Page 13 of His Darkest Devotion

I clench my fists, forcing composure. My entire life has been shaped by duty. Now, that duty leads me into a vortex of old hatreds and unstoppable magic. For a flicker of time, I sense a question stirring in my mind:Is all of this right?The Overlord’s ambitions, the forced compliance of countless slaves, the vow that we—Dark Elves—deserve to rule? I strangle the doubt before it can bloom.

My gaze sharpens on the prisoner. “You’ve provided valuable insights,” I say flatly, though my voice lacks the typical venom I show to captives. In truth, I’m unsettled by the swirling threats. The gargoyles. The prophecy. The possibility that everything I know stands on the brink of upheaval.

He coughs, flecks of spit dotting his lips. “So… you’ll let me go? You promised.”

I lift my chin, recalling no such promise. My standard protocol is to leave no loose ends that might compromise the Overlord’s mission. Yet… I hesitate. This man is half-dead already, drained of everything he knows. Usually, that’s reason enough to end him swiftly. But a faint memory stirs—of the traveling messenger I encountered days ago, the one who gave me scraps of information before I let him live. Mercy is not my way, and yet I spare that man. Am I repeating the same choice now?

Shaking my head, I grip the hilt of one sword. The steel hums with a low ring. The prisoner’s eyes bulge with terror. Adrenaline spikes in my veins. My conditioning screams,Eliminate him. He’s a liability.My body tenses, primed for the lethal strike I’ve executed countless times.

Still, my hand does not draw the blade.

Why? The question rings in my skull. Why do I feel this creeping reluctance? It’s as though something cracks inside me—an unseen chain rattling. Once, I would have killed without a second thought. Now, an inner voice warns that every life I extinguish drags me deeper into the Overlord’s black pit of cruelty.That is my purpose,I remind myself, yet the words taste hollow.

The prisoner senses my hesitation, tears pooling in his eyes. “Please…” he croaks, voice quivering.

I exhale slowly. This man’s life means nothing in the grand scheme. My directive is to remain undetected, collect intelligence, and deliver the Purna to Orthani. Exterminating him might serve no real point. I reach out instead, slicing the rope that binds him with a single flick of my dagger. He collapses, gaping at me in shock.

“Go,” I say curtly, sheathing the weapon. “Run. If the Overlord’s soldiers find you again, you won’t be so lucky.”

He doesn’t need further encouragement. Scrambling to his feet, he limps down the mountainside. Within seconds, he vanishes between the gnarled pines, leaving me alone in the silence of my own conflicted thoughts. The truth serum’s effect will wear off soon. Perhaps he’ll vanish into the wilderness, or perhaps fate will devour him in some other manner. Either way, I’ve stayed my blade… again.

I grit my teeth, turning toward my zalkir. My heart thuds with an emotion too close to regret or confusion. I’m supposed to be the Overlord’s perfect enforcer: cold, unflinching, unstoppable. I’m dangerously close to failing that standard. If Rython discovers these moments of mercy, I doubt he’ll be pleased. He might strip me of rank, or subject me to harsher forms of magical conditioning. A chill slithers across my spine at the thought.

Tugging on the reins, I mount the zalkir in one smooth motion. The creature hisses, turning its angular head to regard me with luminous yellow eyes. I sense its hunger—zalkirs are always ready for flesh. But I have no desire to feed it a wretched captive. “We depart,” I say, voice hushed. The zalkir leaps forward, claws clattering over stones. I angle us back toward the higher passes, following the spy’s mention of a hidden valley near black pines.

The path rises steeply, forcing the zalkir to pick its way with caution. Clouds drift overhead, their undersides tinged with steel-gray. There might be a storm tonight. The swirling wind grows colder, biting at my cheeks. My senses remain alert for anything out of place—movement in the foliage, the presence of wards, illusions cast by purnas. So far, I notice only the wilderness’s quiet menace.

Yet the dread in my gut doesn’t fade. It feels like a bruise deep inside, throbbing whenever I consider the gargoyles or the prophecy.Elira, the Purna.The name circles in my mind. She apparently wields not just illusions but the dreaded Space-Time magic, capable of manipulating reality in ways few can fathom. On top of that, she’s rumored to hold the key to controlling or releasing ancient monstrosities. My chest tightens with a sensation akin to awe, yet also revulsion. The Overlord demands her subjugation, but how does one subjugate the force that might shape the fate of entire species?

I press on. By late afternoon, the trail veers alongside a narrow ridge. A slip here would drop me hundreds of feet into a rocky gorge. The zalkir’s tail swishes, balancing us as we inch forward. My gaze darts to a shape in the distance: the silhouette of a twisted pine, its trunk blackened by some past fire. A few stunted cousins cluster around it, forming a small copse. This must be the route the spy mentioned.

