”

My heart thuds so violently it almost drowns out the meaning of his words. Unleashed. What have I done?

Before I can stammer a response, the chamber lurches violently, sending me to my knees. Stones crash from the ceiling. A wide crack zigzags across the wall. Dust engulfs us in a suffocating cloud. The gargoyle looks up sharply, eyes narrowing as if sensing a threat far beyond collapsing masonry. I clutch my side, bruises throbbing, mind spinning. Everything is happening too fast.

He turns back to me, the glow in his gaze searing into my very soul. “You have no idea,” he says, voice echoing like the rumble of an avalanche, “what you have set in motion.”

I don’t. My throat tightens. But I do know one thing: I may have just awakened an ancient gargoyle, and whatever monstrous force that seal was holding at bay… might be stirring too. My skin prickles as an ominous rumble rattles beneath us, echoing with the promise of danger.

Before I can process this fully, the floor splits again, and I scrabble for footing. The gargoyle’s massive wings flare open, stone dust spiraling around him. He reaches out with a powerful, clawed hand, catching me by the arm just as I lose my balance. I grip his forearm, the warmth of living stone a stark shock against my trembling fingers.

Everything roars at once—the temple, the quake, the surge of magic I feel racing under my skin. My eyes lock on the gargoyle’s molten-gold stare. In that silent, suspended moment, I understand that the life I knew before—exiled purna on the run, fleeing Drayveth, longing only for freedom—no longer exists. Something bigger has claimed me, a bond or a curse I don’t fully comprehend.

A final thunderous crash resounds above our heads. The temple is caving in. I gasp, pinned by fear and the weight of this gargoyle’s gaze. His hold on me is unbreakable, almost comforting in its sheer solidity. My pulse hammers against my ribcage.

“Hold on,” he commands, voice a gravelly timbre of stone and fire. The floor collapses beneath us in a chaos of dust and splintered rock. My scream catches in my throat. We plunge downward into darkness. Everything becomes a swirl of falling debris, unstoppable momentum, and the suffocating certainty that I have awakened something far greater than I can manage—and the cost remains terrifyingly unknown.