Page 22 of His Darkest Devotion

She grimaces, patting the donkey’s flank. “Not yet, though I expect them eventually. The Overlord’s enforcer was rumored to be near. People say he’s unstoppable, that he wields magic as easily as we breathe.” Her voice drops, trembling on the edge of fear. “They say he hunts for a witch named Elira. Some whisper she can control gargoyles. Or that she’s half demon. Or that she’s beautiful as a goddess. Who knows the truth?”

I swallow thickly. The villagers are repeating legends about me—some bizarre, some eerily close to reality. “Guess rumors have a way of growing wilder,” I reply.

She shrugs with a sad tilt to her lips. “Wouldn’t matter to us if it didn’t risk bringing the Overlord’s wrath. If you’re smart, you won’t linger. Not unless you want to meet him.” Concern shadows her gaze, as if she regrets being so blunt.

I bow my head in thanks and step away, heart racing. The thought of Vaelin, the Overlord’s enforcer, prowling these villages, sows fresh terror in my blood. I can almost feel him out there—like a faint prickling at the boundaries of my senses. My magic warns me of an approaching storm, though the sky remains deceptively calm.

Gripping the satchel tighter, I weave through the dirt lane. A few more huts line the perimeter, but I sense I’ll learn little else of use by questioning more villagers. They’re all afraid, each with the same cautionary tale: a lethal Dark Elf, unstoppable, unstoppable, unstoppable. The word repeats in my head like a mantra of doom.

That’s when a shout rings out: “No, please, let him go! He’s just a child!” The desperate cry jolts my attention toward the far side of the village. A small crowd clusters near a pen of goats, raising anxious voices. Through the throng, I glimpse a burly man in a shabby cloak gripping a boy by the arm. The child yelps, tears streaming down his face.

My chest constricts. Another petty scuffle over stolen food, perhaps? Or a debt being enforced? The man’s expression is pinched with cruelty. “Your brat took my coin purse,” he spits at a woman who’s wringing her hands in terror. “You pay me back, or I snap his thieving wrist.”

The mother—clearly the one who chased the boy earlier—falls to her knees, eyes brimming. “I have nothing! Please, I’ll repay you if you give me time…”

I wince. This is none of my business; I can’t risk exposing myself. But the sight of the child’s terrified face pierces my resolve. I can’t simply stand by.

Cautiously, I edge closer, illusions still wrapped around me like a second skin. The onlookers do nothing but watch, some whispering for the boy’s safety, others looking resigned. My heart clenches. I inch behind the aggressor, pressing a hand to the swirling magic within. A minor trick—just enough to startle him. I gather the threads of Force magic, inhaling slowly.

In a swift motion, I send a subtle pulse of kinetic energy at his wrist. He gasps, grip loosening. The boy twists free, stumbling into his sobbing mother’s arms. Confusion crosses the man’s face as he looks at his own hand like it just acted on its own. He glances around. “What in the?—?”

Spreading an illusion with my free hand, I create the faint outline of a looming shape behind him—a monstrous silhouette with glowing eyes. It’s ephemeral, mere trickery of light, but the effect is immediate. He spins, eyes wide, stumbles back into a muddy puddle, and lets out a strangled shout. The crowd gasps in unison, edging away.

The illusory figure vanishes in a swirl of shimmering air the moment he tries to focus on it. He pants, bewildered, the crowd whispering about ghosts or curses. Before anyone can scrutinize the situation, I slip deeper into the throng, letting the illusions dissolve around me. The boy is safe, at least. Guilt pricks me at the risk I’ve taken—someone might suspect a witch’s hand in this. But I couldn’t watch a child suffer.

Shaking off the adrenaline, I turn and make a brisk walk for the village’s gate. The two guards exchange glances but don’t stop me this time, probably more preoccupied with the ruckus behind me. Once outside, I hurry down the main track, casting the occasional glance over my shoulder to ensure no one follows.

After about half a mile, I veer off the beaten lane, cutting into a patchwork of meadows and wooded copses. Wildflowers sway in a gentle breeze, the fragrance mingling with the distant scent of tilled soil. My heart remains in my throat. That scene could have gone much worse. If a more observant villager had noticed my illusions…

I try to calm my nerves, inhaling the sweet air. My illusions remain a necessary shield. Without them, I’m far too conspicuous. The silver in my hair and the potent aura of magic radiating from me are like beacons. If the Overlord’s enforcer is truly close, I must do everything to stay unseen.

Yet, some part of me feels satisfied for helping, even in a small way. Those people have enough burdens. If I can lighten their load—discreetly, of course—I will. But I can’t linger in any settlement for too long. Each passing hour draws the net tighter around me. The Red Purnas might still be lurking. The enforcer might be one step behind. Or the gargoyles themselves could awaken soon, unleashing chaos. There’s too much at stake.

