Page 23 of His Darkest Devotion

A hush lingers.Now what?My intention was to gather more information about potential Dark Elf patrols, but so far I’ve heard only rumors. The Overlord’s enforcer is near, though no one can confirm his exact location. I can’t spend the night in this shack or orchard. Being cornered by soldiers at dusk would be disastrous.

Pressing a palm against my throbbing temple, I weigh my next move. The outpost the Matriarch mentioned still lies miles ahead—two days’ travel at least. The path will be dangerous, especially if the enforcer roams these areas. But I have no choice. If I linger, fear might paralyze me. Better to keep moving, to outrun the shadow on my trail.

I slip through a gap in the fence, returning to the open fields. A streak of afternoon sun warms my face, momentarily soothing the chill in my bones. I recall the old man’s fearful warning, how unstoppable the Overlord’s blade is rumored to be. I can practically taste the tension in the atmosphere, or maybe it’s my own anxiety. A prickle at the back of my neck intensifies, as though a silent alarm warns me of an approaching predator.He’s near. I can’t see him, but I feel him.The notion haunts me, making me glance back every few steps.

To steady myself, I practice small illusions while walking—small transformations, too. I gather a handful of pebbles from the path, turning them into what looks like acorns or dried berries, only to shift them back again. The exercise calms my racing heart, reminding me that I’m not defenseless. My power, though not fully honed, is still formidable enough to confound many foes. The memory of warping that oak tree to escape the Red Purnas returns—a reminder that I survived worse. A trembling sense of pride mingles with my fear. I will not be easy prey.

By late afternoon, I’ve put a decent distance between myself and the town. The farmland grows sparse, replaced by rough terrain dotted with brambles. Clouds gather in the sky, painted shades of lavender and gray as the sun dips low. I find a narrow stream winding across gravelly soil, and I follow its banks for a time, scooping handfuls of cool water to drink. The ache in my legs and the strain on my mind weigh heavily, but I push on. I must.

Finally, as evening shadows stretch across the land, I spot a small grove of willow trees nestled around a shallow pond. It’s remote, shielded from main roads and prying eyes. I decide to make camp here for the night, a compromise between caution and exhaustion. The willows’ drooping branches create a natural curtain, offering a semblance of privacy.

Kneeling by the pond, I use a minor illusion to dim the glow of any flame I might conjure—just enough to keep me hidden from distant watchers. Then I summon a faint spark in my palm, employing an elemental trick Olyssia taught me. The flicker of flame dances on my fingertips, bright enough to illuminate a circle of grass. Gathering dried twigs, I coax them into a tiny fire, using illusions to cloak the glow so it won’t betray me in the fading light.

With quiet efficiency, I nibble on some stale bread and the small wedge of cheese I bought earlier. The food is bland, but it fills the hollow in my stomach. My gaze drifts across the pond, where the reflection of tree branches sways gently in the water. The hush of dusk envelops me, broken only by the croak of frogs and the rustle of wind through willow fronds.

I let out a slow exhale, wrestling with the sense of Vaelin’s looming presence. It’s less about hearing footsteps or seeing shapes. Instead, it’s a dull tug in my magic, a feeling that something hunts me across these fields and towns. Maybe it’s foolish, an offshoot of fear, but I trust my instincts enough to heed the warning.

One step at a time,I remind myself. Tomorrow, I’ll continue east, avoiding major roads. If luck is on my side, I can slip past any Dark Elf patrols and reach the outpost the Matriarch mentioned. I try not to imagine the Overlord’s enforcer intercepting me, or the possibility that the Red Purnas might pop up again. My illusions remain my lifeline, my transforming spells a last resort.

My eyelids grow heavy, the day’s tensions draining my energy. Gently, I douse my little fire with a sprinkling of water and a minor manipulation of air to disperse the heat. Darkness creeps in, but I keep my illusions wrapped around me, forming a faint shimmer across the grove’s entrance—enough to deter casual eyes.

Curling up in the grass, I pull my cloak around my shoulders, ignoring the subtle ache of regrets. Behind closed lids, I picture the worried faces of villagers, the frightened child, the old man whittling. They all fear the same shadow that I fear. If I fail to stay hidden, they might become collateral damage in the Overlord’s relentless hunt. The thought sinks like a stone in my gut.

Eventually, the night’s hush soothes me into a light doze. My thoughts wander to the coven I left behind—the safe halls, the wise elders, Olyssia’s concerned eyes. A wave of longing sweeps through me, tinged with homesickness I can’t suppress. As sleep claims me, a final question echoes in my mind:How long can I outrun a fate that hunts me so relentlessly?

No answer arrives, save for the gentle rustle of willow leaves in the darkness, and the steady hum of my own magic, coiled tight against the world’s looming threats.

