Page 130 of Griffin Food

Once quaint but no longer.

A makeshift barricade has been formed out of carts and wagons. Buildings are already aflame near the barrier, where a desperate battle to protect the community is underway. For filling the shoreline is an insidious legion of dark fae and great, white creatures with metal collars around their throats.

My snout rises to the air, and I issue a baying howl. I recognize a foe… one my ancestors have battled before.

Dark fae. Worse. They’re captive rocklings. Brutish. Thick-necked. Brutal. Unfeeling monsters. The dark fae call them pets, but they are undoubtedly a form of slave. Twisted and conditioned, they are orcs who have been warped into something even more ungodly. Something mindless. Something that hungers for blood.

Above, a griffin screeches. I recognize Aldric’s battle cry. And then Darkan. Galeor and the other griffins fold wings for attack speed and dive.

We pick up pace, crashing as one into the back of the enemy lines.

A great boom of light explodes from a dark fae’s hand. It slams into the rider beside me, pitching both man and horse into the air and smashing them into a tree. Another spark of light shoots out, arcing across the ground, and another soldier goes down.

I weave, dive, slam the dark fae into the ground, and tear out his throat. His blood is foul and bitter on my tongue. But I’m already leaping for the next.

Dread sounds fill the air.

Monsters who prey upon the weak.

A griffin swoops. Claws rake. Another flash of light. A scream of pain as an arc of fire lances a griffin’s wing.

I spin and pivot and find myself face-to-face with a rockling.

Rabid black eyes. A brutish snout. Tusks that sit in a jaw distended by the process of making.

He spreads his arms and roars. A giant fist swings for me.

I dodge. Too fast for him to catch. Circle. And sink my teeth into the back of his thigh.

More bitter blood pools in my mouth. His fist swings, slamming into my side, knocking me off.

I roll, shake the stars from my vision, and watch as his leg crumples and he drops to one knee.

Soldiers swarm him. Ropes thrown around his neck. “NOW!” A soldier calls. They pull, toppling the beast.

I lunge, jump, and close my teeth around the side of his thick throat, finding the only small weakness in his hide.

My teeth sink. Powerful jaws working to penetrate skin. And then I tear free a great clump. Blood arcs in its wake.

The beast flails and thrashes, but I jump free and tumble as men rush to finish the job with steel blades.

There is no time to stop and consider. There is only the next target.

But later, when this attack is over, and the fae and their dread pets have fled this battle if not the war, I understand the magnitude of what is to come.

Chapter Forty-Four

Violet

War is here. For once peaceful communities, that means a state of constant danger.

It has been a week since the cells and my bonding with Darrion, the last of my mates. A week of constant attacks, of constant rallying, as they test our defenses. A week where I’ve had to watch Rafe writhe and break apart and heal and rest and writhe again.

Sleep is fitful.

Atlas’s quarters have been turned into a hub of sorts. Master Lychen. Master Pugstone. Apprentices. Servants. Rafe’s litter upon the floor. A temporary nest for me nearby. Books. They are scattered everywhere, on the floor, in stacks, and upon tables and chairs. Open upon passages, bookmarked and reviewed.

Peace does not exist. There are but brief respites when one of my mates crawls into my temporary nest with me, weary from the battling, to hold me, to offer comfort in a simple embrace. But there is no true rest. Not when our community is under threat. Not when Rafe’s transition is not yet done with him.