Chapter 1 

Elyria

The shriek of metal on metal tears through the still morning air, and I pause mid-swing, my hands shaking around the iron bucket I’m carrying. My heart jolts so violently it feels as if it might rip straight out of my ribs. The noise reverberates across the stone courtyard where I and the other slaves—toil under the unrelenting eyes of the dark elves. Towering, jagged spires rise around me—part fortress, part labyrinth—so tall they seem to slice through the sky itself. I swallow my fear and set the bucket down, trying to steady my trembling limbs. I haven’t slept in what feels like days.

My life here is a ceaseless loop of harsh commands and physical exhaustion, but today feels worse. A heaviness presses down on me from the moment I open my eyes. There’s a sense of impending change—or doom—clinging to the stale air. The courtyard itself feels on edge, as though the stones are bracing for something terrible.

I roll my aching shoulders, careful not to jostle the iron collar at my throat. A chain runs from that collar to the belt of my dark elf overseer, who’s currently speaking to another guard near the courtyard’s edge. Being ignored for a moment gives me the smallest illusion of privacy—enough to let my fear flicker across my face before I mask it again.

The collar weighs heavily, as it always does. It marks me as property, as something less than the dust under the elves’ boots. I wear it because I’m “human,” too insignificant to be given an actual name unless I’m being ordered around or punished. Whenever I recall how easily they can yank that chain and choke off my air, my throat tightens with memory. I press a hand against the cold metal and exhale slowly, forcing the panic back down.

“Elyria,” a voice hisses from my right. “Hurry up.”

I jump at the sound of my own name. It’s Thyra, another slave—a frail woman with a perpetual twitch in her left eye. She’s stooped under the weight of a large sack, her face pale and streaked with dirt. “They won’t wait for us,” she mutters.

I pick up my bucket again. It’s filled with slop for the fortress’s monstrous guard-hounds, and some of it sloshes over my hand, soaking my threadbare sleeve. The stench that rises is so foul it makes me gag. “I’m moving,” I whisper back, my voice raw from disuse.

We walk across the courtyard in tandem, the fortress’s looming walls casting long shadows over us. Tall, dark elf carvings—twisted and menacing—frame the path. Unlit torches line the walkway like silent sentinels. Nobody is laughing or chatting. Even the guards remain quiet, each one tense, as though the whole fortress is holding its breath.

Last night, while lying on the cold stone floor where I sleep, I overheard the guards whispering. They spoke about the gargoyles—beings rumored to be half-stone, half-devil, who once waged a brutal war. They said the gargoyles aren’t just legends anymore. They’ve awakened from a century-long slumber. I can still hear every word that slipped under the heavy door in the hush of darkness:

They’re raiding towns. They’re culling the women—every human female is to be killed on sight. The Alpha’s decree…

I shudder at the memory. The chill of the night is nothing compared to the dread that scalds my veins. Gargoyles. I remember stories of them from my childhood—beasts with monstrous wings and eyes like molten fire, possessing a savage thirst for violence that rivals even the dark elves. But why target human women specifically? I can’t shake the fear that it has something to do with old legends about witches… about purna.

Though I’ve never shown a single spark of magic in my twenty-two years, I can’t escape the rumors that cling to me like a curse. The silver streak in my near-black hair and the birthmark behind my ear have always drawn suspicion from my overseers. “Abnormal,” they call me. Once, a dark elf pressed a blade to that spot, threatening to carve it away if I didn’t confess to witchery. I insisted I’m just a normal human—just a slave—but that didn’t stop them from branding my back or scarring the skin around my collar.

I have no magic, I remind myself. No power.

“Move faster,” a new voice snaps, sharper and harsher than Thyra’s. It belongs to Zhorath, an overseer who radiates a twisted sort of glee whenever he’s tormenting us. His pointed ears quiver as though he delights in sneering at humans. The slender chain connecting my collar to his belt jingles against his leg guards. “Hound feed is late. The beasts grow restless.”

He’s tall, even for a dark elf, with silvery-white hair bound in an elaborate twist. His tunic is the color of dried blood, held together by a black metal pauldron shaped like a fanged demon. I’ve never seen him without that sinister pauldron, almost as if it’s fused to his flesh. Dark elves allegedly dabble in all kinds of vile, twisted magic; I don’t want to know the truth of it.

I mumble an apology I don’t feel. “Yes, Overseer.”

His eyes narrow. “Is your voice failing, slave? Do you need a reminder of your place?”

My pulse stutters. “No. No, Overseer. I’ll hurry.”

“See that you do.” He flicks the chain once, a vicious little tug that nearly makes me spill the slop again.

