Stone and Flesh

The cathedral is dying.

Maya can see it in every crumbling stone, every crack spiderwebbing through the ancient walls. Blackthorn Cathedral has stood for four hundred years, but time is finally catching up.

And she's the architect tasked with saving it.

"Careful up there!"

She ignores her assistant's warning, climbing higher on the scaffolding. The gargoyle perched at the northwest corner is the worst—centuries of weather have eroded the details until it's barely recognizable.

She reaches out to touch the stone face.

It's warm.

That's wrong.

Stone this old, this high up, exposed to November wind—it should be freezing.

Maya pulls her hand back. Then, because she's never been good at leaving mysteries alone, she touches it again.

Warmer.

Definitely warmer.

And—is that a pulse?

"Dr. Chen, we need to get those measurements before the light goes!"

"One second!"

She leans closer to the gargoyle. It's massive—eight feet tall even crouched, wings folded against a powerful back. The face is sharp, almost predatory. The body is pure coiled muscle carved from dark granite.

Beautiful.

Deadly.

Something she should not find attractive.

Her fingers trace along the wing, following the curve. There are markings etched into the stone—runes she doesn't recognize. Not decorative. Too precise. Too purposeful.

Almost like—

The stone cracks.

Maya jerks back. The scaffolding sways.

Another crack. Louder. Running from the gargoyle's chest to its shoulder.

"What the—"

The cracks spread. Spiderwebbing across the surface. Pieces of stone fall away, tumbling four stories to the ground below.

"Maya, get down from there!"

She can't move. Can't breathe.

Because beneath the crumbling stone is—

Skin.

Grey skin, darker than human, almost charcoal. Textured. Scaled in places.

The gargoyle's chest expands.

A breath.

Oh god, it's breathing.

More stone falls away. A clawed hand emerges, fingers flexing. Wings unfold—massive, leathery, dotted with holes where the stone hasn't fully shed.

And then eyes open.

Silver. Molten. Ancient.

They lock on her.

"Mine."

The word is granite scraping against granite. A voice that hasn't been used in centuries.

The gargoyle lunges.

Maya screams, loses her balance, tips backward off the scaffolding—

A clawed hand catches her wrist.

Pulls her up.

Against a chest that's no longer stone.

"Mine," he says again, and this time she feels it vibrate through his chest. Through the bond she didn't know existed. "Finally."

Then his wings snap open and he launches off the cathedral, carrying her in...