Stone crumbled under Alban’s feet, the floor tearing beneath his talons. His eyes had opened against Grace’s orders, but he saw nothing but gray in front of him; gray and tear-blurred dancing images of his own forearms, muscle cording and shuddering white with stone.

Pain did not begin to describe it. Cold transcended agony and left the middling discomfort of being bound by iron far behind. It tore down stone walls, and with their tumbling came a lifetime of emotion that he had carefully left behind.

He did not, of course, remember the first time he saw Hajnal, for she was his elder, and had always been a part of their mountain-born tribe. Small, for a gargoyle, and very dark for one of their kind. Her family name was Dunstal, black stone, and they shared an affinity for glassy obsidian and other black rock spat from the heart of the world. Their physicality reflected that, amber skin tones and black hair, making them stand out against a people whose coloring tended toward the pale. She had always been there, petite and lovely amongst her alabaster kin.

And Biali had always been nearby, a broad hulk of a gargoyle who rarely smiled, but always danced at Hajnal’s whim. Alban had become the younger brother to their duo, chasing after, laughing, learning: being a child, loved and safe in the tall, gray mountains. A score of years had gone by, until one day he was no longer a child, and his heart leapt to see Hajnal winging above their mountain retreat. Until he’d joined her in the sky and found more than friendship beneath diamond-cut stars.

The span of a human life passed in a blur, memories clouded with time. Alban grew older and broader and wiser, losing himself in his people’s histories, discovering the world beyond their mountains through memories shared by others. He became a warrior, trained by memory and by skirmishes too focused to be playful, but never intended to be made real. Even now, under a song of pain, his muscles flexed with the movements he’d learned, battle built into his body. But there was little enough to fight over, and he had more important things to think of, like the dark-haired beauty at his side.

He had not yet seen a century when it became clear that humanity, all unknowing, would hound his people into hiding and desperation. Even high in the mountains, mortals encroached on their every stronghold, and there were bitter arguments on how to survive them. Some counseled war, and Alban found himself on the opposite side, standing and speaking of tradition and the need to keep the histories safe. He did not doubt his prowess in battle, and, looking from face to face, he saw that no one else did, either.

No one, save one.

Alban, caught in a whirlwind of icy anguish, whispered, “No,” with what little breath he had left, and shuddered beneath the weight of unrelenting memory.

Biali should have won. Should have, with his age, his experience; with what he perceived as having to lose. But he had lost Hajnal long since, and Alban fought for her, and the future of his people, and when his blow shattered Biali’s face, Alban fell back and refused to fight anymore. Not for fear of exile, though Biali’s death would set Alban on that path, but because they were so few, and forgiveness, surely, could come with time.

It was not exile, then, that drove him from his mountain home, but a hope of understanding humanity; of finding a way for his people to live amongst them in safety. Hajnal joined him and they left the mountains, left the valleys, left the landmass humans called Europe, and on the continent’s western archipelago they found friends, both mortal and not, whose secrets would change Alban’s life forever.

Arguments, fresh and sharp, rose up through memory: Hajnal’s distress at Alban’s choice to step outside the gargoyle collective in order to protect a child born out of species. She knew, of course; had known Sarah Hopkins, as she had known the fiery-haired dragonlord and the smooth, dark vampire. But it was Alban who had linked to their minds, Alban who had become so intimate with them, and Alban whose memories would condemn them if they were exposed to the depths of history. Hajnal’s, riding closer to the surface, carried far less weight, and could be kept from the gargoyle memories with a modicum of effort. She didn’t have to—didn’t choose to—exile herself from their people in the way he had. But as long as she remained with him, he wasn’t alone.

Hajnal’s death ricocheted through that, tearing chunks of Alban’s heart away and leaving emptiness in their place. Biali, as deeply wounded by it, had never, would never, forgive the lost battle that had paired Alban and Hajnal for life. That had, in his mind, set Hajnal on the road that led to her death.

Exquisite, the memory of that death. It was made of icy razors, cutting apart Alban’s every heartbeat as he roared her name helplessly. As she told him to leave her, and, most terribly of all, as he did, and in doing so, condemned her.

Generation after generation of humans passed while he stood apart, the scant handful he dared watch over always dying violently, until Margrit.

The bright memory of her presence in his life seared through him, hotter than even the ice. Something cracked within him, vast shattering like stone too long under duress. A terrible shout broke free, the clap of stone breaking apart, and ice released him.

Alban collapsed forward, trembling with exhaustion and the weight of too many memories. Every part of his body ached, as though he’d been splintered and put back together again by some rough stonemason with Pygmalion dreams. Stone did not weep easily; not often; not at all; and he could reach no further than a wish for that release. Not sobs; that was beyond him, but the weary slow slide of tears down granite features would be a relief, if only he could find his way there.

Instead he pushed up to hands and knees, then shoved back into a crouch, one hand planted against the floor to balance the empty shell his body felt like it had become. That was all: he could do nothing more. To have done that much seemed a triumph. His chin rested against his chest, eyes too heavy to open. Rest would come with dawn, no sooner. Iron bound him to his waking form, forbidding him the release of silent stone. He held on to that thought, concentrating on it beyond fatigue that came from his very bones.

Grace moved from behind him, soft brush of leather and silent breath of air. “Korund.”

“Leave me.” It took effort to form the words. Too much effort to open his eyes and meet her gaze. “I only wish for solitude, Grace. I have nothing left to spend.”

“Alban.” She moved again, her scent coming closer, leather creaking with action. “Open your eyes, gargoyle. Let’s have a look at you now.”

Weary beyond words, Alban forced heavy lids to part, and stared without comprehension at the long links of iron chain in Grace’s hands.