Page 16 of His Darkest Devotion

With a shaky breath, I turn to the Matriarch. “When do I leave?”

Her shoulders slump, as if she regrets forcing this on me. “Now. We’ve prepared supplies—a cloak, provisions, a map. You’ll travel light and inconspicuous.” She motions to one of the elders, who steps forward with a small satchel slung over her shoulder.

My palms sweat. It’s all happening so fast. I glance around, taking in the familiar carvings on the pillars, the swirl of Purna robes, the hush of ancient magic saturating these halls. This has been my entire world. How can I simply walk away?

Before I can gather my thoughts into coherent words, something snaps. I hear a sharp cry from somewhere behind me. Then, in a flash, a flicker of fiery magic streaks across the chamber. My instincts flare. I drop to a crouch as a bolt of burning energy slams into the pillar nearest me, sending shards of stone flying.

Gasps and shouts erupt, purnas scrambling aside. I spin, eyes widening at the sight of a Red Purna acolyte standing near the shadows of the hall’s edge. She looks young—brown hair in a single braid, cheeks flushed with anger—but her posture radiates raw aggression. Smoke wisps from her fingertips.

“Stay where you are!” she snaps, voice trembling with adrenaline. “Elira isn’t going anywhere. She belongs to us.”

My stomach drops. This is no small spat; the Red Purnas have escalated. I catch a look of Nerissa out of the corner of my eye—her expression is one of startled fury, as if she hadn’t sanctioned an outright attack. Or perhaps she had and didn’t expect her acolyte to be so brazen.

The Matriarch raises her staff, eyes blazing. “Stand down! We do not harm our own.” Energy crackles around her, potent and authoritative.

The acolyte scoffs, though a flicker of uncertainty ripples across her face. “If we let her go, we lose our chance to dominate the Dark Elves once and for all.” She levels her palm toward me again, conjuring another orb of flame that pulses with chaotic force.

Fear clutches my chest. She’s pointing that at me—a Purna of the same coven, albeit a radical faction. “I’m not your tool,” I manage, voice unsteady.

She sneers. “Then prove it! Use your magic. Show you’re not just a meek mouse scuttling away.” The flames in her hand intensify, scorching the air. “If you’re truly as powerful as the prophecy claims, show me now.”

Time feels slow, each heartbeat a thunderclap in my ears. The other purnas cry out warnings, the elders step forward to intervene—but they’re too far, the acolyte is too reckless. I sense her launching the attack before my eyes register the motion. Another torrent of flame hurtles toward me, so bright I can see the flicker of red behind my eyelids.

Instinct takes over. I hurl myself sideways, my training from the last days surging to the forefront. My lips shape a Transformative incantation in a rush of desperation. I reach out, not toward the acolyte but toward the column of air between us. Her flame cuts through it like a knife, but the intangible swirl of wind is something I can manipulate—if only partially.

Sparks fly. The raging fire arcs mere inches from my cheek, singing the ends of my black hair. Heat scorches my skin, but I cling to the rapidly forming strings of magic. My attempt is crude, half-formed. Instead of turning her flame into an inert substance, I manage to fling it upward with a jolt of Force Magic I didn’t realize I could tap so quickly.

An explosion rocks the chamber. The ceiling cracks from the redirected blast, raining down rubble. Dust fills the air. I choke, stumbling back. Through the haze, I see the acolyte coughing violently, disoriented by her own rebounded attack.

“Elira!” Olyssia’s voice cuts through the chaos. She rushes to my side, wide-eyed. “Are you hurt?”

I check my arms and face—minor burns on one forearm, nothing too severe. My heart is pounding, my thoughts a jumbled mess. “I’m— I’m alive.”

The Matriarch’s staff slams against the floor, sending a shockwave of magical authority rippling through the hall. The dust swirls, then settles, revealing her furious silhouette. “Enough!” she roars, her voice resonating in the cavernous space. She turns a glare on the Red Purna acolyte. “You have violated the sacred principle: never turn Purna magic against a coven sister. You will answer for this treachery.”

The acolyte pales, her bravado crumbling, but before the elders can restrain her, Nerissa steps in. “Stand down, all of you,” she commands, placing a protective arm in front of the younger witch. “No more spells. We don’t need a full-blown civil war in these halls.”

The tension is thick as the rest of the purnas form wary circles around us. Some remain prepared to cast, while others cradle protective wards. My own hands tremble, adrenaline surging.

The Matriarch straightens, her voice ice-cold. “Nerissa, your faction grows dangerously reckless. This is your final warning. If you cannot abide by coven laws, you will be exiled.”

Nerissa’s jaw flexes. “I don’t condone foolish attacks,” she says tightly, scowling at the acolyte. Then her gaze snaps to me, unwavering. “But I won’t apologize for wanting our coven to do more than cower. If Elira leaves, we lose the advantage. Remember that.”

Ignoring her, the Matriarch turns to me. “Elira, you must depart now—this very moment. The corridors echo with discontent, and I will not risk another assault.” She gestures to the elders. “Yvara, fetch the supplies.” The elder named Yvara hustles forward, placing a small satchel and cloak in my arms. Then she presses a piece of parchment in my hand. “A map of the lesser passes,” she whispers.

My heart aches. Everything is spiraling too quickly. I cling to Olyssia for one desperate moment, our eyes locked. She grips my shoulders, her expression anguished. “Promise you’ll be safe,” she says thickly, tears threatening. “You better come back.”

Emotion constricts my throat. “I promise. And I’ll be careful.” I want to say more—to thank her for always standing by me—but the words catch in my mouth. We have no time.

The Matriarch’s staff glows faintly, and a swirl of energy rises around me like a protective shell, guiding me toward the exit. She makes a show of strength for the Red Purnas, daring them to try anything else. With the elders at her side, she addresses the entire coven: “Elira will return when the time is right. Until then, do not attempt to follow her. The coven’s security is paramount, and she must not be endangered further by your reckless ambitions.”

Nerissa’s lips thin. Her acolyte stands sullenly, a bruise forming on her cheek where debris struck. I sense their frustration like a tangible force.

I press past the groups of purnas, ignoring the hush that falls. My footsteps ring on the stone floor, each step echoing with finality. A swirl of conflicting emotions tears at me: sorrow at leaving, fear of what lies ahead, anger at the attack. Yet, beneath it all, a thread of resolve pulses. This is my life now—caught in the crossfire of prophecy and ambition.

When I emerge into the corridor, I find the Matriarch already there, staff in hand, face lined with regret. She pivots, leading me through winding passages that slope downward, eventually opening onto the hidden mountain trail that leads away from the coven’s stronghold. The morning light floods my vision. The crisp air stings my skin, carrying the scent of pine and frost. Far below, the valleys stretch out like a rumpled tapestry of rock and forest.

The Matriarch stops at the threshold, turning to face me. She lifts her hand and gently tucks the silver-streaked lock of hair behind my ear—an unexpectedly tender gesture. “Forgive me, child,” she murmurs. “I know this feels like abandonment, but we do it for the sake of all. Your potential is too great to risk falling into the wrong hands. And I fear the Red Purnas are bold enough to exploit you for their agenda.”

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