Page 62 of His Darkest Devotion

I sense her illusions forging a bubble of space-time again, but my battered body refuses. The energies slip and sputter, slipping through her grasp. Another cough wracks me, spatters of blood painting her cloak. My soul feels half-torn from my flesh, drifting in a dark tide.

“Elira,” I manage, forcing air through dying lungs. “You… freed me. From… all of it. You gave me hope.” My voice is no more than a whisper. “T-thank… you.”

Her illusions swirl, tears streaming down her cheeks. She tries again to channel space-time magic, her staff glowing in a last-ditch attempt at resurrection or transformation. But the essence within me rages, unstoppable. The Overlord’s monstrous design sees to that. My heart lurches in one final spasm, raw agony stealing my breath.

My gaze locks on Elira’s tear-filled eyes, illusions shimmering with frantic color. I lift a shaking hand, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek. She holds my hand there, lips parted in silent devastation.I’m sorry,I want to say.I love you.

Then everything blurs. The battlefield’s roar muffles, replaced by a rushing sound like a distant ocean in my ears. My chest stills, and warmth drains from my limbs. Elira’s mouth forms my name in a voiceless cry. My senses fade in and out, glimpses of purnas kneeling, the glow of illusions flickering around us.

In the final flicker of consciousness, I see her face, heartbreak etched in every line. My soul hovers, caught between realms—half expecting to see a gargoyle realm or the Overlord’s orb. Instead, I find only the memory of Elira’s touch, her illusions, her unwavering faith in me.

Darkness sweeps in. My last thought is a fragile hope that my sacrifice grants her a future unbound by monstrous curses.Elira… live for both of us…

And then I’m gone, swallowed by a silence that no illusions can penetrate.

I catch a fleeting impression of her sobbing, clinging to my lifeless body, illusions blossoming and dying around her in sorrowful sparks. She tries to whisper spells of resurrection or begs the elders for help, but my spirit drifts beyond their reach. The Overlord’s twisted design achieved its final cruelty, ripping me away at the very moment we tasted freedom.

If there is an afterlife, I sense only a drifting void. No roars, no illusions, no Overlord or gargoyle call. Just emptiness, and a faint echo of Elira’s name, reverberating in the darkness.I pray she’ll find peace.

Far below, on that scarred plateau, the allied forces hush in mourning. Elira clutches my limp form, tears carving tracks through the dust on her cheeks. Olyssia stands behind her, trembling, an outstretched hand that can’t bridge the chasm of grief. The Matriarch lowers her head, staff trembling in her grasp. Even orcs bow in silent respect.

The petrified gargoyles stand as looming statues, their once-warring presence stilled by illusions and ancient wards. The Overlord’s armies, battered and leaderless, retreat into the distance. The Red Purnas scatter. Victory of a kind rests with the battered alliance, but at a terrible cost. And at the heart of it, Elira weeps, illusions flickering erratically, her sobs echoing through the silent ruin.

No illusions can mask the raw heartbreak searing her spirit. In her arms, I lie unmoving, my dark elf features softened by death, the monstrous gargoyle essence gone silent. She presses her forehead to mine, breath hitching in choked pleas for me to return. But the violent energies that sustained me have torn me apart from within.

Time stretches. Allies gather in a loose circle, forming a protective ring around the pair. Some place hands over hearts, others chant prayers for the departed. The purnas’ illusions shift to muted tones, reflecting their sorrow. Overhead, the clouds part, letting a single shaft of sunlight illuminate Elira cradling me, as though the universe itself acknowledges our last moment.

In that timeless hush, Elira presses a final kiss to my brow, tears falling onto my slack features. “You stubborn fool,” she whispers, voice fractured. “You said you’d come back to me.” Her illusions flicker out, leaving her powerless in grief’s embrace.

Gently, Olyssia kneels beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Elira,” she murmurs, tears glistening in her own eyes, “he saved us all.”

