Page 18 of His Darkest Devotion

I close my eyes, letting the minutes stretch. The forest’s cool air steadies my racing heart. My ears strain for the faintest sound of footsteps, but I hear nothing except the breeze stirring leaves. Maybe I lost her for good.

But reality sets in: if the Red Purnas had one acolyte tailing me, they might send others. The Dark Elves are out here too, searching for me. Everything the Matriarch feared is happening. My presence stirs conflict like a torch tossed into dry tinder. I can’t risk traveling the main trails—my best hope is to rely on lesser-known routes, just as the elders planned.

So I gather myself, ignoring the trembling in my legs. I retrieve the map from my satchel. It details a winding path that skirts the base of the mountains, passing through thick forest and eventually meeting a river crossing. The outpost supposedly lies on the far bank. Setting my jaw, I memorize the route. No more dithering—if I linger, someone might catch up.

Struggling upright, I slip my cloak back on, adjusting the scorched fabric so it doesn’t impede movement. Then I trudge onward, deeper into the forest, away from the Purna stronghold and everything I’ve known.

As I walk, a swirl of emotions tangles inside me. Relief at escaping the Red Purna’s assault. Fear of what might come next. Amazement that I managed to warp an entire oak trunk in the heat of battle. And underlying it all, a pang of loss. The coven was my home, for better or worse, and I left so abruptly. Who knows how long it’ll be before I see Olyssia or the Matriarch again?

I press on, the day passing in a haze of caution and footsore progress. The path descends into a darker valley where moss clings to every rock, and the sunlight dims to a faint glow through the canopy. My ears remain trained on any sign of pursuit. Occasionally, I glimpse wildlife: a startled doe bounding away, a pair of foxes scurrying behind a dead log. Their presence reassures me that no large predator prowls nearby—at least for now.

By late afternoon, the trees thin out, revealing a rocky outcrop that overlooks a vast sweep of plains far below. I pause to catch my breath, leaning against a mossy boulder. Clouds drift overhead, tinted with gold. In the distance, I see the faint glitter of a winding river. My destination. If I can just reach those waters by nightfall, I’ll be one step closer to the outpost.

A memory flares—my first real out-of-coven trip, guided by older Purnas to help a human family hide from Dark Elf slavers. I recall the swirling illusions we cast to cloak them, how proud I felt to protect them. Now, I’m the one who needs protection. Life twists in unexpected ways.

I run my fingers over the silver strands, a nervous habit. The prophecy, the gargoyles, the Overlord’s rumored search for me—it all looms large, but I refuse to cower in a corner. If the Matriarch trusts me to handle myself, then I must. That spark of determination steels my resolve. I survived an attack by a fellow Purna and performed a transformation that still makes my head spin. I will keep going, no matter the challenges.

With renewed focus, I descend the rocky slope. Each careful step stirs dust in the waning light. Pine needles crunch underfoot, and the crisp scent of mountain air gradually gives way to the earthy aroma of lower altitudes. A sense of finality lingers in my thoughts—this trek isn’t just a physical journey; it’s a step deeper into the unknown world the prophecy thrust upon me.

As dusk settles, I find a small hollow framed by thick bushes. It’s not ideal shelter, but it’ll have to do for the night. With practiced caution, I set a minimal ward—just enough to alert me if someone or something draws near. My illusions are shaky after the day’s exertions, so I keep them subtle, weaving the faintest shimmer across the entrance to the hollow.

Hunger gnaws at me. I rummage through the satchel for the food Yvara packed: dried berries, flatbread, some strips of salted meat. Chewing slowly, I let the events of the day unravel in my mind—the forced departure, the Red Purna’s ambush, the terrifying rush of my own power. My body still hums with residual energy, a reminder that my magic can surge unexpectedly under stress.

The hush of evening settles in, insects chirping a lullaby. It might almost be peaceful if not for the knowledge of danger. Wrapping the cloak around myself, I try to relax against the trunk of a twisted pine. Uncertainty gnaws at me. Did I make the right decision to run when attacked? Should I have tried to reason with the acolyte? Probably not—she was too intent on claiming me for her cause.

I sigh, exhaustion tugging at my eyelids. The forest dims, starlight piercing the canopy in pinpricks of silver. My thoughts drift to Olyssia, the elders, and the Matriarch’s sad face as I left. And then my mind conjures an unbidden image: a shadowy figure somewhere in these mountains—a Dark Elf enforcer, rumored to be searching for me. I’ve never seen him, but the idea of a cold-eyed killer at my heels brings goosebumps to my skin.

