Page 37 of His Darkest Devotion

A faint brush of air signals someone entering. I raise my head to find Olyssia in the doorway, face creased with concern. “I heard about your run-in with Bialla,” she says gently. “Don’t let her words consume you. She’s just afraid.”

I nod, tears pricking my eyes. “All of them are afraid. So am I. The Red Purnas, the Overlord, the gargoyles… I’m just so… tired.”

She moves to my side, sliding an arm around me. “We can’t control their fear, but we can stand firm together. I believe you’ll find a way to seal the gargoyles if they rise. You’ve always been stronger than you realize.”

Her unwavering faith cracks open my chest. I lean into her shoulder, letting a single tear slip free before I sniff and compose myself. “Thank you, Olyssia. I need that reminder right now.”

She returns the embrace, murmuring reassurances. A flicker of hope warms me. Despite the suspicion riddling the coven, I’m not alone. Olyssia stands by my side, and the Matriarch hasn’t cast me out.We might yet overcome the darkness.

Still, Vaelin’s face hovers in my thoughts—his wounded expression, the urgent need in our shared moment. My cheeks burn remembering that stolen intimacy. A complicated tangle of longing and guilt pulses.He’s out there, wrestling with his own loyalties. I sense it.

But for now, I can’t dwell on him. Duty calls me to defend my coven from the Red Purnas, brace ourselves for the gargoyle threat, and possibly unravel the spells that once bound them. I close my eyes, inhaling Olyssia’s comforting presence. The path ahead is steep, littered with enemies and uncertain allies, but at least I’ve reclaimed a measure of trust here.

When I speak again, my voice is steadier. “We’ll gather what we can. And if the Red Purnas strike first… we’ll be ready.”

Olyssia nods, determination shining in her eyes. “Yes. We’ll face them, together.”

Outside, distant footsteps echo through the corridors, carrying the pulse of an anxious coven. I tighten my grip on Olyssia’s hand, silently vowing that no matter what storms rage beyond these walls, I won’t bow to fear. Despite the swirling chaos—despite the prophecy, the Overlord’s ambitions, and the Red Purnas’ fanaticism—I remain resolute. My people need me.

And so, with hope and dread braided in my heart, I brace myself for the battles to come, uncertain whether I can truly seal the gargoyles or shield my coven from betrayal. One thing is clear: time is running out, and each choice I make may determine the fate of Protheka, along with the fragile bond blossoming in my chest—one linked to an obsidian-skinned Dark Elf I can’t quite banish from my thoughts.

12

VAELIN

Istand within Orthani’s grand audience chamber, the obsidian pillars rising like dark sentinels around me. Each column is engraved with runic patterns, swirling lines that catch and reflect the faint violet glow of arcane torches. The floor beneath my boots gleams with polished black marble, making me feel as though I’m poised on the edge of a bottomless lake. Normally, I might find a grim comfort in this austere environment—this is where I’ve reported countless victories to the Overlord. But today, dread coils in my gut like a living thing.

Two lines of Dark Elf soldiers stand to either side of the long aisle leading to the dais, their gazes hooded, expressions carefully blank. They know better than to whisper when Rython Vatoris awaits. My cloak, still damp from the relentless rains, feels heavy on my shoulders, and my side protests every movement. The half-healed wound throbs, reminding me of how far I’ve strayed from my usual composure.

Overlord Rython stands before his throne in the chamber. The seat itself is carved from black stone, inlaid with silver filigree depicting serpentine shapes—emblems of his chosen patron among the Thirteen. He’s draped in rich indigo robes, platinum hair combed sleek down his back, and pale eyes that radiate detached cruelty. By his side slinks Charon Verthis, the advisor who always seems to hover near the Overlord’s ear.

I force myself to keep my stride measured, ignoring the urge to clutch the bandage hidden under my armor. My heart hammers with anxiety.I came here because the Overlord demanded it—because I can’t conceal my failures forever.Perhaps I should have fled after letting Elira go, but where would I hide? And more importantly… I still hope to wrest some measure of control from this confrontation, even if the odds are stacked.

As I reach the dais, I bow low, fists crossing over my chest in the Dark Elf salute. “My Overlord.”

His voice echoes through the chamber, smooth as oil. “Vaelin Duskbane, at last.” He doesn’t invite me to rise, prolonging the tension. I remain bowed, forcing myself to endure the humiliation. “You have been… elusive. And not particularly successful in capturing our dear Purna. Care to explain?”

The question brims with menace. I swallow hard and straighten. “She’s resourceful,” I begin, careful to keep my tone neutral. “The Red Purnas have also interfered, complicating my pursuit.” I hesitate, searching for the right words. “They’ve grown bold, even offering me an alliance of sorts.”

Rython’s features remain impassive, but a faint twitch at his lips betrays his interest. “The Red Purnas.” He steps closer, robes brushing the polished floor. “Indeed, they have become a nuisance. But I recall giving you a single, unambiguous order:Capture Elira, no matter the cost.Is that not correct?”

A chill trickles down my spine. “Yes, Overlord.”

His eyes narrow, glacial. “And yet she remains free. Perhaps you have an explanation for your… oversight?”

My pulse thrums.No easy explanation will appease him.“She had the help of monstrous creatures spawned by a Wildspont,” I say, half-truthful. “I was wounded, and she escaped.”

A terse silence follows, broken only by the hiss of the distant torches. Charon, lurking to the side, smirks, evidently pleased to see me squirm. Rython tilts his head, gaze raking over my bandaged side as if noticing it for the first time. “Show me your injury.”

It’s not a request. I grit my teeth, unbuckling the top strap of my armor and tugging down my tunic. The bandage is still spotted with dried blood, the wound beneath partially healed—thanks to my own meager chaos magic and the salves I managed to find. Rython clicks his tongue. “You’ve grown careless, Vaelin. Surprising, for someone with your… heritage.”

Something in his tone sets off alarm bells. He rarely refers to my background directly. “My wound will heal,” I say, re-securing the straps. “It’s not lethal.”

He raises a pale eyebrow. “Perhaps not, but your performance is lacking.” He steps forward, circling me with a predatory air. “And I have little patience for failure.”

The unspoken threat coils around my throat. I force my gaze forward, refusing to show fear. He halts behind me, so close I sense the faint whisper of his robes against my cloak. “Charon,” he calls softly. “Bring me the artifact.”

Charon dips his head, turning to a small obsidian chest perched on a side table. From it, he withdraws a polished crystal sphere, similar to but larger than the scry-stones used for communication. But this one pulses with a dark light, flickers of red dancing beneath the surface. My heart lodges in my throat. I’ve seen it only once before, years ago, when the Overlord first tested my loyalty through a painful ritual.

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