Page 29 of His Darkest Devotion

My eyes burn unexpectedly. I force a brisk nod of thanks. Without waiting for further argument, I gather my satchel, ignoring the trembling in my limbs. I slip past him, careful to avoid meeting his gaze. He doesn’t move to stop me. My pulse roars in my ears, a swirl of gratitude and a pang of something suspiciously like heartbreak.

Crossing the threshold of the ruin, I step into the scattered rubble where the monstrous bodies lie. Flies buzz around the remains. Wrinkling my nose, I pick my way through the carnage, each step hammering home the reality of what happened here. At the periphery, the morning sun peeks over the horizon, painting the sky in pale gold.

I pause, glancing back over my shoulder. Vaelin stands at the chamber, shadowed by half-toppled pillars, hand pressed to his side. The bandage I tied remains the only barrier between him and death by blood loss. A thousand words clog my throat—apologies, warnings, or maybe the simple admission that something significant changed between us. But I say nothing. We both know acknowledging it won’t alter the paths we’re on.

So I turn away, heart pounding, and limp into the dawn. Each step feels heavier than it should, weighed down by confusion and a lingering warmth from that single, forbidden moment of closeness. Romance has no place in this war-torn world, especially not between a hunted witch and the Dark Elf sworn to capture her. Yet that’s exactly what ignited in the hush of night, raw and undeniable.

I force myself to keep moving, forging a path across the broken courtyard, slipping into the overgrown fields beyond. My senses remain alert for new threats, but my thoughts circle back to Vaelin—his wounded stance, the fleeting gentleness in his touch, the protectiveness in the way he shielded me from monstrous claws.

Despite everything, a treacherous part of me yearns to see him again. The memory of his lips, the taste of desperate longing, lingers like a brand upon my soul. With each step, I try to crush that yearning.We are enemies.The Overlord’s enforcer is not my ally. One night of truce, one wave of passion, can’t undo the deeper conflict.

The rising sun warms my back as I vanish into the tall grass, exhaustion dogging every footstep. My battered body demands rest. But the memory of his arms around me, the hushed murmur of my name on his lips, urges me forward—carrying me into the unknown with my heart tangled in contradictory threads of fear and something dangerously close to hope.

10

VAELIN

Istand in a nameless clearing, my breath misting in the cold, early-morning air. The ache in my side flares with each inhale, reminding me of the monstrous creatures I battled with Elira hours ago. Another reminder: the memory of her pressed against me, equal parts desperation and heat. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to drive away the images of that stolen intimacy. My loyalty should be unshakeable, my duty unmuddled. Yet everything feels fractured.

I discovered this tiny field during my restless night of half-sleep, searching for a place to regroup. A cluster of old oaks encircles the clearing, their trunks gnarled with age, branches draped in moss that sways in the breeze. My zalkir stands nearby, scratching at the ground. The beast senses my turmoil and snorts, as though scolding me for my indecision.

She’s gone. I let her go. I can almost taste her name on my tongue, that flicker of regret rising in my chest. Every second that passes widens the distance between us—Elira, the Overlord’s prized target, and me, the one fool enough to let her slip away. Overlord Rython won’t forgive this misstep lightly.

A pang of conscience grips me. If the Overlord discovers what I did—worse, if he learns of that impulsive, raw intimacy—I’ll pay dearly. Still, I can’t muster the energy to regret my decision. Letting her live feels… right, in a way my cold training never prepared me for.

I approach my zalkir, pressing a palm to its scaled flank. It regards me with a slitted gaze, a reminder of the savage world I live in. I’m no stranger to brutality; my entire existence has been shaped by the Overlord’s methods. Usually, I unthinkingly do as commanded. But now… I’m no longer certain I can.

My side twinges again. When I lift my shirt to inspect the bandage, dried blood flakes away. The wound remains a raw slash across my ribs, courtesy of last night’s chaos. The dressing is passable but not ideal; if I had a real healer, I’d fare better. Instead, I have only a battered kit from Orthani, plus my meager chaos magic, which can do little to mend flesh.

I grunt, retying the bandage. Then I hear a rustle behind me—light footsteps in the undergrowth. My sword is free in an instant, heart thudding. For a terrifying heartbeat, I expect to see Elira, illusions swirling. Instead, a lone figure emerges from the shadowed tree line, wearing drab brown clothing. Human, by the look of it.

“Ho there,” he calls softly, hands raised to show no threat. “You’re the Dark Elf soldier traveling alone, yes? I’ve… I’ve messages.”

His trembling voice suggests fear, though he’s masking it behind forced calm. Wariness thrums through me. “Messages from whom?” I demand, voice harsh. My mind churns: The Overlord? A local informant?

He halts a yard away, eyes darting to my sword. “From… a woman in red robes. She and a group of witches, or rather, Purnas, stopped me on the road. They forced me to carry this scroll and promised me silver if I found the Overlord’s enforcer.” His knuckles whiten around a parchment tube. “Said I’d meet a obsidian-skinned Dark Elf. That’s you, I guess.”

My stomach clenches. Red robes. The Red Purnas. My grip tightens on the sword hilt. “Give me the scroll,” I say curtly.

He complies, inching forward until he’s close enough to hand me the battered tube. Then he steps back, clearly eager to flee. “I don’t want trouble,” he mutters, eyes flicking between my sword and the zalkir’s looming shape. “I just… wanted to earn my coin.”

I flick him a dismissive nod. The second he sees the gesture, he flees into the woods, twigs snapping underfoot as he vanishes into the gloom.

A chill snakes through me. The Red Purnas are a radical group of purnas, rumored to be stirring rebellion not just against Dark Elves, but also within their own coven. They thirst for power. Possibly, they want Elira even more than the Overlord does. This cannot be good.

I pop open the parchment tube and ease the scroll out. The message is penned in crisp, bold script:

Overlord’s Enforcer,

We know you hunt the same prize we do. We also know she slipped through your grasp. How unfortunate.

Should you wish to correct your failure, we invite you to an accord. Meet us in the old orchard near Riverbend by the next moonrise. We share a common goal: capturing Elira Vex.

Come alone, or we’ll consider you an enemy as well.

—Nerissa, Red Purna Matron

I exhale a harsh breath, re-reading the lines. They think I might align with them against Elira. Fools. But do I have a choice? If the Red Purnas intensify their pursuit, they might snatch Elira first. What the Overlord wants from her is dire enough, but something about the Red Purnas and their rumored viciousness unsettles me even more. They’re known for pushing boundaries, prepared to sacrifice their own if it secures a route to power.

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