Gritting my teeth, I pick up the pace with Thyra at my side. We turn into a narrower corridor lit by flickering lanterns. The smell of rot and wet fur intensifies, my stomach twisting with disgust. The kennel lies just ahead, behind a series of iron bars. Corridors branch off in multiple directions, each lined with black stone carved in swirling runes.

Zhorath watches us as we pour the foul stew into troughs for the snapping, snarling guard-hounds. Some of these beasts have glowing red eyes—another sign of dark magic. They gnash their teeth, lunging as though ravenous. The wet slurping and gnawing sets my nerves on fire, but at least the racket distracts me from the overseer’s gaze.

Beneath that guttural noise, I hear another sound: hushed voices echoing from deeper within the fortress. Rumors spread quickly among slaves. If I focus, I can catch fragments—terror about the gargoyles, horror over the new kill decree. The fortress has doubled its security lately, adding more archers on the walls, dishing out more beatings in the yard. No one wants the dark elves thinking we hide purna blood among us.

They’re going to kill us all if they decide we’re a threat, I think bitterly. The gargoyles might get to us first. A heavy knot of fear tightens in my gut. I try to tell myself I’m safer inside these walls than I’d be out there, but the truth is that I’m trapped either way.

Zhorath flicks the chain again. “Stay here, slave, until the hounds finish eating. See that they get every crumb. When you’re done, return to the courtyard and scrub the walkway. Understood?”

“Yes, Overseer,” I say as steadily as I can manage.

He lets his gaze linger on the brand across my throat where the collar digs into my flesh, then smirks. “I’ll be back. Don’t even think about running.”

I swallow. Where would I go?

With a contemptuous snort, he leaves. His footsteps echo until the only sounds remaining are the hounds’ wet snarls and Thyra’s ragged breathing.

The chain clanks on the stone floor—Zhorath has unhooked it from his belt, probably certain I have no chance to escape. Or maybe he enjoys leaving me pinned in the kennel, tethered by a short lead. I let out a shaky breath and lean against the cold wall, my arms trembling under the slop bucket’s weight.

Thyra edges closer, her eyes darting from the hounds to the corridor. “I heard them talking again last night,” she whispers, voice trembling. “The gargoyles have been spotted in the outlying villages, destroying entire towns. They… they kill the women first, so no one can awaken purna magic.”

My heart sinks at her words. “But I’m no witch,” I hiss, almost pleading with fate. “I’ve never cast a spell in my life.”

Thyra’s voice quavers. “Rumors say any human woman could awaken it, given time. That’s what the gargoyles believe. And the dark elves do, too. So we’re all suspects.”

I close my eyes. Purna. My mother was rumored to carry that magic in her blood before she died, leaving me nothing but speculation and fear. “They’re paranoid,” I mutter. “So we suffer.”

She nods, then lowers her voice further. “They dragged a woman from the eastern tower two nights ago. She might not even have been purely human, but they said she had purna blood. They… they killed her.”

My stomach churns with nausea. Another life cut short under suspicion. I tighten my fists around the ragged hem of my tunic, anger bubbling up. How long can I keep living like this?

“I don’t know,” Thyra admits, glancing at the hounds as they polish off the last scraps of slop. “But I fear we don’t have much time left.”

I listen to the sounds of teeth scraping metal. My eyes burn, but I force back tears. Crying in this place is dangerous; it shows weakness. Anger, at least, can keep me standing. I’ll survive, I vow. I always do.

Footsteps echo closer, and I hush Thyra. Another guard strides in—this one younger, with a half-crazed smirk. He surveys us without a word, spitting on the floor before turning sharply and leaving, as if confirming that we remain chained and helpless.

I feel the tension grinding through my shoulders. “We need to finish and get back to the courtyard,” I whisper. “Before Zhorath returns and decides to punish us.”

Thyra nods. “Help me with the trough.”

We work side by side, scrubbing the feeding trough, disposing of the last of the slop. The hounds snap at us through the bars, but they’re calmer now, stomachs full. Then we head down the corridor, pressing ourselves against the damp walls whenever guards pass by. The dark elves rarely meet our eyes unless they’re barking orders or dealing out lashings. Acknowledging us as people probably makes their cruelty all too real.

Despite the gloom, I force my chin up. I refuse to cower, even though my pulse hammers in my throat each time a guard passes with a blade on his hip or a crossbow over his shoulder. The corridor leads us back into the courtyard, where more slaves bend double, scrubbing away dried blood. My stomach knots at the iron tang of gore. How many times have I seen that stain?

Before I can grab a brush, a commotion erupts by the far gate. Two guards drag in a young woman with nearly white hair, her face bruised and bloody. She kicks and thrashes, screaming words I can’t make out. My chest tightens. Is she the next suspected purna?

Zhorath looms nearby, barking for the guards to haul her to the dungeons. The woman’s ragged sobs tear at me. Our eyes lock for a heartbeat, and in that instant, I see all her terror laid bare.

