Too Dangerous to Die

Chapter 1

Nora

The toxin burns through my veins like liquid fire, twisting through my limbs, setting my nerves alight with agony. Each breath is a raw wound against my ribs, shallow and desperate, as I stumble forward into the ruins. The air here is heavier, thick with the remnants of old magic that hums against my skin. I do not belong in this place—no living thing does.

I have nowhere else to run.

Branches snap in the distance, the low murmur of voices cutting through the oppressive silence. Dark elves. My heartbeat stutters, and I push myself forward, knowing they will not grant me the mercy of a swift death. They want me to suffer. They want to drag me back to Oshta and display my broken body to the others as a warning.

A healer should never be a threat. But the Purna are.

The trees thin, the canopy giving way to looming black structures jutting out from the earth, ancient stone swallowed by vines and rot. The ruins stretch out before me, twisted spires and broken archways etched with sigils I can barely recognize.

My legs falter, my knees buckling beneath me.

No. Not yet.

I slam my palm against the jagged wall beside me, steadying myself. The stone is ice-cold beneath my fingertips, leeching the fevered heat from my skin, but it does nothing to stop the poison from threading deeper into my blood. My magic remains dormant, locked away by the dark elves’ cruel alchemy. My greatest weapon, rendered useless.

I glance over my shoulder, my vision flickering. Shadows move between the trees. A dozen figures, maybe more. Their footfalls are soundless, but I can feel them—slinking closer, closing in.

I am going to die.

But I refuse.

Summoning the last of my strength, I turn and stagger deeper into the ruins, weaving through the shattered remnants of a forgotten city. The architecture is not elven or human. It is something older, something that does not belong to the living. The deeper I move, the colder it becomes, the very air pressing in around me, thick with dormant power.

Something watches from the shadows.

My foot catches on a stray piece of rubble, and I crash forward onto my hands. Pain lances up my wrists, but I barely feel it. My head swims, my vision narrowing to a single point as I force myself to look up.

And there it is.

A colossal statue, looming over the ruins like a silent sentinel.

The gargoyle is monstrous—massive, even crouched, its black stone body carved with ancient runes, its wings half-folded behind its back. Its chest is hollow, as if something had been carved out of it, leaving nothing but an empty void where its heart should be.

The closer I look, the more I notice. The sigils covering its skin pulse faintly, as if reacting to my presence. I recognize some of them, old Purna markings that should have faded centuries ago.

It was bound. Below it, on the stone, there are ancient symbols. Rhaegar, the mighty warlord. 

It should be nothing but stone and memory. And yet, as I meet the beast’s sightless golden eyes, a cold shiver rolls down my spine.

It feels like it is looking back.

A blade sings through the air. I barely react in time.

I twist, the steel biting across my shoulder instead of my throat. The impact sends me sprawling onto my back, a cry tearing from my lips as pain erupts down my arm. I clutch at the wound, hot blood slicking my fingers, and stare up at the figure looming over me.

A dark elf.

His silver hair gleams in the moonlight, his skin obsidian-dark, his crimson eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.

"Little Purna," he murmurs, crouching over me, pressing the tip of his bloodstained dagger to my throat. "Did you really think you could run?"

I can’t move. My body is too heavy, my limbs too weak. The poison has won.

I am going to die.

Again, my gaze drags toward the statue, toward those sightless golden eyes that seem to bore into my soul.

I have no magic. No weapons. No chance of survival.

But I have one thing left.

My blood.

I barely feel the sharp sting as I drag my nails across my palm, opening a thin line in my skin. The dark elf sees the movement and laughs, shaking his head.

"What are you doing?"

I don’t answer.

Instead, I press my bleeding palm against the stone.

The air ignites.

A deep, guttural sound rumbles through the ruins, the very ground quaking beneath me. The elf stumbles back, his face twisting in shock as the gargoyle shudders.

Cracks spiderweb across the statue’s surface. The sigils ignite, a burning gold that sears through the darkness.

And then it moves.

The sound it makes is not human, not natural—a deep, ragged breath, as if it’s the first time it inhaled air in centuries. Stone grinds against stone, pieces falling away, revealing flesh beneath—dark, like molten obsidian, veined with flickers of ember-red light.

The elf doesn’t hesitate. He lunges for me again, his blade flashing.

But he never reaches me.

A massive clawed hand shoots forward, closing around the elf’s throat. The snap of bone is deafening.

The gargoyle rises, wings unfurling, casting the ruins into shadow.

He is not whole. He is shifting, half-formed, caught between stone and something else entirely.

And he is hungry.

His head tilts, golden eyes locking onto mine.

Something deep in my chest pulls toward him, the bond already coiling around us, twining through my ribs, my veins, my soul.

I can barely breathe. My magic surges, waking up as if in recognition.

The dark elf’s lifeless body drops beside me, discarded like an afterthought.

I cannot move. Cannot run.

I am bound.

The gargoyle crouches, those searing golden eyes drinking me in. His voice is a low growl, rough with disuse, ancient and powerful.

"You should not have done that."

My vision fades at last, the world tipping sideways.

The last thing I feel is the pull of the bond, sinking deep into my bones.

I hear my own heartbeat, slowing to match his.