Page 39 of His Darkest Devotion

Focus.The Overlord’s ultimatum leaves no room for moral debate. If I don’t deliver Elira, he’ll tighten his monstrous hold, possibly unleashing the gargoyle side of me with that cursed orb. My breath grows ragged.I can’t let him do that. I can’t become a mindless beast.

Once outside Orthani’s walls, I urge the zalkir into a swift canter. The air tastes of damp stone and ashes from the city’s many furnaces. On the horizon, rolling plains stretch out, dotted with flickers of lightning in the distance. A fierce wind tugs at my cloak, reminding me of the storms I braved days ago.

My thoughts drift to the orchard meeting the Red Purnas insisted upon. I told them I needed time to gather a squad, but after seeing the Overlord, I have no illusions about forging a real alliance with them. Rython simply wants me to use them if it helps trap Elira, and then discard them.Perhaps I can sabotage their plans instead.But the Overlord’s new hold over me complicates everything.

I recall how he used the orb to incite my gargoyle essence—a vile feeling of raw power and savage hunger. Even now, my blood simmers with an unfamiliar heat. If he triggers it again, I might lose all sense of self. A wave of despair washes over me.I’m enslaved by my own veins.

As the plains open wide, I slow to a trot, letting the zalkir navigate a winding path. In the distance, I spot the silhouette of a lonely watchtower perched on a rise, an ideal place to shelter for the night and gather my wits. I angle the mount in that direction, mind churning with conflicting loyalties.

Memories of Elira surface again, unbidden. The tremor in her voice when she insisted she’d never betray her coven, the way her eyes flashed when we fought side by side against monstrous spawn, her gasp against my lips in that ruin.She stirs something human in me, something that defies the Overlord’s shaping.My heart tightens with longing—and fear that this bond will only doom us both.

Dusk settles by the time I reach the watchtower’s base. It’s a squat structure of weathered gray stone, ringed by scraggly bushes. A battered wooden door stands half off its hinges. Dismounting, I lead the zalkir inside the outer yard, tethering it to a collapsed cart. Then I test the watchtower door. It creaks open under my push, revealing a musty interior. The spiral stairs inside lead upward to a partial second floor, though the roof appears to have caved in long ago.

With a few quick spells, I conjure faint violet orbs of chaos-light, illuminating dusty corners. No signs of bandits or travelers. Good enough for a night’s rest. I gather broken timber scraps and dry grass to kindle a small fire in the corner. My limbs tremble with exhaustion—physical and emotional. The Overlord’s revelations have left me raw.

Collapsing onto a section of fallen beam, I press my palms to my temples, eyes sliding shut.What do I do now?I can’t deliver Elira to Rython’s clutches, but if I refuse, he’ll use that cursed orb to break me, unleashing a monster inside I barely comprehend. My entire existence feels like a sick joke—made from gargoyle blood to be a perfect killer. The Overlord’s puppet.

The fire crackles softly, bathing the watchtower’s crumbling walls in flickering light. The air smells of damp stone and charred wood. My side thumps with dull pain, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in my chest.Would Elira look at me with the same empathy if she knew I’m partly gargoyle?Maybe she’d recoil. Maybe she’d see only a monster. My throat constricts.

I rub my arms, trying to chase away the chill creeping through me. Outside, the wind whistles through cracks in the stone, as though echoing the despair curdling in my gut. My eyes drift to the small fire, remembering the first time I saw Elira’s illusions dance around flames. She was so graceful, even in her panic. My breath catches, a pang of longing flickering behind my sternum.I should drive these thoughts away.

Yet, I can’t. Each recollection of her is a lifeline against the Overlord’s suffocating hold. Perhaps that’s why I cling to them. She stands for everything I was trained to suppress: compassion, autonomy, the possibility of forging my own destiny. I imagine her fiery eyes if I told her about the gargoyle blood. Would she scorn me, or would she see the broken man behind the Overlord’s creation?

A frustrated growl escapes my lips. I’m pinned on all sides: The Overlord demands results or threatens to unleash my monstrous nature. The Red Purnas circle like vultures, wanting to manipulate me or wipe me out. The gargoyles themselves stir beneath the earth, a ticking bomb. And at the center, Elira holds a power that might seal them or free them. My role?Her captor or her ally.Possibly both, in a twisted sense.

I rake my fingers through my hair, ignoring the dull throb in my ribs. Eventually, I force myself to rummage in my pack for a ration of dried meat and stale bread. Chewing mechanically, I stare at the wavering flames. The Overlord’s ultimatum still burns in my mind:Bring her, or lose yourself.The horror of that orb’s presence lingers, making my skin crawl.

