Page 6 of His Darkest Devotion

“Yes, Overlord,” I say. “I will depart immediately.”

He allows himself a small nod of approval. “Report to me through the usual channels. If you encounter any… complications, handle them discretely. Purna have a knack for cunning illusions. Do not underestimate her.”

I bow again. “I will not.”

He gestures for me to leave. I pivot on my heel, the sphere warm in my palm as I exit the audience chamber. My heartbeat remains steady; my breathing calm. In the corridor, hushed conversations between lesser nobles hush even further when they notice me passing, as though my presence alone strangles their petty schemes. I can’t bring myself to care about court politics. My path leads beyond Orthani’s gates, into the wilds where I will find this Purna and fulfill the Overlord’s commands.

I descend a wide staircase that spirals down toward the citadel’s lower levels. The sconces on the walls glow with a faint purple light—arcane flame fed by whatever minor enchanter the Overlord keeps at his beck and call. Occasionally, I catch sight of a human slave in plain rags, scurrying to avoid crossing my path. They flatten themselves against the walls, eyes averted. I feel no pity, only the distant memory of pity. Long ago, I might have known compassion. Now, it’s a hollow echo buried beneath years of magical conditioning.

My boots strike the final landing. I exit onto a courtyard enclosed by towering walls of black stone. Training dummies made from straw and bound with wire line one side, and pairs of Miou soldiers spar with wooden swords on the other. They pause to salute me, their eyes reflecting a mix of respect and unease. I’ve served as their superior in countless raids, each victory forging my reputation as lethal and utterly obedient.

Skirting the courtyard’s perimeter, I reach the stables. Not typical stables with hay and docile horses, but a cavernous structure where large reptilian beasts snort and pace behind iron bars. These creatures, known as zalkirs, serve as Dark Elf mounts—scaled, cold-eyed, and vicious. I approach the beast assigned to me, a mottled gray zalkir with a ridge of black spines along its neck.

“Steady,” I murmur, pressing a hand to its scaled flank. It eyes me warily, steam curling from its nostrils. Zalkirs rarely trust anyone besides their primary handler, but they know better than to refuse me. The Overlord’s brand, etched on the underside of my forearm, exudes a faint magical aura that compels obedience in lesser creatures. I sense the moment the zalkir’s will falters; it relaxes, letting me swing a leg over its broad back.

I tuck the crystal sphere carefully into my pouch. Then I grip the reins, spurring the beast to move. With a swish of its thick tail, the zalkir lurches forward, claws scraping the stone floor. The stable doors open at my silent gesture, and I guide my mount outside onto the main boulevard.

Orthani’s architecture looms overhead like sinister guardians. Torch-lined streets bustle with merchants of the K’sheng caste, hawking exotic wares from other continents, and artisans of the Chivdouyu caste weaving illusions in corners to entertain bored nobles. Zagfer laborers bend their backs hauling crates, while occasional slaves scurry with messages or lead heavily burdened pack beasts. Over all this, the city’s watchtowers keep an unblinking vigil, ready to quell any spark of rebellion.

I pass a group of robed priests preaching about one of the Thirteen Maws—perhaps the Mother or the Hunter, I can’t be certain. Their chanting is a background drone that fails to register beyond a mild irritation. My entire focus remains on one goal: leaving Orthani and finding the Purna who is rumored to hold such unusual power.

Despite the city’s broad avenues, pedestrians scatter out of my path, wary of the zalkir’s sharp teeth and my stern visage. My cloak flutters in the slipstream, the hilts of my twin swords catching the grayish daylight. The Overlord’s words echo in my head:Take her alive. Harness her magic. Use the crystal if necessary.A straightforward mission, by all accounts. And yet… that flicker of doubt gnaws at my consciousness once more.

I clench the reins tighter, forcing my thoughts into alignment. That sliver of rebellious questioning has haunted me a handful of times in the past—unbidden reflections on my identity, the purpose behind my unwavering loyalty. Each time, I bury it deeper. I am not broken. I am not uncertain. I am Vaelin Duskbane, the Overlord’s sword. That is enough.

We reach Orthani’s massive iron gates, flanked by towering statues of Dark Elf warriors from ages past. Their stone faces glare down like silent judges. Guards hurry to unbar the gates and wave me through, saluting as the zalkir’s claws clack against the causeway. Beyond is the endless stretch of Protheka’s landscape: rugged plains rolling off into the horizon, dotted with clusters of stunted trees and boulders. The wind out here smells different—less of ash and more of open air, tinged with an undercurrent of wildness.

I urge the zalkir into a brisk canter, each stride carrying me farther from Orthani’s fortress walls. The city recedes behind me, reduced to jagged silhouettes of black towers against a drab sky. Ahead, faint ribbons of clouds promise that the day will remain gray but clear. Travel along the main roads is typically safe for Dark Elves—bandits and rogue creatures know better than to attack an enforcer. Still, in these lawless outskirts, humans or orcish marauders sometimes stage ambushes. I keep my swords close, just in case.

The plains soon meld into gently rolling hills, each one sparser than the last, until the vegetation thins altogether near the horizon. Farther north rise the formidable outlines of Prazh’s mountains, dominating the distance with their snow-capped peaks. That is my destination. The place rumored to harbor elusive purnas, hidden covens of Purna. The Overlord wants Elira. I will comply.