I have to bite back a flinch. I recognize that fear. It’s the same I see in my own reflection. Then she’s gone, dragged through a doorway. The fortress gate slams shut with a jarring clang.

“Slave,” Zhorath calls, his voice echoing above the hiss of rain. I realize he’s looking right at me. “Come here.”

My heart leaps into my throat. I hurry over, keeping my eyes on his boots. “Overseer?”

He dangles the chain in front of me, then fastens it to his belt. “You’re going to the kitchens for extra duties. The fortress is on high alert, and we need more provisions. Understand?”

“Yes, Overseer.”

He starts walking at once, forcing me to stumble after him as he tugs the chain. We pass kneeling slaves scrubbing fresh stains from the stone. The mingled odor of cleaning solvent and blood stings my nostrils. Who died this time?

“Pick up your feet,” Zhorath snarls. “You’re lagging.”

I ignore my aching limbs as best I can. We descend through twisting corridors lit by torchlight, the air growing hotter as we approach one of the main kitchens. The place is large and smoky, vats of soup bubbling, ovens glowing. Human slaves hurry around with sacks of flour or stir massive pots. The tension here feels as tangible as a living thing, thickening with every new rumor about the gargoyles.

When I step inside, the smell of roasting meat almost overwhelms me. My stomach clenches from both hunger and revulsion. Slaves like me get watered-down broth and stale crusts at best. The dark elves feast while we waste away.

Zhorath thrusts my chain at a guard who stands near the door, then fixes me with a cold stare. “Help them prepare supplies. If you slack off, you’ll regret it. When you’re done, handle the water barrels for the evening watch.”

“Yes, Overseer.” My voice sounds hollow to my own ears.

He stalks away. The guard, a man with a pockmarked face and a bored sneer, gestures for me to move to a corner where a heap of vegetables awaits washing. Better than dog slop or scrubbing blood. I give a relieved sigh and push my tattered sleeves up. The cool water in the basin soothes my bruises as I start washing potatoes and carrots, losing myself in the repetitive motion.

My thoughts, however, refuse to quiet. Gargoyles are coming. They kill human women. They sense purna magic. A swirl of dread churns in my belly. Two other female slaves wordlessly join me at the basin, both with haunted eyes. None of us speak under the guard’s watch.

Time bleeds away while I scrub. The guard paces nearby, his eyes never leaving us. My arms ache, wrists raw from the collar’s weight, but I keep my head down. Just survive until the next moment, I tell myself.

Clanging pots and the hiss of flames fill the kitchen. I overhear hushed voices near the far counter—dark elf servants gossiping.

“A small settlement to the north was wiped out last night,” one hisses. “Gargoyles swooped in and butchered every woman.”

My heart pounds so hard I fear it’ll burst. Another settlement… gone.

“We must be vigilant,” the second elf replies, voice low. “If any of these humans shows a trace of purna magic, the Alpha will hold us responsible for not reporting it.”

The first elf mutters something about an uprising, about how they can’t risk letting a purna slip through. Then they both fall silent as an officer passes by to check on them. I keep scrubbing, fingers whitening around the vegetables. My panic simmers just below the surface. Purna… gargoyles… a fortress that’s already suffocating me. Every time I’ve tried to escape, the dark elves have hauled me back, punishing me so severely I still carry the scars.

I’m caged by my own powerlessness and by this collar.

Eventually, the basin of vegetables is almost empty. The guard jerks on the chain. “You,” he snaps. “Carry those potatoes to the storeroom, then report back to the courtyard for cleaning duty.”

“Understood.” My throat aches, but I manage to keep my tone steady.

He leads me out of the kitchen, chain clinking. We pass through another corridor that reeks of mildew, water dripping down mossy walls. I clutch the basket of potatoes, muscles protesting each step. High above, barred windows admit weak, grayish light.

I hear a distant rumble, like thunder—or maybe something else. Sometimes the fortress trembles from hidden magic or passing storms. Could gargoyles make the earth shake? I remember stories of them descending from the sky in huge wingspans, so heavy they caused the ground to quake on impact.

The guard halts and points to a heavy wooden door. “Storeroom. In and out. Quickly.”

I shoulder it open. The door creaks, revealing a cramped space stacked with crates and sacks. A single torch flickers on the wall. I set the basket of potatoes on a shelf and pause, allowing myself one heartbeat alone. My eyes sweep the dim interior, but there’s nowhere to hide. Just a broken crate filled with glass vials, probably potions or salves. Even if I wanted to do something with them, the guard stands right outside.

“Hurry up! Stop dawdling,” he barks.