When I finish eating, I rise, pacing the tiny space. The second floor is half collapsed, the stairs leading to a rubble-strewn platform open to the sky. I climb them anyway, seeking fresh air. At the top, the night wind buffets my face. Dark clouds shift above, revealing glimpses of stars. Orthani’s distant lights glow on the horizon, a reminder that Rython’s seat of power never sleeps.

I lean on the stone ledge, breathing deep. My side protests, but I welcome the sharp pain—it’s real, grounding me.What next, Vaelin?The question has no easy answer. I suspect I’ll track Elira again, but not to deliver her like a lamb to slaughter. Instead, I’ll warn her, help her, or… gods, I don’t know. The Overlord’s orb is a looming threat. Even if I find her, can I protect her from him? Protect myself?

An unexpected wave of hopelessness surges. I press my fist to my chest, recalling that moment in the ruined temple, the closeness we shared. A flicker of warmth seeps into me, a memory of how her breath hitched when she whispered my name.That bond might be my only chance at redemption.But if the Overlord tightens his hold, I might become a monster that destroys her. The very thought makes me quake with revulsion.

Lightning flashes far off, painting the nightscape in stark white. A thunderous rumble follows, distant but resonant. I close my eyes, letting the wind whip my hair around my face. My tears slip free, hot against my cheeks, though I quickly rub them away.I am not weak.But each breath tastes of despair.

At length, I force myself to descend the stairs, returning to my modest fire. I can’t linger in self-pity. Dawn will bring another day of searching, another day of playing this deadly game between the Overlord, the Red Purnas, and my own fractured conscience. I settle against the rubble, letting the fire’s warmth lull my trembling muscles. The zalkir shifts outside, probably dozing while standing.

Sleep is slow to come. Every time I drift, I see glimpses of the Overlord’s orb, that malevolent red glow. I feel the phantom pain of gargoyle essence clawing at my mind, urging me to unleash savage strength. Then I see Elira’s face—eyes wide, lips parted in a silent plea:Don’t become that monster.Jarring awake, I realize my fists are clenched, nails digging into my palms hard enough to bleed.

By the time true sleep claims me, the fire has died to embers. The watchtower’s darkness envelopes me like a grave, and my last coherent thought is the echo of Rython’s voice:You belong to me.I want to scream that he’s wrong, but the memory of that orb’s agony binds my defiance.

Tomorrow, I think, in the delirium between waking and slumber,I’ll find a way to resist. No matter the cost.

Yet even as the vow forms, a deeper terror lurks:What if my gargoyle blood awakens in full?The Overlord holds the leash, and I’ve glimpsed the monstrous power thrashing inside my veins. If that day comes, I might be lost entirely, a hybrid abomination with no memory or mercy. And that, more than the Overlord’s threats, chills me to the bone.

Exhaustion finally pulls me under, leaving me with nightmares of stone wings and red orbs, illusions melding with scattered memories. I dream of Elira standing on a precipice, calling my name with tears in her eyes, while the Overlord laughs, orb in hand, yanking a chain attached to my chest. I reach for her, but each step draws me deeper into a labyrinth of shadows. My heart pounds with the knowledge that if I don’t shatter these chains soon, I will become the monster Rython designed me to be—and in doing so, lose the only glimmer of hope I’ve ever known.

So I sleep, fitful and tormented, the watchtower’s broken walls providing scant shelter from the storm within my soul.

13

ELIRA

Asingle iron gate looms at the base of Orthani’s fortress, its bars slick with nighttime rain. My heart thunders as I press myself against a half-collapsed wall across the narrow courtyard, scanning for guards. Two Dark Elf sentries stand to the left, each gripping a halberd whose blade flickers with faint arcane light. I swallow hard. It’s almost midnight, and the city’s swirling fog clings to the streets like a shroud, muffling footsteps and lending an eerie hush.

Drawing a trembling breath, I reach inward for my magic. The tingle of illusions and space-time power dances just beneath my skin, battered by weeks of exertion but ready if I push hard enough.I came here to rescue Vaelin.The vow propels me forward.No matter the cost.

My coven would call this insanity—creeping into the Overlord’s stronghold, risking capture or worse. But after reading half a day’s worth of broken texts on sealing gargoyles, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Vaelin’s captivity would spell doom for us both. The Overlord’s monstrous hold on him is tightening. If Vaelin slips fully into that twisted gargoyle nature, all hope might vanish.

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