Page 5 of His Darkest Devotion

I breathe in, letting the clean air fill my lungs. My journey begins here, with the crisp dawn on the heights of Prazh and the uncertain path stretching before me. Whatever fate or prophecy lies ahead, I will face it. The fire in my chest may waver, but it will not be extinguished.

And so I take the first step, forging a path through the whispering pines, the hush of fate growing ever louder in my ears.

2

VAELIN

Istand atop the highest balcony of Orthani’s grand citadel, watching the pale morning sun attempt to burn through the gloom that clings to the spires. The wind ruffles my midnight-black hair, which I keep tied at my nape with a slender leather cord. My cloak flutters around my legs, a regal shade of obsidian embroidered with faint silver runes symbolizing loyalty to the Overlord.

From this vantage point, the entire city sprawls beneath me like a masterpiece of cruel splendor. Sharp rooftops, arches of dark stone, and twisted spires dominate Orthani’s skyline. The architecture seems grown from nightmares—jagged and imposing, each structure leaning in as though ready to strike. Even the streets, wide enough to accommodate carriages pulled by hulking reptilian beasts, have an air of menace. Black banners bearing the crest of House Vatoris snap in the breeze, reminding every inhabitant of who truly rules here.

Far below, I spot drab clusters of Lowtown, where humans are forced to eke out a living in cramped huts. They move through the muddy alleys like shadows, their shoulders hunched beneath the unrelenting gaze of Dark Elf patrols. Slavery is the norm, a tool to maintain power and order. It’s a truth I’ve always known, one I’ve been taught never to question. Compassion is not part of my training.

I place my gloved hands on the railing, the cold iron pressing into my palms. The Overlord summons me soon, and I wait because that is my function. I exist to serve. A hush settles over my mind, a well-worn mantra that beats in time with my heart:Obey, accomplish, execute.There is nothing else.

My skin is dark like obsidian characteristic of Dark Elves, though I’m broader in the shoulders than many of my kin. I possess a warrior’s physique, sculpted by relentless drills and dark magic enhancements. Beneath my cloak, my frame is wrapped in form-fitting black leather armor, embossed with runic symbols along the chest. Two short swords rest on my hips, their hilts shaped into the heads of snarling wolves—an emblem of my efficiency as the Overlord’s enforcer.

In the near distance, horns blare a dissonant melody, signaling that court is about to commence. My breath hisses between my teeth. Another day of orders, blood, and unflinching duty. I pull away from the edge of the balcony and turn toward the tall archway that leads inside. Two Miou guards—Dark Elf soldiers from the warrior caste—bow their heads in deference as I pass, stepping aside to grant me entry. Their armor is less ornate than mine, and they keep their expressions neutral. Everyone here knows my reputation. I am Vaelin Duskbane, the Overlord’s blade.

The corridor stretches out before me in austere grandeur, lit by shimmering orbs of chaos magic. Torches have no place in these halls—Dark Elves prefer the elegant luminosity of sorcery. The black marble floor reflects the light in small, dancing patterns. Every so often, I notice a faint flicker in the corners of my vision, as though the runes etched on the columns are more alive than they should be. Magic pulses here, drawn from the power granted by our Thirteen Hungry Maws, or so the priests say. It’s a theology that never fully interested me. My only religion is servitude.

I pass through a set of ornate doors made of polished obsidian. Within, the Overlord’s audience chamber spreads in a half circle, dominated by massive windows that reveal Orthani’s ominous skyline. The floor is inlaid with a giant sigil—a serpentine shape said to represent the Overlord’s patron deity. Slaves kneel along the walls, heads bowed, silent as the grave.

At the corner of the chamber stands Overlord Rython Vatoris himself, robed in deep indigo with black filigree. He’s tall, with a commanding air that can only come from generations of Khuzuth nobility, the highest Dark Elf caste. His features are sculpted and cold, and his platinum hair falls in straight locks down his back, meticulously braided near the temples. Though I cannot see his eyes from here, I know them to be a sharp, merciless blue—the color of glacier ice.