“I’m coming,” I mutter under my breath. I slip back into the corridor, bracing myself as he refastens my chain to his belt. He drags me along, the fortress corridors buzzing like an angry hive. Tension coils in every corner, fear spiking as word of gargoyle raids spreads.

We emerge into the courtyard, the sky choked with dark clouds. Soldiers scurry along the ramparts, spears in hand; slaves hustle with buckets of murky water, scrubbing away fresh red stains. I taste blood in the air.

The guard presses a wet cloth and a stiff brush into my hands. “Clean,” he orders.

I kneel, letting the cold water in the bucket soak into my threadbare pants as I start scrubbing the stones. Each stroke is mechanical: dip, scrub, rinse, repeat. My mind spins with everything I’ve heard. How long can this go on? The fortress is a cage. The gargoyles are killers.

A thunderclap booms overhead, and I glance up to see a dark shape flicker against swirling clouds. My breath catches, half-convinced it’s a gargoyle—wings spread wide—but there’s nothing. Just storm light. Still, rumors ring in my ears: They come at night, descending without warning, leaving ruin in their wake. If they really are culling all human women, am I doomed either way?

The brush slips from my fingers, and I swallow my rising panic. I grip it again, scrubbing harder, as though I can scour away my fear. If there’s even a faint chance at surviving, I’ll cling to it.

Someone above shouts for the guards to man the gates. My head snaps up. The tension feels like a wire pulled too tight. Figures hurry to vantage points, crossbows at the ready. I hold my breath, waiting for the screams of an aerial assault.

But then the gates open, and a grim-faced dark elf battalion marches inside—mud splattered over their once-shiny armor, streaks of what looks like blood across their pauldrons. They ignore us slaves entirely before sealing the gates again with a heavy groan.

My shoulders slump with relief. Another false alarm, perhaps. But maybe tomorrow, or the next day, the gargoyles will attack for real. And if that happens, would it be any better than living under dark elf rule? Fear wrestles with my bone-deep exhaustion. If the gargoyles intend to kill me, at least it might be over quickly. But I won’t let hopelessness win. A tiny spark of defiance inside me refuses to die.

I keep scrubbing, ignoring my aching muscles and the slick stones. Rain starts falling in earnest, a steady, icy downpour that makes the courtyard dangerously slippery. The guard occasionally yells at me to “scrub harder,” but mostly he just stands there, bored and dripping.

A single drop of rain runs down my cheek. I tip my head up to the sky, letting more drops strike my brow. The chain rattles whenever I shift, a constant reminder that I’m pinned here, subjugated.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see that battered woman from before, limp in the grasp of Zhorath’s men. She offers no resistance now. Her eyes stare at nothing, body slack. My stomach twists. Did they torture her into submission? Maybe something even worse. The casual cruelty with which the guards shove her makes my nails dig into my palms.

Don’t draw attention, I remind myself, forcing my gaze back to the filthy stones. My heart pounds at the truth echoing in my head: This is the daily horror. This is my life.

Lightning flares across the sky, thunder rolling a moment later. Some slaves flinch. The guard overseeing me spits in disgust and snaps at me to keep working. Rain pelts me from all sides, and the courtyard’s surface becomes slick with muddy water. Still, I scrub.

And in that moment, water streaming down my face—I swear I hear something else, a subtle rumble like distant wings slicing through clouds. I freeze, brush clenched mid-scrub, straining to hear more. The wind and thunder drown it out. The fortress walls tower, indifferent to my dread. Over the years, I’ve learned to read the hush before chaos, and this hush feels razor-sharp, like a blade pressed to my throat. Maybe it’s just a storm, or maybe it’s gargoyles overhead.

I force myself to resume scrubbing as Zhorath’s footsteps approach. He yanks me upright by the chain with that same sadistic twist to his lips. “Enough,” he snaps. “Get back to the slave quarters. Rain or not, you’ll be needed at dawn. Don’t entertain thoughts of escape.”

My legs shake as I stand. The rain drenches me; rivulets trickle down my arms. Where would I go, anyway? There’s no safety from the horrors inside or outside these walls.

Even as I acknowledge that, a fierce spark ignites in my chest. I won’t let them break me. If gargoyles appear tonight, if the dark elves decide they’ve had enough of me, I’ll fight to my last breath—magic or no magic. That promise is all that keeps me walking as Zhorath drags me back to the cramped slave quarters. Night falls soon. I can only guess at what new terrors it might bring.

Thunder rumbles again behind me, and I lift my gaze for an instant. Lightning zigzags across the sky. For one heartbeat, I imagine a vast silhouette passing behind those clouds—a beast of stone and fury, wings outstretched. A chill slides through me, uncertain if it’s from fear or something more.

So the gargoyles really are awake, I think, as the heavy door slams behind me and darkness envelopes me once more.

What if… they’re coming for me?