Beyond the meadows, I find a hedgerow leading to another path that winds between rolling hills. The land slopes gently downward, dotted with occasional farms. I spot a larger settlement on the horizon—its rooftops just visible above a stand of willows by a winding river. My stomach rumbles, reminding me I’ve walked for hours without rest. Perhaps I can circle around that town, glean a bit more news if it’s safe.

Quietly, I approach the outskirts. A pair of farmsteads flank the road, neat rows of cabbages and onions stretching across the fields. A weathered scarecrow stands sentinel, arms outstretched in a silent vigil. A lone farmer in threadbare clothes weeds between the rows. He wipes sweat from his brow, pausing to eye me warily. I muster a polite wave, illusions ensuring I appear as an unassuming traveler. He grunts a greeting, returning to his chore. No sign of panic or alarm, which I take as a good sign.

I continue on, scanning for vantage points. My senses pick up faint traces of magical tension in the air, though it might be my own paranoia. The sun climbs higher, washing the rolling farmland in a golden hue. It’s oddly beautiful—so different from the jagged, mist-wreathed mountains I called home. Despite the tension coursing through me, I pause to admire the wide fields, the sway of grain, the distant bleating of goats. These are everyday comforts humans rely on, ones denied to them whenever the Dark Elves tighten their grasp.

I crest a small rise, bringing the larger town into clearer view. It’s bigger than the last village, with a modest palisade of logs around its perimeter and a few stone buildings near the center—a sign of better trade or resources. My illusions should suffice again, but the risk of encountering soldiers is greater in a place like this.

Still, the Overlord’s enforcer can’t be everywhere at once, can he? My heart stutters at the thought. The villagers’ warnings echo in my head: unstoppable, obsidian-skinned, eyes like ice. A hush of dread pulses through me. For a moment, I swear I feel a prickle of foreign magic brushing against mine, like a gust of wind that slips under a closed door. My arms erupt in gooseflesh, and the hair on my nape stands on end.He’s close.The notion slams into me with startling clarity. I glance around, half expecting to see him cresting the hill behind me, sword in hand.

Nothing. Just farmland and a mild breeze. My illusions still swirl, and I see no sign of danger. Yet the sense of being watched lingers. I clench my hands, forcing an even breath. Maybe it’s the phantom of fear. Or maybe I sense his presence—some intangible link that tugs at my senses, whispering that our paths will cross sooner rather than later.

My next steps are clear. If he’s truly near, striding into a bustling town might be suicidal. I need to slip around the settlement’s outskirts, gather only what’s necessary, then continue traveling. The outpost the Matriarch mentioned lies far beyond, near a wider river crossing. Once I cross that boundary, I’ll be out of immediate Dark Elf territory.Safer,at least for a time.

Finding a vantage point behind a half-fallen tree, I watch the town from a safe distance. I spot a group of men hauling crates near the gates—likely merchants or laborers. A few older women chat by a well in the central square. Children chase each other around a donkey cart. It almost looks peaceful. Then a trio of leather-armored men on horseback rides past, their posture stiff, swords at their belts. Are they local guards or something else?

My pulse spikes. I crouch lower, narrowing my eyes. Those men appear human, not Dark Elf, which is a small relief. Still, I must remain cautious. Humans can betray me just as quickly if they think turning in a witch might spare them from the Overlord’s wrath.

After a few minutes, the horsemen vanish deeper into town. No immediate sign of uniformed Dark Elves, but that doesn’t guarantee safety. Resolute, I skirt the perimeter, clinging to the treeline. At one point, I pass an old orchard, the branches heavy with budding fruit. My stomach rumbles, so I pause to snatch a half-ripe apple from a low branch. Its tartness stings my tongue, but it’s nourishment. I nibble quietly, scanning for anyone who might take offense. The orchard appears abandoned, though well-kept. Possibly communal farmland?

The day stretches on, and fatigue weighs on me. My illusions require mental effort, a constant, subtle adjustment to keep my presence unremarkable. When I finally loop around to the western side of town, I stumble upon a rickety shack pressed against the outer fence—a storage shed of some kind, with rotting walls and a door that barely hangs by its hinges. A broken cart leans beside it, wheels missing.

I sense no immediate watchers, so I slip inside, rummaging through the dusty interior. Cobwebs drape the corners, and the faint smell of mildew makes my nose wrinkle. But to my relief, I find a discarded cloak slung over a crate—a patchy brown garment that might serve as a decent disguise if I ditch the illusions momentarily. I test it over my shoulders; it’s a bit large, but workable. With a flick of magic, I reinforce the illusion’s subtlety, layering the worn cloak over my existing garments. The more ordinary I appear, the better.

Stepping out, I spy a small girl—maybe ten years old—watching me from across the lane, half-hidden behind the fence. My heart lurches.She must have seen me rummaging.For a moment, she stares with big, curious eyes, hugging a ragged doll. My illusions blur the details of my face, but she senses something off, perhaps. She blinks once, then scampers away without a word. Relief surges. At least she didn’t run screaming for the guards.

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