Page 48 of His Darkest Devotion

“Elira, talk to me,” Vaelin insists, eyes dark with worry.

I inhale shakily, meeting his gaze. “We have no time,” I manage, breath unsteady. “My Matriarch just contacted me telepathically. The Red Purnas… they’ve allied with the Overlord. The Gargoyle Warlord is awake, leading an army. My coven is in retreat, trying to regroup. She needs me.”

His jaw sets. “So that’s their plan— combining the Overlord’s resources with the Red Purnas’ inside knowledge. If they harness the gargoyles or pit them against your coven, it’ll be slaughter.”

I nod, swallowing bile. “We can’t let it happen. The prophecy states I can seal or free them. If the Red Purnas and Overlord seize me, they’ll force me to wield my magic in the worst possible way.” My voice quavers.I won’t become a puppet. I’d rather die.

Vaelin’s expression hardens. “Then we face them head-on, forging alliances of our own.”

A trembling breath escapes my lips. “Yes. My coven is mustering loyal purnas, but they’ll need more. Humans in nearby villages might help if they realize the Overlord and gargoyles are the bigger threat. Maybe we can rally them. It’s not much, but it’s something.”

He straightens, ignoring the pain in his side. “I’ll stand beside you.”

For a split second, relief surges in me.I’m not alone.My lips part, wanting to thank him, but I clamp them shut, reminded we have no time for sentiment. “Then let’s go,” I say, pulling him by the wrist.

We leave the cavern, stepping into a dawn sky tinged with ominous gray. The wind scours the rocky slopes, and a faint echo of distant roaring prickles my ears. A swirl of illusions envelops us as we descend, making our footsteps blend with the terrain. Each passing hour makes my gut clench in anxiety, every flicker of movement across the mountains suspicious.

Our first stop is a cluster of small farmland nestled in a sheltered valley. Low stone walls enclose fields of stunted grain. From a distance, we spot a few human farmers loading up wagons, likely preparing to flee. The Overlord’s presence in these parts has always been heavy-handed, but gargoyle rumors must have them terrified.

Vaelin and I exchange glances. “If we can persuade them to join us or at least not ally with the Overlord, it could help,” I murmur.

He nods, though tension radiates off him. Walking into a human settlement while traveling with a Dark Elf—especially one known as an enforcer—could be disastrous. But if these humans realize the Overlord is forging pacts with monstrous purnas and ignoring the gargoyle threat, maybe they’ll choose self-preservation by siding with us.

We approach carefully, illusions rippling around Vaelin’s obsidian skin to dull his unmistakable features. Still, as we draw near, a young farmhand spots us and yelps, dropping a crate of produce. His alarm spreads quickly. Within moments, half a dozen villagers gather, crude weapons in hand.

“Stand back!” one man shouts, brandishing a pitchfork, eyes wide. “We’ve got no quarrel, but we won’t be taken by Dark Elves again.”

My illusions dim, revealing me clearly—just a travel-worn woman, albeit with a swirl of magic in her eyes. I hold up both palms, voice urgent. “We’re not here to harm you. Please, listen. Gargoyles have awakened. The Overlord is allied with radical purnas. If you stay, you risk being caught in the crossfire. I can lead you somewhere safer, or help you fortify if you want to fight.”

A ripple of fearful murmurs passes through them. An older woman with gray-streaked hair steps forward. “You claim gargoyles are real? Nonsense. That’s children’s tales.”

Vaelin’s jaw tightens. He steps closer, illusions dissolving enough to show his Dark Elf features. Gasps erupt. He lifts his hands in a placating gesture. “I know you have little reason to trust me,” he says, voice low, “but I’ve seen them stir with my own eyes. If you remain unprepared, they’ll sweep through like a storm. And the Overlord won’t protect you—he’s too busy forging alliances with those who want to enslave everyone, be they humans or purnas.”

At his words, the crowd shifts uneasily. One woman whispers, “But where would we go? We have no safe place.”

Elira and I share a look—my heart aches for these people who cling to a meager existence. “If you join with my coven or loyal enclaves,” I say, stepping forward, “we can stand against the Overlord, the Red Purnas, and the gargoyles. It’s not a sure victory, but you’ll have a chance. Otherwise, you risk being alone when the armies clash.”

Silence. Then the old woman sighs, lowering her pitchfork. “You’re from the purnas, I see it in your eyes. My father told me once they helped travelers hide from the Overlord’s raids. If you’re truly forging alliances… perhaps we’ll try. But we can’t fight. We have only farm tools.”

I force a reassuring smile. “Every pair of hands helps. If you can gather supplies, we might send you to a safe route. The rest can choose to stand with us or protect families further north.”

Gradually, suspicion ebbs from their expressions, replaced by fear and a faint spark of hope. They begin discussing among themselves, voices hushed yet urgent. I guide them to gather necessary provisions while Vaelin stands at my side, his posture stiff, as though expecting betrayal at any moment. But the villagers seem to sense we aren’t here to enslave or rob them. We’re urging them to flee or unite.

Time is short. Once we confirm a handful are willing to attempt travel to my coven’s territory, we sketch directions in the dirt, explaining hidden trails. They vow to move quickly, within a day, packing their wagons and making the journey with what meager animals they can spare. It’s not a perfect solution—they face danger on the road—but at least they won’t be sitting ducks.

As we depart, a nervous farmhand tugs at my sleeve, voice trembling. “If… if we see any Dark Elf patrols, what do we do?”

My throat tightens. “Hide if you can. If they corner you, feign ignorance. Don’t mention us. The Overlord might be busy with bigger ambitions, but his soldiers won’t hesitate to subjugate you. If you must, claim you’re fleeing gargoyle raids.”

He nods, swallowing hard. I press a small defensive talisman into his hand—one I hastily conjured with leftover energy. “It might help conceal your presence for a short while,” I murmur.

He offers a trembling smile. “Thank you. Goddess watch over you both.”

Vaelin and I move away, illusions swirling once more. We stick to the foothills, each stride quickening as we near the pass leading toward my coven’s territory. My heart throbs with anxious energy. The Matriarch’s telepathic summons echoes in my memory:The Red Purnas are with the Overlord. The Gargoyle Warlord has emerged.My nightmares spin to life.

Somewhere around midday, we crest a ridge offering a panoramic view of the valley below. Dark shapes cluster at a distance—hard to distinguish, but it might be gargoyles mustering near an ancient ruin. My stomach churns.They’re organizing. Possibly under that so-called Warlord’s leadership.

Vaelin’s eyes narrow, gargoyle essence flickering in his gaze. I sense his internal conflict, but he keeps stride with me, a grim resolve hardening his features. “We’ll need more than farmers with pitchforks,” he mutters.

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