At his right hand stands an older advisor, Charon Verthis, who adjusts the Overlord’s cloak and gestures to a scroll. Some lesser nobles gather behind them, each eager to glean bits of power from Rython’s every decree. None catch my eye, for I have no interest in their maneuvering. My world exists solely of orders given and orders obeyed.

A hush falls over the room when I cross the threshold. Overlord Rython dismisses his other attendants with a flick of his wrist. They scatter like crows, leaving me alone at the audience chamber. My boots click on the polished floor. Kneeling, I tilt my head in a show of respect.

“My Overlord,” I say in a voice devoid of emotion.

He regards me for a moment, seeming to weigh my presence like a gem in the palm of his hand. “Rise, Vaelin,” he commands, his tone soft but brimming with an authority that brooks no opposition.

I stand, placing both fists over my chest in a formal salute. His gaze sweeps over me. Satisfaction tugs at his mouth. “My loyal hound returns,” he says, ignoring any courtesy that might veil the insult. It doesn’t bother me. His scornful praise is more truth than slight. Iamhis hound—trained, efficient, and dangerous.

“I remain at your service,” I reply simply.

“Good.” He shifts, adjusting the folds of his ornate robe. “I have news. Rumors, to be precise, carried by merchant caravans out of the mountains. Something about a Purna coven stirring once again.” He pauses. A whisper of tension creeps into his posture. “Our sources claim there is a particularly powerful Purna among them. One with unusual abilities that, if harnessed, could tip the balance of power.”

I offer no reaction, though curiosity stirs deep in my core. Purna. Some called them witches. Human women with dangerous powers, hidden away in the crags of Prazh. They’re the only humans who might rival the Dark Elves in magical might, if the tales hold any truth. “You wish me to confirm these rumors?” I ask.

A faint smile curves his lips. “I wish you tocaptureher. The rumors mention a young woman named Elira Vex—though that might be an alias. She’s rumored to possess rare Space-Time sorcery in addition to Transformative skills. If I can harness her gifts, we may finally assert total dominion over this continent. Even… challenge the other Dark Elf kingdoms if we choose.”

He glances at the advisor, who steps forward with a small, gilded box. Charon opens it, revealing a palm-sized sphere of red crystal. Magic pulses within, swirling like a living flame. It pricks at my senses, reminiscent of chaos energy but tinged with something darker.

“Take this,” the Overlord instructs, beckoning me closer. “It is a binding focus. If you manage to subdue the girl, use the sphere on her. That should suppress her magic enough to bring her here alive.”

I approach and lift the crystal from its velvet cushion. The surface feels warm, almost feverish. A subtle hum resonates in my fingertips, coiling through my nerves like the promise of unleashed fury. I close my hand around it, careful not to break the delicate surface. “Understood,” I say.

Overlord Rython’s face hardens. “Failure is not an option, Vaelin. We’ve heard unsettling rumors that the gargoyles are stirring, which can only mean trouble for all of Protheka. If they awaken fully, we must be prepared. Taking this Purna under our control could be our most potent weapon—against gargoyles, against rival Dark Elves, even the newly rebellious humans. Do I make myself clear?”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The quiet intensity in his eyes underscores the weight of his words. Orthani stands on the brink of war, or so it seems. “Crystal clear, my Overlord.”

A pause falls, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Then he nods, dismissing Charon with a curt gesture. The advisor bows and retreats to a respectful distance.

Rython steps closer, voice lowered. “There is something else. My personal informants suggest that this Purna—Elira—might be tied to a prophecy of sorts. A nonsense riddle about uniting or destroying entire races. I don’t care for stories, but if there’s even a sliver of truth, I want her under my thumb.” His eyes narrow. “Let us ensure she becomes an asset, not a threat.”

The flicker of doubt arises unbidden in my mind:What if this prophecy is significant?I force that questioning voice into submission. Questioning has no place in my existence.Obey, accomplish, execute.That is the mantra. That is the law.

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