Page 26 of His Darkest Devotion

Lightning flickers on the horizon. A storm brews, likely to hit by dawn. The wind rustles the sparse leaves overhead. I sigh, settling into a guarded posture. Sleep is tenuous, but I need at least some rest. I force my eyes shut, ignoring the turmoil that wracks me. Maybe with a brief reprieve, I’ll regain the clarity demanded of me.

In the hollow hush of midnight, her face drifts behind my eyelids again, refusing to leave me in peace. A pang of yearning flutters in my chest—nothing I’ve felt before, not in all my years of violence and unwavering loyalty. It’s maddening. If the Overlord knew, he’d stamp out this weakness, remind me of the punishments for betrayal.

The night stretches on, every minute a battle against these disquieting emotions. Ultimately, exhaustion claims me, pulling me into a fitful doze. My last conscious thought is of Elira—her trembling voice, the fear and strength mingled in her gaze—and the strange, impossible hope that she might be more than just a mark to deliver. Or perhaps I’m reading illusions into illusions.

Either way, tomorrow brings another chase, another chance to corner the elusive witch. And next time, I vow, I won’t let her slip away so easily—no matter how my heart or my heritage conspires to undermine me.

9

ELIRA

Icrouch beneath the fractured archway of the old ruin, trembling in the aftermath of my desperate flight. My right arm throbs from overexerting my magic, and each shallow breath tastes of dust and fear. The evening light filtering through crumbling stone pillars casts strange shadows across the cracked floor, remnants of a hall that once served as a grand temple—now it’s little more than a husk. Broken statues litter the corners, features worn away by centuries of wind and rain.

Sweat mats my hair to my forehead, and my lungs protest each shaky inhale. But I can’t risk lingering near the entrance, not while the Overlord’s enforcer prowls the countryside. My illusions are weakened by exhaustion, my spells drained from that last frantic confrontation. Beyond these defaced walls, the night grows darker, and with it, my dread of being discovered.

The temple’s roof has long since collapsed, leaving only partial stone arches overhead. A few half-toppled columns lean at precarious angles. At the far end, I see a smaller alcove or side chamber, half-buried in rubble. It’s a better hiding place than out here in the open. Swallowing hard, I push to my feet, one hand braced against the cold stone for balance. My battered cloak drags across the uneven floor, leaving a faint trail of grit.

The thought of Vaelin Duskbane sends an involuntary shudder through me. Even now, my magic hums with the echo of our clash—like a chord still vibrating in the aftermath of a thunderous note. My shoulder smarts where he struck me with the flat of his blade, a reminder that I nearly ended up in his custody. I think of his eyes, iced steel that burned hotter than any of my illusions. A swirling mix of anger, fear, and something else I can’t quite name lingers in my chest.

Every time I recall his face, a conflicting flutter runs through me—an unsteady mix of loathing and fascination.Focus, Elira,I tell myself fiercely. There’s no room for indulgent wonder when my life hangs in the balance.

I make my way deeper into the ruin, boots crunching over fragments of fallen masonry. The air here carries a stale tang, with moss creeping over every surface. Eventually, I find that recessed chamber—a smaller space flanked by columns that once bore carved reliefs. Now the images are too eroded to read. A few large stone blocks tilt precariously, forming a partial roof. Water drips from some hidden crevice, creating a shallow puddle in the corner.

Cautiously, I lower myself onto a chunk of stone that might have been part of a statue’s base. My entire body aches from the constant flight, the illusions woven under tension, and the Space-Time magic that nearly tore me apart. My limbs feel heavy, my eyelids half-lidded. I need rest, even a moment’s respite, to gather enough strength for a healing spell or at least to numb the pain in my shoulder.

I close my eyes, trying to center myself. My breath quivers, magic stirring just beneath my skin—weak, but alive.I can’t stay here long,I remind myself. But if I don’t rest, I won’t get far anyway.

A sudden noise pricks my ears. Footsteps, faint but unmistakable, scraping against rubble. My heart seizes. Instinct flares—I press myself behind a fallen slab, ignoring the protest in my shoulder. The flicker of illusions I can still muster shimmers around me, hopefully rendering me a blur in the dim light. If it’s Vaelin, I might not stand a chance. I’m too depleted to outrun him again.