Eventually, weariness wins out. My eyes close, lulled by the steady thrum of my own heartbeat and the distant whisper of the wind through the trees. Tomorrow, I’ll resume my journey to the outpost, forging a new path in a world that feels both exhilarating and terrifying.

Yet one thing is certain: I’m no longer the cloistered witch who woke in her safe bed yesterday morning. I have harnessed powerful magic under dire circumstances, defied an attacker’s lethal strike, and walked away from the only home I’ve known. The very air around me seems charged, as if my destiny is shifting.

If the prophecy truly rests on my shoulders—if my power can seal or free the gargoyles—then each step I take might shape Protheka’s fate. It’s a terrifying weight. But for now, in this dark forest with the moon peeking through branches, all I can is cling to what I’ve learned, trust my instincts, and keep moving forward.

Sleep eventually claims me, but my final waking thought is that even though I’ve left the coven, I’ve gained something crucial: a hint of my own strength, a glimmer of self-reliance that I never realized I possessed. And that might make all the difference in the battles yet to come.

6

VAELIN

The wind clutches at my cloak, its chill cutting through the leather armor as I guide the zalkir across a rickety wooden bridge. Below, a narrow ravine slices through the stone, echoing with the distant roar of rushing water. Each hoof-like claw of my mount finds purchase on the uneven planks, the aged boards creaking beneath its weight. I keep my gaze steady, scanning both ends of the steep canyon for any sign of threat—or opportunity.

A dull throb of tension resides at the back of my skull. It’s been there for two days, ever since that night I heard the monstrous roar that could only belong to a gargoyle, yet never glimpsed its source. Frustration twists in me like a coiled serpent. My orders are clear: find Elira, bind her magic, deliver her to Orthani. But the presence of possible gargoyles, awakened or half-awake, gnaws at my focus. The Overlord will be furious if I allow any complication to undermine my task.

Once we’re safely across, I steer the zalkir onto a winding path that veers uphill. Gnarly trees lean over the trail, their branches scraping across my shoulders. Overhead, clouds gather in dismal clusters, threatening a midday storm. The skies in these mountains are as fickle as the illusions cast by purnas.

I flex my gloved fingers on the reins, trying to ease the lingering ache in my temples. Sleep has not come easily of late. Every time I close my eyes, fleeting images skitter through my mind—stone claws scraping against an unseen barrier, howling winds in a cavernous chamber, and a voice. Female, whispered. Urgent. It’s not a memory I recall from my training or from any mission, yet it feels disturbingly familiar. As if it belongs to a buried part of me, long suppressed.

I learned early on to dismiss such visions—symptoms of my “birth defect,” or so the Overlord’s physicians labeled it. My capacity for empathy, the stray merciful impulse, the half-remembered dreams. They ensured I underwent harsher conditioning than other Dark Elf warriors. The Overlord demanded absolute devotion, and he made sure to extinguish whatever softness lurked in my soul. But something in these visions defies that conditioning.

“Hya,” I urge the zalkir quietly, pressing my heels into its flank. It surges forward with a disgruntled snort, claws crunching through a patch of loose gravel. The path broadens as we climb higher, revealing a sweeping view of the forested valley below. Here, in the midst of Prazh’s rugged terrain, lies the realm of hidden covens—Elira’s domain, if rumors hold true.

I slow the mount when I spot a slender plume of smoke curling into the sky, barely visible behind a cluster of pines. Could it be a campfire? Curiosity piques my senses; I guide the zalkir off the main trail, taking care not to snap branches. Movement in the undergrowth draws my attention—a pair of deer bounding away in alarm. No sign of purnas or humans, at least not in plain sight.

After dismounting, I tie the zalkir to a low-hanging branch and proceed on foot. Each step is deliberate, boots silent on the mossy ground. The lingering tension in my head pulses, but I focus on the mission. If someone is camped here, they might carry tales of a witch with unusual power. Each snippet, each rumor draws me closer to my target.

As I slip through the pines, the smoke smell grows more distinct. A small clearing opens before me, dotted with fallen logs and ringed by stones that form a rudimentary fire pit. But the site is deserted—no tents or signs of recent habitation aside from still-warm embers. I crouch, sifting a bit of ash through my gloved fingers. Perhaps an hour old, at most.

Scanning the perimeter, I notice footprints pressed into the soft soil. They’re narrow and fairly light—likely a woman or small-framed person. My pulse quickens. Could it be Elira? Or another Purna? I rise, unsheathing one of my swords with a whisper of steel. The Overlord taught me not to place hope in coincidences. Everything is either planned or a trap.

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