Page 38 of His Darkest Devotion

“Overlord—” I begin, but Rython’s hand claps down on my shoulder, cold magic seeping through his touch.

“Hush,” he murmurs. “Let us see how deeply your loyalty runs after all this time. If you’ve forgotten your purpose, we must refresh it. Recalibrate your devotion, so to speak.”

Panic flares. I recall the agony that orb once inflicted, how it latched onto my mind, intensifying the Overlord’s magical conditioning. My body tenses, instincts screaming to fight or flee. But the lines of soldiers stand around us, and I’m in no state for a futile stand.I am caged.

Rython moves around me to face me directly, cradling the sphere in one hand. Its glow casts a distorted crimson reflection on his platinum hair. “You see, Vaelin, it’s time you remember who created you.” He lifts the sphere, holding it at eye level. “All those old rumors about your lineage—did you think them nonsense?”

My blood runs cold. I’ve suspected something for years, glimpses of gargoyle-like visions in nightmares, flashes of monstrous strength that occasionally burst free in the heat of battle. But hearing him reference it so boldly sends ice through my veins. “What did you do to me?” I rasp.

Rython’s smirk curves cruelly. “Nothing you need to fear—if you stay loyal.” He inclines his head, allowing the orb’s flickering light to dance across my features. “When Protheka was young, our people warred with monstrous creatures known as gargoyles. Some believed them extinct or dormant, but I knew better. I acquired certain… relics of their power. Through dark experiments, I blended that power with Dark Elf blood, forging a hybrid warrior. You.”

My breath hitches. “That’s impossible.” But my heart races, adrenaline spiking. The nightmares, the strange surges of primal rage, the roars echoing in my mind… they align too perfectly with what he’s saying.Gods help me.

Rython continues, a satisfied gleam in his eye. “You’ve always wondered why your skill exceeds that of other Dark Elves, why your body recovers from wounds more swiftly, why you have those… episodes of confusion. The gargoyle blood in your veins isn’t dormant. It thrums just beneath the surface.”

The chamber seems to shrink, the pillars looming like malevolent watchers. I swallow convulsively, mind spinning. Gargoyle blood. Hybrid creation. My entire identity warps beneath the weight of that revelation.I am part monster.

The Overlord holds the orb out, letting it hover mere inches from my chest. Immediately, a wave of stifling energy washes over me. I gasp, knees threatening to buckle. My gargoyle side—whatever that means—roils in response to the orb’s malignant pulse. It feels as though something inside me tries to claw free, and the Overlord’s magic presses it down, shaping and controlling it.

“Feel that?” Rython murmurs. “This sphere is keyed to the very essence used in your making. A failsafe, if you will, ensuring your obedience. Whenever you waver, I can remind you who holds the leash.”

Pain lances through my chest, a searing ache that radiates outward to every limb. I gasp, struggling to remain upright. My mind floods with chaotic images—stone wings, deep caves, monstrous roars. I see a blood-soaked ritual table in a dim laboratory, the Overlord’s face twisted with triumph.Did that happen?Memory or illusion, I can’t tell. Agony overrides my senses.

Soldiers stand in silent formation, unmoved by my pain. Charon looks on with cold fascination, arms folded. Rython’s lips curl in satisfaction. “So you see,” he says softly, “if you harbor any misplaced sympathies, they’ll be burned out. I want Elira delivered. If you can’t manage it, I’ll find someone else to handle you—and your powers.”

Tears sting my eyes. I clutch at the sphere, trying to push it away. My hand meets that pulsing surface, and the jolt of magical feedback sends me staggering. My side wound flares, fresh blood seeping under my armor. I bite back a scream, shame lashing me.I am helpless.

The Overlord lowers the orb, though its dark radiance still glimmers ominously. Relief floods in, though my muscles quake with lingering tremors. I nearly sag to my knees, breath coming in ragged gasps. “Do you understand now?” Rython asks, each syllable dripping with control. “Your leash is short. Your purpose is singular: bring Elira to me, or watch your own monstrous side tear you apart.”