Elira trembles, burying her face against my chest. “I— I can’t—” She can’t finish, the words strangled by sobs.

Yet, somehow, the allied forces find a somber unity in that heartbreak. Orc warriors bow, muttering respects for a fallen hero. Humans kneel in prayer. The purnas, from novices to elders, hold staves aloft, their illusions swirling in a gentle, melancholic tribute. A hush drapes the plateau, broken only by the wind rustling across stone and the distant moan of petrified gargoyles locked in endless slumber.

In that suspended moment, I am gone, soul adrift. Elira’s heartbreak pulses across the bond we forged, a final echo that might linger somewhere in the cosmic tapestry. She holds me with trembling arms, refusing to release. The battlefield victory feels hollow in her anguished hold.

The Matriarch approaches with slow steps, tears shining in her storm-gray eyes. She kneels, resting a hand on Elira’s back. “Child,” she whispers, voice cracked, “Vaelin’s sacrifice saved us. Let us honor him. Let us carry him from this cursed place.”

Elira can only nod, illusions sparking feebly around her fingertips, too grief-stricken to maintain any shape. Carefully, with Olyssia’s help, she relinquishes my body, though her fingers cling until the last possible moment. The purnas gather me on a makeshift stretcher conjured from illusions and boards. A hush echoes through the crowd as they bear me away, each soul recognizing a hero fallen.

Elira remains on her knees, face wet with tears, illusions guttering. Olyssia kneels beside her, arms around her shoulders, murmuring broken words of comfort. All across the plateau, the watchers bow heads. The once-thundering battlefield is silent but for the faint keening of the wounded and the hush of the wind.

Slowly, the allied forces begin to move. Some remain to tend to the injured, others gather the fallen. The orcs prepare a pyre for their own lost. The humans do likewise. For me—Elira has not decided, her grief too raw. She stands abruptly, illusions flaring, staggering after the stretcher. Olyssia steadies her, whispering that they must tend the living, yet Elira’s eyes remain locked on my still form.

In the days that follow, they’ll build a cairn or pyre or some form of remembrance. They’ll speak of how Vaelin, the Overlord’s creation, turned gargoyle strength upon the Warlord to save them all. They’ll tell stories of the final blow, how illusions and monstrous might collided in a flash that ended Bladrik’s terror. But in this first moment, it is only heartbreak—raw, relentless heartbreak for Elira, who sees me carried away, her illusions powerless to bring me back.

And so ends the final confrontation on these ancient stones, beneath the gaze of petrified gargoyles. The Overlord flees, the Red Purnas scattered, and the greatest threat contained by a hero’s ultimate sacrifice. In the hush that follows, Elira stands in the swirl of dust and tears, illusions shimmering in her sorrow. She has won a future for them all, but lost the man who claimed her heart in the process.

The wind sighs across the silent pillars. No illusions can mask the emptiness left in my wake, no wards can conjure me back. Elira’s sobs fade into the twilight, and my body, cold and still, is borne from the battlefield by those who loved me or at least recognized my final deed.

Far beyond mortal sight, my soul hovers briefly, yearning for Elira’s warmth. But the threads of life are severed, and I drift into whatever realm awaits, carrying the memory of her illusions, her tears, and her love. And in that final release, I pray that she finds the strength to rebuild the world we saved, forging a new dawn upon the ashes of war—even if my place in it has ended.

No illusions can rewrite the heartbreak. Yet the allied forces, mourning a hero, vow to honor that sacrifice by preserving the fragile unity blossomed on a battlefield of stone. And Elira, though shattered, stands to lead them—her illusions flickering with grief, her soul carrying the echo of my final breath. That is how this cataclysmic chapter closes: with gargoyles resealed, an Overlord in retreat, the Red Purnas scattered, and my lifeless body cradled by the woman I loved in the last fleeting moments of life.

The prophecy is written. My death seals it. Elira’s tears christen a new era, one shaped by love’s unwavering devotion, even in the face of monstrous blood and unstoppable fate.

19

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