Page 25 of His Darkest Devotion

A ragged exhalation escapes me. I press a hand against the wall, trying to steady my trembling limbs. Anger wells up—anger at losing my quarry, anger at the meltdown of clarity in my mind. But there’s also a flicker of something undeniably tender in my chest, a sense of wonder at the power she wields. It’s dangerous, yes, but it’s also enthralling.

Focus.The Overlord’s voice rings in my memory, commanding me to remain vigilant. We’re closer than ever. I just faced her, albeit briefly, and nearly had her in my grasp. Next time, I must not falter.

Butwhydid I falter? The question needles me. Her presence conjured a swirl of contradictory emotions: the compulsion to fulfill my duty, overshadowed by a baffling urge to protect her. The memory of her wide eyes, filled with both fear and defiance, burns in my mind. I shake my head violently, as if the gesture can dislodge these conflicting thoughts.

“Damn it,” I growl under my breath, stepping away from the wall. The torch sputters overhead, casting erratic shadows on the cobblestones. I brush dust from my cloak, cursing my momentary weakness. Next time, I won’t allow such confusion to disrupt my purpose.

Footsteps approach from behind. My sword whips up, poised to strike. An older man, presumably a local merchant, freezes, hands raised in surrender. “Please, don’t hurt me,” he pleads. “I heard commotion, came to see if… if everything’s all right.”

I lower the blade slightly, swallowing my anger. “Mind your business,” I snap, though not as harshly as I could. My mind whirls. This man likely saw nothing beyond me standing alone in a wrecked courtyard. Still, I can’t risk him spreading tales.

He nods frantically, stepping back. “Yes, sir, I—I’ll go.” He darts away, footsteps echoing along the alley until they vanish into the hush of the marketplace.

Alone again, I pace the courtyard’s perimeter, searching for any hint of Elira’s escape route. A few footprints in the dust, some scuff marks near the collapsed cart. Nothing definitive. My gaze lifts to the rooftops. Could she have climbed? Unlikely with that injured shoulder.She got away.A flare of both frustration and reluctant admiration sears me.

Finally, I force myself to leave, sword sheathed, shoulders taut. My body hums with leftover adrenaline, a faint tremor running through my fingers. Elira’s face lingers in my vision—the way her brow furrowed, the parting of her lips when she recognized me. The Overlord’s warning resonates again:She is the key to harnessing the gargoyles. Or the spark that frees them.

The brief surge of empathic sympathy I felt for her gnaws at me. If I captured her now, perhaps the Overlord would force her to unleash unimaginable destruction. But is that any better than letting her roam free, possibly triggering a new war or a gargoyle uprising? I grunt, rubbing the heel of my hand against my temple. This moral quandary is foreign territory for me. Typically, I have orders, I carry them out. No conflict.

Leaving the deserted courtyard, I retrace my steps through the silent stalls. A few curious onlookers dart behind crates when I pass. I make no effort to reassure them. My pretense of calm is fragile enough. Soon, I reach the open area where the zalkir stands, shifting from foot to foot in clear agitation. It senses my unrest.

As I mount, the creature snorts, tossing its scaled head. “Yes, I know,” I mutter, stroking its neck. “She was here, and I lost her.” The zalkir rumbles as if chastising me. I can’t deny I feel the same self-reproach.

The night air feels oppressive as we trot away from Yarrowby Market. A few torches flicker on the outskirts, revealing anxious villagers peering from shutters. They see me pass, their dread-laden eyes reflecting the torchlight, but I pay them no mind. My objective lies elsewhere, along the path Elira has taken.

Once outside the market’s boundaries, I guide the zalkir into a loping canter along a dirt road. The moon hangs low, partially obscured by drifting clouds. My gaze sweeps the darkness for any sign—shadows shifting, footprints left behind. If she’s clever, she’ll hide from open roads, relying on illusions. But illusions can’t mask everything, especially if fatigue sets in. She won’t have the strength to maintain them endlessly.

Wind whips against my cloak, stinging my cheeks. The events of the last hour spin in my head, refusing to settle. Our scuffle replays in flashes: her fierce eyes, the crackle of her magic, the way my chest constricted when I touched her. I recall that jarring surge of images—stone claws and roars, tethered to a part of me I barely comprehend. Did her presence trigger it, or is something else at play?

A shiver runs through me. The Overlord insisted my heritage is nothing special.They’re just rumors,he claimed.Pay them no heed, Vaelin.But I’ve seen glimpses. I feel them in my bones.

