Page 14 of His Darkest Devotion

I wake to pale dawn light slanting through the cave mouth. My neck throbs from sleeping upright. I shift, grimacing at the stiffness in my spine. The zalkir regards me with bored disinterest. Outside, the mist has cleared somewhat, revealing a desolate landscape of rocky ledges and stunted evergreens. The horizon glows with delicate pink and gold, a fleeting beauty in these harsh peaks.

After a brief moment gathering my bearings, I secure my armor back in place, piece by piece. The leather’s snug fit lends a veneer of comfort, a reminder of my identity as the Overlord’s unstoppable blade—though that reassurance feels shakier each day. I eat a few bites of dried meat, swig water from a flask, and prepare to move on.

Leading the zalkir from the cave, I take one last glance at the battered ground, searching for any clue that someone might’ve come near in the night. Nothing stands out. My wards—small black stones etched with sigils—lie undisturbed at the perimeter. No illusions. No approach. Reluctantly satisfied, I mount and urge my beast forward.

By mid-morning, the trail weaves up and around a series of switchbacks. The sun climbs higher, burning away the last tatters of cloud. The crisp air stings my lungs. The pines here are a shade darker, their branches twisted into strange shapes. Glancing around, I note an eerie quiet, save for the crunch of the zalkir’s claws. Even the birds seem scarce.

In the distance, I spy a ruined structure perched on a rocky promontory—a watchtower from some earlier era. Possibly built by the first wave of Dark Elf conquest, or maybe by desperate humans seeking refuge. Time has stripped it to a roofless shell. Caution prods me to check it out. Ruins often serve as meeting points for outlaws and couriers.

I dismount a short distance away, letting the zalkir rest in a patch of scrub brush. Slowly, I approach the tower, sword at the ready. The stones are blackened by moss, the mortar crumbling. A rectangular doorway gapes, leading into a circular interior littered with debris. I slip inside, boots crunching on scattered pebbles.

Dim light seeps through cracks. My gaze sweeps the corners, half-expecting to find a vagrant or a band of brigands huddled in the shadows. Instead, I find only silence—until I step around a collapsed pillar.

A figure lies sprawled against the wall, wearing a ragged cloak. His body is limp. My pulse jumps. Another corpse? Or simply unconscious? I move closer, sword angled low. His face is turned away, but from the build, he seems like a thin human, older. No movement. I nudge his shoulder with my boot.

Nothing.

I crouch, pressing two fingers to the side of his neck. No pulse. The flesh is ice-cold. My gaze flicks to his chest, noticing a deep slash across his tunic. A wide bloodstain discolors the floor. The wound looks days old. Rigor has come and gone.

Hissing under my breath, I scan for any sign of who might’ve killed him. Hard to tell. The slash suggests a blade, not a beast’s claws. Possibly bandits, or some passing soldier. Perhaps even a rift among the humans themselves. But something else draws my eye: a small scrap of parchment clenched in his stiff hand. Carefully, I pry it free, wincing at the brittle feel of his fingers.

The parchment’s edges are singed, as if by magical flame, and the writing is smudged. Squinting in the dimness, I decipher a partial message:

…the gargoyles… stirring in the old fortress… Purna named…

…Elira Vex… prophecy… must… either harness or…

The rest is unintelligible, soaked in dried blood. My heart pounds faster.More confirmation.It’s like the entire realm echoes with warnings about the gargoyles’ imminent awakening and a prophecy tied to this elusive Purna. A fresh wave of apprehension surges in me. Everything points to a cataclysm if I fail to secure her.

I tuck the parchment into my belt pouch, eyes lingering on the corpse. Another hapless soul tangled in the swirling currents of fear and rumor. Shaking my head, I stand. There’s nothing more to glean here. The Overlord’s mission demands I press on.

Outside, the sun now warms the stony path. It fails to melt the chill that’s lodged itself under my skin. My mind churns with the same question:Why do I hesitate when it comes to my duties?I can sense an invisible barrier inside me, an unspoken longing. Something about the prophecy and the purna tugs at me like a half-remembered dream.