I recall fleeting tales of those mountains. Once, as a child, I overheard a soldier boast about witnessing Purna illusions so convincing that entire battalions marched off cliffs, believing them to be safe roads. Another time, I read of how the Purna once turned half a company of Dark Elves into gargoyles—though official accounts call it a curse from the Thirteen, not the direct work of purnas. Either way, caution is necessary. My mission is not to slay Elira but to seize her power, which requires precision.

I steel myself. The zalkir’s gait is smooth as we follow a well-worn trail deeper into the frontier. Dry grass scrapes against my mount’s legs. Insects buzz in the midday warmth, thickening the air with an odd hush, as though the land itself senses the approach of violence. Now and again, I spy scattered homesteads inhabited by humans. Most of these dwellings are meager—a few wooden huts fenced with rotting beams. Some have tilled fields, though the soil appears half-dead. Dark Elf taxes ensure that any bountiful harvest is whisked away to the city, leaving scraps for the humans themselves. Seeing them is a reminder of the strict hierarchy that shapes our world.

Here, at least, no patrols roam. My black armor and obsidian skin are enough to deter a peasant from asking for trouble. Yet, I notice sallow faces peering through cracked shutters, curiosity mingled with dread. My presence is an omen of punishment or enforcement. They know that nothing good typically follows a Dark Elf on a mission.

By late afternoon, I stop at a shallow stream winding through a rocky ravine. The zalkir drinks noisily while I scout the area. Dry reeds line the water’s edge, and gulls circle overhead, squealing in the otherwise still air. My reflection in the stream catches my eye: pallid obsidian skin, angled cheekbones, eyes the color of frozen lakes. A slight scowl tugs at my brow, etched there by a lifetime of unwavering discipline. Sometimes, I wonder what I’d look like if I had the free will to smile. The thought flits away like a startled bird.

I kneel, cupping water in my hands to rinse away the dust. The coldness shocks my system, waking me from the lull of travel. My mind drifts, unbidden, to the Overlord’s mention of gargoyles stirring. If they truly wake, they’ll wreak havoc across Protheka. Ancient hatred smolders in those beasts—hatred for the Purna especially. I can’t claim to understand the root of that enmity, but I know gargoyles show no mercy. Their destructive potential dwarfs that of most mortal armies. Could they pose a threat to Orthani’s might?

Focus,I command myself. My purpose is capturing Elira. Nothing more.

Drawing a ragged breath, I straighten and check the position of the sun. Twilight is a couple of hours away. I could press on, but traveling the mountain passes at night might hamper my efforts. The Overlord gave me no strict timetable, only the imperative to succeed swiftly. And so, I decide to press forward until the foothills, perhaps find a vantage point or a safe campsite close to the mountainous region. The zalkir snorts in reluctant agreement as I mount again. Its claws scrape the gravel bank before plunging us back onto the path.

Shadows elongate across the land, creating speckled patches of darkness. The terrain begins to slope upward, signaling our approach to Prazh’s domain. Gnarled evergreens replace the stunted grass, and the wind grows cooler, carrying the faint scent of pine needles. Each twist in the trail reveals more rugged formations, crags jutting upward like jagged teeth. My heart remains steady; adrenaline barely registers. I am too well-trained to be unsettled by foreboding scenery.

Eventually, I find a small plateau that overlooks a distant valley. The vantage is excellent—any approach from below would be easily spotted. I tie the rope of the zalkir to a pine trunk. The beast sets about clawing at the earth, searching for something to gnaw. Setting a perimeter is second nature. I crouch and place small black stones at the edges of a circle. In truth, they are ensorcelled wards that can alert me if anything crosses the boundary.

With the wards in place, I settle near a boulder, removing my cloak to drape it across a patch of flattened grass. I rummage through my pack for dried rations—strips of salted meat and a stale biscuit. This will suffice. A Dark Elf of my rank could have requested better supplies, but I rarely bother. Food is only fuel, another piece of my pragmatic existence.

Dusk deepens, turning the sky a bruised purple. Stars struggle to pierce the lingering haze. Despite the creeping gloom, I feel no desire to light a fire. Darkness is my ally. My vision is keen enough to detect movement in starlight alone, and a flame would only paint a target for curious eyes.

As I chew the tough meat, I let my thoughts drift over the Overlord’s words. The mention ofprophecystays with me, though I know such talk is often dismissed by the higher castes as superstition. Dark Elves claim direct dominion over magic through the Thirteen Maws, so the idea that a single Purna could rival or even surpass that power is unsettling. My loyalty dictates that I must ensure the Overlord harnesses this threat before it becomes unstoppable.

My eyelids grow heavy, but I fight to stay alert. Sleep beckons, but caution warns me that these hills could host prowling predators or, worse, curious humans with misguided notions of vengeance. The wards would warn me of an approach, but I’ve learned never to rely solely on magic.

I shift my weight, resting against the boulder, letting my gaze sweep the silent landscape. If I tilt my head, I can see the outline of the distant peaks where Purnas might gather under moonlight. Though I’ve never encountered them directly, I’ve heard enough to know they’re cunning. Perhaps this Elira Vex is no different—clever, sly, brimming with illusions. But the Overlord wants her, which means she must be extraordinary.

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