Riding deeper into the countryside, I realize how quiet the world seems. No travelers roam at this hour, no farmers tend fields. Even the usual chirping of insects feels subdued, as though the land itself senses the tension. My mind drifts back to that odd flicker of longing—like the ghosts of desire swirling in my chest when I faced her. Could it be just a momentary fascination? A trick of her illusions? Or is it something else, a resonance between her magic and the secrets buried in my blood?

I grit my teeth, forcing my thoughts to realign.Focus on the mission.The Overlord wants her subdued. She’s proven formidable but not invincible. She’s untrained in harnessing the full might of her Space-Time magic—her attempt nearly spun out of control. If I can corner her again, be more prepared for that distortion, perhaps I can knock her unconscious, slip the Overlord’s binding crystal around her wrist, and end this chase once and for all.

The question remains:Will I do it without hesitation?The conflicted swirl in my gut suggests otherwise. Something about the way her gaze mirrored my own confusion—like she sensed the same strange tether.

I catch myself scanning the dark horizon for a sign of her. The farmland stretches into rolling meadows, dotted with scattered copses of trees. She might have taken refuge among them, or carried on to the next village. A gust of wind brings the tang of damp earth to my nostrils, a reminder that storms often brew in these plains at night. If one hits, tracking her will become exponentially harder.

Clucking my tongue, I urge the zalkir to pick up the pace, the creature’s claws digging into the packed dirt. Moonlight reveals faint wagon ruts, but I see no fresh footprints or horse tracks. She’s traveling on foot; she can’t outdistance me forever. Yet time is not on my side. The Overlord expects swift results. He might dispatch additional squads if I tarry too long, and I’ll lose my chance to capture her alone. The Overlord can be savage with his subordinates who fail.

We press onward for half an hour, hooves echoing in the emptiness. Every so often, I pause to listen, hoping for a clue—a rustle in the brush, a flash of illusions. Silence. My earlier anger morphs into a heavy sense of disappointment I can’t fully explain. It’s as if I wanted to speak with her, even beyond the chase. I recall that fierce look, her unwillingness to yield, and a sliver of admiration threads through me.She’s no coward.

Eventually, I come upon a fork in the road. One branch leads northeast, the other northwest. Both vanish into the gloom. I dismount, crouching to see if the mud or gravel shows footprints. The faint moonlight reveals only well-worn tracks from past travelers, no sign of recent passage. I swear under my breath. She could’ve easily taken to the fields or a hidden path, avoiding roads altogether.

A sense of futility grips me. Perhaps I should rest and renew the search at first light. My body still trembles from the Space-Time distortion, my head pounding with each pulse of blood. Driving myself forward in this state might lead me astray. My training warns that exhaustion dulls the senses, guaranteeing mistakes.

Letting out a reluctant sigh, I guide the zalkir off the road. We find a shallow depression at the base of a hill, shielded by a copse of spindly trees. It’s not ideal, but it offers some shelter from prying eyes. I tether the beast loosely, allowing it to graze on the sparse grass. Then I sink to the ground, back against a trunk. My gaze drifts to the moon, half-shrouded behind clouds.

The stillness of night settles in, broken only by the soft grunt of the zalkir. My thoughts revolve around Elira’s face, her voice, the raw power she brandished. Why do I keep replaying that fleeting contact when our hands grazed? A strangled mix of guilt and longing churns in my gut. I’m supposed to be unflinching, forged for duty. Yet the memory sparks a warm flutter under my ribs, like an ember of something I can’t name.

She’s your target,I remind myself sternly.Nothing more.If I fail to capture her, the Overlord will find someone else to do it, likely someone without my restraint. Then she might face a far harsher fate. That realization sours my tongue.

Despite the night’s chill, sweat beads on my neck. My entire life has revolved around following orders, submerging personal desire in the Overlord’s will. But now, that rigid certainty falters.Why does it matter if she ends up in the Overlord’s hands?Because a part of me—some seed of decency I thought long crushed—knows it would be disastrous for her, for others, perhaps for the entire realm. Something about her essence calls to me, urging me to deviate from the path of cold obedience. The notion unsettles me to my core.

I press the heels of my palms against my closed eyes, willing the confusion to fade. The Overlord’s conditioning taught me to extinguish rebellious thoughts. But they surge now, unstoppable as a rising tide. Perhaps capturing her is the lesser evil compared to letting her roam free and risk the gargoyles’ release. Or perhaps I can’t bear to see her bound in Orthani’s dungeons, forced to serve a master who revels in cruelty.

Stop,I order myself, heart racing.This is madness.She’s a fugitive, a threat. My duty is clear. The unwelcome swirl of attraction or pity must not deter me. Next time we meet, I’ll be prepared. The memory of her parted lips, the softness in her gaze just before she unleashed that distortion… I grit my teeth, banishing the thought.Focus.

---