Brushing aside the brooding thoughts, I climb onto the zalkir once more, spurring it away from the ruins. Time is short. If the gargoyles truly rouse, entire villages may burn. The Overlord wants to harness Elira’s power before such chaos unfolds. And I am his chosen instrument—trained, conditioned, lethal. I repeat those facts to myself until they settle like stones in my gut.

Late afternoon shadows stretch across the path as I forge onward. Occasionally, I glimpse the silhouette of a bird overhead, or the scuttle of a mountain hare darting through brush. The trail tilts upward, leading to a series of jagged slopes. My senses remain on high alert. Any moment, I expect to encounter an ambush or a ward set by cunning purnas. Yet the landscape remains eerily vacant.

Only as the sun dips behind the highest peak do I spot signs of life. A thin wisp of smoke rises from a rocky dell, partially hidden by the ridge. I halt, scanning the area. The glow of a weak campfire flickers behind some boulders. Someone’s out there—maybe more travelers, maybe purnas, maybe humans fleeing Dark Elf patrols.

Urging the zalkir to remain silent, I dismount and tie it to a stunted tree trunk. Then I move on foot, careful to keep low. The slope provides natural cover. My feet tread lightly, a skill honed through countless missions of infiltration. Edging around a rock, I peer into the dell.

A small campsite, indeed. Two figures sit near the embers of a dying fire. I make out no distinctive race from this distance, but they appear lightly armed—no immediate sign of advanced magic. One rummages through a pack, the other stares into the flames. They speak in hushed voices, though the wind prevents me from catching their words.

Part of me urges caution. Another part sees a potential resource for information. Time is too precious to waste skulking around. I shift my grip on the sword’s hilt, preparing to confront them, when a sudden roar shatters the quiet.

My pulse leaps. That wasn’t human. It wasn’t any normal beast either. It’s a guttural, resonant bellow that echoes off the cliffs, rending the air. The two figures at the fire jump to their feet, panic etched in their posture. I press myself flat behind a boulder, scanning the horizon. The roar came from somewhere near the eastern ridge—a place I can’t see from my vantage point.

A second roar follows, thunderous in its intensity. It resonates through my bones.Could it be a gargoyle?My mouth goes dry. The spy’s warnings resurface, along with my own nightmares of stone wings and ancient fury. If one is truly awake, it might be hunting. My instinct screams to remain hidden, but I can’t ignore the possibility that this is exactly the threat I was sent to curb.

The two campers scramble in frenzied terror, flinging their packs over their shoulders. They vanish up a slope opposite me, presumably fleeing the monstrous sound. My heart hammers, uncertain whether to give chase or investigate the source of that roar. A swirl of dust drifts across the dell, stirred by the vibrations.

I grip the hilt of my blade. The Overlord wants the Purna captured before the gargoyles pose a threat, but if one is already mobile…If it rampages, everything changes.If I can glean more about it—perhaps even ensure it remains bound—then I serve Orthani’s interests.

Steeling myself, I retrace my steps, jogging back to the zalkir. The beast yanks at its tether, eyes wild. It heard the roar too, and every predatory instinct is on edge. “Easy,” I mutter, stroking its scaly flank. “We’ll see what this is.”

I untie the reins and mount, nudging the zalkir uphill toward the direction of the sound. Another roar trembles through the air, a fraction softer. My guess is that it echoes from a ravine cutting into the mountainside. The path is rough, but the zalkir’s claws make short work of the ascent. Adrenaline prickles under my skin. My training says approach with caution; my curiosity propels me forward.

At the crest of the slope, I spot an outcropping that overlooks a series of dark gullies. The final rays of daylight cast long shadows. I peer down but see no sign of movement—just craggy rock, scattered pines, and deep, yawning chasms. The roars have stopped. My spine tingles, tension thrumming.

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