I want to protest, to shout that I won’t be his puppet. But the memory of that agony, the flicker of gargoyle essence surging beneath my skin, robs me of defiance. Instead, I force myself to stand straighter, though tears of pain blur my vision. “I… I serve,” I choke out, the words like broken glass in my mouth.

His grin expands. “Good. Now, go. Recover your strength, and then return to the hunt. The Red Purnas are moving quickly, so you’d best outpace them. If they capture Elira, you’ll have even more to answer for.”

I nod numbly. My entire body resonates with the aftershock of the Overlord’s cruel demonstration. I glimpse Charon’s smug face as I turn away. The soldiers remain silent, forming a corridor of judgment as I limp back toward the chamber doors.

Passing through that gauntlet of stoic guards, I feel more exposed than I ever have. Usually, I stride out of Orthani’s throne room with confidence, orders in hand. Today, I leave battered, reeling from the revelation of my own monstrous heritage.Part gargoyle.The thought lodges in my mind like a splinter.

Beyond the chamber’s massive doors, the hallway arches overhead, lit by faint arcane orbs. My breathing is shaky, my legs unsteady. Each step stings the wound in my side, intensifying the swirl of helplessness. I picture Elira’s face—a fleeting balm to the dread. Then I recall the Overlord’s promise of what will happen if I continue to fail.He’ll unleash that cursed orb again, twisting the gargoyle blood inside me until I break.

I manage to reach a small alcove near the fortress courtyard, leaning heavily against a stone column. My vision swims, and I press a hand to my wound, warm blood slicking my palm.Damn.In my frayed state, I risk collapsing. I need medical attention, or at least a fresh bandage.

A figure approaches—one of the fortress healers, robed in black. She keeps her hood low, features hidden. “Vaelin,” she says quietly, “I saw you leaving the throne room. You’re injured.”

I stiffen, reluctant to show vulnerability, but I can’t dismiss her offer. “Yes,” I reply tersely. “Help me rewrap it.”

She leads me to a narrow bench, guiding me to sit. With deft hands, she peels back the old bandage, wincing at the fresh bleeding. “The Overlord does not treat his loyal soldier kindly,” she murmurs, voice laced with subtle defiance. I cast her a sharp look, but she averts her gaze. Perhaps she sympathizes with me, or maybe she’s just stating the obvious. I keep silent, letting her apply salve and fresh wrappings.

When she finishes, I test the wound gingerly, exhaling a shaky breath. “Thank you,” I say, voice hollow.

She nods, expression impossible to read under her hood. “Go carefully, Vaelin. Whispers run rampant about you and the Purna. The Overlord might not be your only threat.” With that cryptic remark, she slips away, leaving me with my battered thoughts.

Once my head clears enough to walk, I leave the fortress. The fortress gates swing open, revealing Orthani’s sprawling city: black stone buildings, narrow streets patrolled by Dark Elf soldiers, and towering spires that pierce the storm-laden sky. My zalkir stands in the courtyard stable, snorting impatiently. Its scales glint under flickering mage-lights, and it paws at the ground as I approach.

“Easy,” I murmur, stroking its neck. My mind still whirls with Rython’s revelations.Gargoyle blood. I’ve been a walking abomination all this time.

I mount the zalkir carefully, my side stiff with new bandages. The stable hands avert their eyes, clearly sensing my foul mood. Guiding the beast through the iron gates, I pass into Orthani’s main thoroughfare. Citizens part nervously, aware of my status as the Overlord’s enforcer. Usually, that authority bolsters me. Now, it feels like a chain coiled around my throat.

I head for the city’s outskirts, each clatter of hooves echoing a hollow feeling in my chest. The Overlord wants results. The Red Purnas want an alliance. And Elira… she’s out there, trying to protect her coven from both threats. My battered sense of duty wars with my memory of her warmth, her kindness, her impossible resilience.

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