Page 11 of His Darkest Devotion

I stare at the sparrow, my pulse racing. The bird flutters its wings, balancing unsteadily on the crate’s edge. “Now… change it back,” Yvara instructs gently.

Nodding, I let the magic settle, then reverse the flow. Another ripple of power, a hiss of shimmering energy, and the sparrow’s form elongates. Feathers recede, ears stretch, bones solidify. The rabbit reappears, looking frazzled but unharmed.

My entire body sags with relief. I glance at the elders. Quelina gives me an approving nod, while Lumeria’s mouth curves in a faint, proud smile. “Your control is improving,” Lumeria says quietly. “And that’s crucial.”

A brief swirl of pride stirs in my chest, but it’s overshadowed by the heavier concerns looming over us. I gently set the rabbit aside, feeling sorry for the poor creature. Then Olyssia steps up, volunteering a grin. “Maybe I can conjure a small flame target for Elira to transform? Practice turning fire into… something else?”

I arch an eyebrow at her. “Turning fire into something else is about as tricky as conjuring wings on a fish. But I’ll try if the elders think it’s wise.” A year ago, I would’ve laughed at the idea, but at this point, I figure any practice that pushes my boundaries might help me refine my chaotic gifts.

Sarene and Yvara exchange a thoughtful glance, then motion for us to proceed. Olyssia steps into a neighboring rune circle, her hands outstretched. I watch her gather the threads of elemental energy, coaxing a flicker of flame into life between her palms. The fire crackles orange, flaring with each breath. She lifts it, shaping it into a small orb that floats in front of her.

I focus on that orb, letting my awareness attune to its shimmering heat. Transforming fire isn’t the same as altering an animal; it has no heartbeat or sinew. It’s raw energy, chaotic and ephemeral. Biting my lip, I gesture gently, attempting to wrap my power around the flame. My mind pictures it becoming a glowing crystal sphere—something tangible yet radiant.

A wave of dizziness washes over me. The orb shudders in midair, flickering rapidly between sparks and molten energy. My breath tightens as the lines of reality blur. In a split second, the orb explodes outward, lashing the air with scorching tongues of heat. I yelp, throwing my arms up.

“Shield!” Lumeria snaps.

A shimmering barrier snaps into place, conjured by the elders. The blast collides with the ward, scattering harmlessly. When the smoke clears, the orb is gone, replaced by a faint glow of scattered embers on the arena floor.

My cheeks burn with embarrassment. Olyssia stares at me with wide eyes, arms lifted in her own partial attempt to shield. “Are you okay?” she gasps.

I nod, coughing at the sulfurous tang in the air. “I’m fine. Just… not ready for that, apparently.”

Quelina sighs, resting on her staff. “Transforming inanimate energy is significantly more complicated. Let’s not push you too far, too fast.”

Lumeria’s gaze softens. “No harm done, at least.” Her tone shifts, turning introspective. “In the days to come, we’ll need you to harness both your Transformative gift and your budding Space-Time magic. But we’ll do it in stages, carefully.”

Something in her voice—the unwavering conviction that I’ll succeed—fills me with an odd mixture of gratitude and panic. I want to do right by my coven. I want to ensure the gargoyles don’t ravage us. Still, the magnitude of it all sets me on edge.

Over the next few hours, we continue with smaller exercises: refining illusions to mask a single object’s shape, turning pebbles into lumps of clay and back again, even testing small pulses of time-slow spells—though I can only sustain them for a heartbeat or two. Each attempt chips away at my energy reserves, leaving me shaky. Yet every success, however minor, bolsters a fragile hope that I can learn control.

By the time we finish, my clothes cling to me with sweat. The illusions swirl in my head, and my limbs ache with the strain of channeling so much magic. Olyssia hands me a waterskin, and I drink greedily, wiping my brow.

Lumeria surveys me with an approving nod. “You did well. It’s a start, Elira. I know it feels like an uphill climb, but persistence will serve you better than raw power.”

I manage a weak grin. “I appreciate your guidance, Matriarch.”

“Go rest, eat something,” she says, smiling. Then her gaze slips into seriousness. “But remain vigilant. There are dangers from without and within.” Her eyes flick to the chamber’s entrance as if referencing the Red Purnas who linger in the coven, seeking any opening to twist the prophecy to their ends.

“I’ll keep my guard up,” I reply, not entirely certain how. The day is far from over, and the threat of an approaching storm—be it gargoyles, Dark Elves, or rebellious purnas—feels almost tangible, pressing in on my mind like a dark cloud.

I gather my things, exhaustion weighing down every step as I leave the training arena. Olyssia walks beside me, one hand on my shoulder in a show of silent support. As we cross into the main corridor, the hum of warded power intensifies, signifying new protective spells reinforcing the coven’s boundaries. Each pulse is a reminder that we’re barricading ourselves against the unstoppable forces brewing outside these walls.

Conflicting emotions churns in my chest. If the gargoyles truly awaken, can these wards hold them at bay? If the Overlord’s armies come marching, can illusions and protective circles shield us forever? And if Nerissa gets her way, how many Purnas might be lured by the promise of vengeance, igniting a war we can’t hope to win alone?

I can’t shake the final question:Where do I fit into all of this?

The prophecy named me as a hinge on which entire fates may turn. That knowledge presses down like an avalanche. I’ve always been a dreamer, eager to see the wider world and help those in need, but never did I imagine stepping into a role that could tip Protheka’s future into chaos or salvation.

When Olyssia and I reach a fork in the corridor, we pause. She opens her mouth as if to say something reassuring, but only a faint exhalation escapes. I sense she doesn’t have the words to soothe the looming dread in my heart. Instead, she pats my arm gently and heads toward the dormitory area, leaving me with my swirling doubts.

I linger for a moment, pressing a hand against the cold stone wall, feeling the rhythmic pulse of magic beneath my palm. It’s almost like a heartbeat—our coven’s collective lifeblood.I must protect this place.If that means embracing the weight of a prophecy I never asked for, so be it. But inside, I remain terrified of what might happen if I fail—or if I succeed in ways that unleash something far worse.

Gathering my frayed courage, I turn down the opposite corridor that leads to my chamber. Step by step, I vow to keep pushing forward. Fear can paralyze or spur one to action. I refuse to let it paralyze me now.

Yes,I think.This is the burden I carry. And I will bear it, no matter how heavy.

Yet as I reach my room and close the door behind me, I can’t help wondering if fate has already begun tightening a noose around my neck. If so, my only hope is to break free before the prophecy’s chains drag me—and the entire coven—into an abyss from which there may be no return.

---