I hold my breath, waiting. My pulse pounds so loudly I’m certain anyone within ten paces can hear it. A figure steps into the ruined chamber. Even in the gloom, I recognize his tall silhouette, the broad shoulders draped in a dark cloak. Silver hair, faintly catching what’s left of the waning light. His posture is off—he moves stiffly, as though injured. The breath I’ve been holding escapes in a silent hiss.Vaelin.

He presses a hand to his side, wincing. My illusions might be enough to keep him from spotting me instantly, but if he lingers, he’ll sense my magic. He always does. My gaze drops to the dark stain spreading across his black tunic. A slash? Blood seeps between his fingers, shining wetly in the half-light. My gut clenches.He’s wounded.Possibly from our last encounter, or from some other fight. Still, he’s on his feet, scanning the shadows as if searching for a specter.

Our eyes meet—or at least, I sense his gaze lock onto the faint distortion of my illusions. My heart hammers. There’s no point in hiding now. The illusions flicker out, my energy too drained to sustain them. Vaelin tenses, sword hand twitching, but he doesn’t attack. He staggers, leaning against a half-broken pillar, breath ragged.

I rise slowly, muscles trembling, every instinct screaming at me to flee. But my legs feel too heavy, my magic too weak. “How did you find me?” I ask,whispering.

His features tighten. “I… followed your trail,” he manages, as though each word costs him. “Sensed your illusions in this place.” His eyes flick over me, lingering on my battered state. His gaze, even pained, has that unsettling intensity. “You’re not… well, either.”

I laugh, a hollow sound. “No thanks to you,” I mumble, one hand absently rubbing the bruise on my shoulder.

He grimaces, as though recalling the blow. For a moment, neither of us moves. Tension coils between us, thick enough to choke on. He’s the Overlord’s weapon, unstoppable—yet he’s bleeding, his obsidian skin smeared with blood, his eyes glazed with pain. I consider letting him collapse, ignoring him entirely. But something stirs within me, an odd pang of concern.Why should I care?

I push aside the feeling, telling myself it’s only practical. If he dies here, that might attract more Dark Elves to the area. Or maybe it’s just that I can’t watch a wounded person suffer, no matter the circumstances. Carefully, I reach into my satchel, fingers brushing over a small pouch of herbs. “Your side… you’re bleeding,” I say curtly.

His jaw tightens, a flick of annoyance crossing his expression. “I’ll manage.”

Even in agony, he’s proud. My lips press into a thin line. “Fine, bleed to death if you want,” I snap, though part of me regrets the harshness. Then, I remember who he is—the Overlord’s enforcer—and swallow the pity that threatens to rise.He’d capture me given half a chance. Keep your guard up.

Before either of us can speak again, a faint roar rumbles from outside the ruin. My spine stiffens. The noise resonates through the broken walls, like a half-feral screech that sets my nerves on fire. I trade a startled look with Vaelin. The breath catches in my throat. That sounded neither human nor typical beast.

Another roar echoes, this one closer. The ground trembles as if something massive lumbers across the ancient courtyard. My eyes dart to Vaelin’s. I see alarm flicker there. He pushes off the pillar, wincing at the effort, and attempts to draw his sword. Fresh blood stains his side, but he manages to stand erect. “This place… there’s a Wildspont nearby,” he says in a hoarse whisper.

A wave of dread washes over me. Wildsponts are regions where magic seeps from the earth unchecked, birthing monstrous abominations. “You think those creatures followed us here?” I ask, voice shaky.

He nods, scanning the collapsed walls. “Likely. We stirred the area with our battle, and they probably smelled blood. They’ll come.”

A metallic clang reverberates from outside, followed by the scrape of claws on stone. My heart gallops. In my current state, fighting off monstrous spawn from a Wildspont is nearly impossible. Even with Vaelin at full strength, we’d have a challenge. But he’s clearly wounded, and I’m just as depleted.This is bad.

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