8

VAELIN

Dusk settles over the scattered rooftops of Yarrowby Market, transforming the drab cluster of stalls into elongated silhouettes beneath a bruised sky. This place was once a minor trading hub, or so the ragged sign by the crossroads proclaimed. Now, half the wooden booths stand deserted, crates and tables left abandoned by frightened merchants who fled as rumors of Dark Elf patrols stirred. A few desperate souls linger, hawking wilted vegetables and chipped pottery for whatever meager coin they can scrape from travelers.

I slip through the labyrinth of stalls, my zalkir tethered at the town’s perimeter. It paced and snorted earlier, unsettled by my tension. I left it behind, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention. These cramped alleys require stealth, not a hulking, scaled beast. My boots move softly over the cobblestones, and I keep one hand near the hilt of my blade—habit born from countless hunts.

The flicker of torches illuminates a few corners, revealing anxious faces. Most people have retreated indoors, shutters barred. A hush blankets this place at twilight, broken only by the occasional cough of a merchant or the soft weeping of a child. Whenever I appear at the edge of someone’s vision, they shrink away. My obsidian skin and black armor speak volumes:Dark Elf. Danger.

I ignore their fearful stares, forcing my gaze ahead. My mind throbs with that familiar ache—an unrelenting pressure that has nagged me ever since I drew close to these villages. Each step I take heightens the uneasy sense that I’m drawing nearer to what I seek. A part of me hums with anticipation, though I can’t decide if it’s triumph or dread.Elira.The name resonates like an unspoken promise.

I round a corner, entering a narrow lane lined by crooked buildings. A handful of stalls remain open here, though the vendors watch me as if expecting violence at any moment. Their half-lit signs squeak in a faint breeze. One sells stale bread, another battered utensils. The largest stall near the center of the street offers trinkets and dubious potions, its owner an old woman who stares with hollow eyes.

A tense hush falls the instant they notice me. I keep my head high, posture stiff, letting my cloak drape over one shoulder to partially conceal my swords. There’s no need for a confrontation unless someone decides to be foolish. Yet my attention is not really on these humans. My focus is on the subtle tingle of magic prickling at the base of my skull—a sense I’ve come to associate withher.Through the Overlord’s conditioning, I learned to detect lingering sorcery, though it’s far from perfect. Tonight, it flares bright as a beacon in a storm.

My fingers tighten around the hilt at my side. I sense illusions in the air, faint but unmistakable. It’s as if the dusk itself has begun to warp around a single presence, hiding them from plain sight.She’s here.

I press forward, stepping beneath a sagging awning. In the half-light, I spot a lone figure drifting between stalls. Hooded, with a faint shimmer of distortion around her edges, so slight most eyes would miss it. My heart kicks against my ribs. Every detail aligns with the rumors: a woman traveling alone, obscuring herself in illusions. That prickle intensifies.Elira.

She glances over her shoulder—I catch her profile under the hood, just enough to see the curve of her cheek. The moment our eyes meet, a jolt ricochets through me. I expected a spike of triumph, but instead there’s something else—a flicker of raw, inexplicable awareness. Her gaze widens, and I sense that she recognizes my presence instantly. How? My illusions are minimal, and I approach like a living shadow. Yet she senses me.

Time seems to stretch in that heartbeat of mutual recognition. Then she pivots, slipping into a side alley. I curse under my breath and quicken my stride, weaving past the empty stalls.

Nearby merchants scuttle back as I pass, whispering hurried prayers. I pay them no mind; my entire being locks onto the fleeting shape of the hooded woman. My breath comes faster, adrenaline flooding my veins. I recall the Overlord’s directive:Seize her. Bring her alive.That was the command, carved into my brain as law. So why does a tremor of reluctance thread through me?

She leads me through narrow, twisting alleyways. The disordered arrangement of these market stalls forms a crude maze of crates, broken carts, and piles of rotting produce. Her illusions cast flickers of movement that vanish if I try to focus on them, but I push beyond the phantoms. A sense of inevitability beats in my chest. This chase can’t last.

At last, we emerge onto a small courtyard littered with debris—splintered boards, torn sacks, and a few deserted carts. The remnants of an ill-fated marketplace transaction. Torchlight flickers from a single bracket on the wall, enough to reveal that we are alone here. The few souls who might normally traverse this route at dusk have cleared out.

Elira stops short near one upturned cart, chest rising and falling as though she’s weighing her options. Tension crackles between us in the gloom. My blood thunders in my ears. I see the faint glimmer of illusions still coiling around her, a haze that tries to camouflage her form. But up close, I glimpse more details—the line of her jaw beneath the hood, the silver streak that frames her face. She’s beautiful in a way that rattles my composure, not with overwhelming grace, but with a fierce presence that draws my gaze.

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