Reaching a broader plateau, I dismount. The wind intensifies, tugging at my cloak. Below, a canyon stretches in a labyrinth of sharp outcroppings. Glancing around, I spot faint signs of recent passage—footprints in the thin soil, likely from a small group. They’re not fresh, but they suggest people have traveled this path. Possibly purnas. Possibly humans seeking refuge or trade.

Kneeling, I brush my fingertips over the prints. My magic sense is limited—Dark Elves rely on the power granted by the Thirteen, though I possess more inherent skill than most, courtesy of experimental breeding. Even so, I can’t glean details from footprints alone like a Purna might. Sighing, I straighten. The day grows short; finding shelter is prudent.

I spot a shallow cave in the cliff face to my left, half-hidden by brambles. I lead the zalkir to it carefully. Inside, the space is cramped but free of dangerous wildlife. I tether the beast near a stone outcropping, letting it settle on its haunches. My gaze strays to the cave mouth, where the fading light outlines the swirling mists.

Another wave of disquiet washes over me, making my skin prickle. I sense no immediate threat, yet the silence presses in too heavily. The Overlord’s voice echoes in my memory:Failure is not an option.Time presses on, and if the gargoyles truly stir, our window for capturing this Purna might be closing. The Overlord likely expects a swift resolution.But do I?The question flickers unbidden in my mind again, stirring the fragile sense of self I’ve kept suppressed for years.

Disgusted with my own introspection, I remove my black leather armor piece by piece, leaving only a fitted tunic that clings to my skin. My arms feel stiff from hours of riding. Usually, I ignore physical discomfort easily, but the tension roiling inside me is worse than any muscle ache.

I prepare a minimal camp—no fire, just a small lamp fueled by bottled witchlight, enough to cast a pale glow on the cave walls. Shadows flicker and distort across the uneven rock, forming shapes that almost resemble wings or bestial faces. The illusions toy with my mind.Gargoyles.They’re out there, maybe still encased in stone, maybe half-awake. If even half the rumors hold true, they possess monstrous strength and a driving hatred for purnas—and a simmering enmity for Dark Elves, too, if the old tales are accurate.

I slump against the wall, resting my swords within easy reach. I hold the smaller blade in my lap, tapping the hilt with a restless finger. My thoughts drift back to the Overlord’s fortress in Orthani: the sweeping black arches, the polished floors, the hush that fell whenever I strode through a corridor. That hush was respect—and fear. The Overlord shaped me into a precision instrument. Lately, though, I question if there’s more to my existence than blindly serving his thirst for power. If that notion is treason, then so be it.

A quiet pang of memory tugs at me—hazy recollections from years ago, when I was still a boy. A voice telling me I wasn’t just a soldier, that I had my own will. That memory is blurred, drowned by the Overlord’s conditioning. I can’t recall the speaker’s face or name. But the echo returns now, persistent.

The lamp flickers. A rattle of loose rocks outside the cave jolts me. In one fluid motion, I spring to my feet, sword in hand. The zalkir raises its horned head, sniffing the air. There’s a rustle—perhaps just an animal, or a bit of debris knocked down by the wind.

I step outside, scanning the ledge, but nothing stirs in the half-light. My senses strain. No footprints. No glint of eyes in the undergrowth. Gradually, the tension in my shoulders eases.Just the wind.That doesn’t stop my heart from hammering, or the swirl of dread that reminds me trouble is imminent.

Returning inside, I slide down to the cave floor and press my back to the rock, exhaling. Sleep might be wise, but I’m too taut with anxiety. Instead, I stare at the lamp’s wavering glow, chasing phantoms in its dancing shape.Elira.The name repeats like a drumbeat in my mind, accompanied by the hush of a prophecy that claims she can alter the destiny of the entire planet.

Yet she’s just a rumor, a ghost among the mountains. I consider how she must look—no doubt human, slender, perhaps unassuming. I wonder if she’s naive or cunning. If she’s kindhearted, haughty, or burdened by the knowledge of her own destructive potential. Why do I even care about such details? My mission doesn’t require empathy. I only need to seize her.

And yet I do care—enough that I feel a subtle twist of guilt. For what reason? I can’t explain. My conditioning says none of these thoughts matter. Capture her, quell her power, deliver her to Orthani. End of story. Everything else is extraneous.

As the night deepens, the wind howls through the ravine. It’s a mournful sound. After a while, my eyes grow heavy, lulled by the relentless drone. My body yearns for rest, though my mind remains unsettled. Eventually, exhaustion wins. I drift into a restless sleep, sword cradled against my chest, lamp sputtering out.

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