Page 8 of His Darkest Devotion

Mounting the zalkir, I guide it back onto the narrow trail. The beast hisses, sensing my coiled tension. Overhead, the sky brightens with a crystalline purity that seems at odds with the darkness in my thoughts. My cloak flares behind me as we pick up speed. Gravel flies beneath the zalkir’s scaled feet. Every breath tastes of pine and impending storm.

I am Vaelin Duskbane, forged by the Overlord’s will, unstoppable in my loyalty. Yet an unnameable tension knots in my chest, as though something vital within me teeters on the brink of awakening. I clamp down on the notion, forging it into resolve. My path stretches ahead, and beyond it lies the unknown Purna with rumored power enough to reshape Protheka’s fate.

One way or another, I will find her. And when I do, the Overlord’s ambitions—and the question of my own purpose—may collide in ways neither of us can foresee.

3

ELIRA

By the time I glimpse the soaring crags of Prazh again, dusk is chasing away the last remnants of daylight. My cloak, heavy with dirt and the scent of pine, flutters behind me in the thinning mountain wind. I still feel the grit of the road on my skin, a reminder that just two days ago, I was guiding Jonas—an injured human—down the treacherous passes in search of safety. We made it to a small outpost nestled at the base of these peaks, a place where humans huddle behind flimsy wooden palisades to avoid roving bandits. It was there I left him in the care of a sympathetic herbalist, slipping away before anyone could question my identity too closely.

Now, upon returning home, I can’t help noticing the tension that radiates from the ancient stone pathways leading into our enclave. The wards carved into the rocks should soothe my spirit, but tonight they pulse with an unsettling energy. The typical hum of magic that saturates these halls has shifted. It’s sharper, almost frantic, as though the very air anticipates a storm. I tighten my grip on my pack strap, inhaling the chill breath of the mountains as I ascend toward the heart of the coven.

A lone Purna sentinel stands guard near the tunnel entrance—a woman named Mayten, known for her extraordinary hearing. She’s older, wearing layered robes that blend with the rock’s grayish hue. Her silver hair is gathered in a loose bun, and a staff topped with a glass orb rests against her hip.

Her eyes widen when she notices me striding up the trail. “Elira!” She beckons me forward. Her voice trembles. “The Matriarch’s been waiting for you.”

My pulse thrums with concern. “She summoned me specifically?” I ask, stepping closer. The wind ruffles the moss drapes near the tunnel mouth, creating a low hiss. “I only just returned.”

“Yes, child. There was a…” Mayten lowers her voice. “A vision. The entire coven felt a disturbance. The Matriarch insisted you be found immediately if you returned—and, well, here you are.” Her wrinkled features crease with worry, though she offers a quick pat on my arm. “She’s in the main hall, with the entire coven.”

My stomach churns. Visions aren’t unheard of, but rarely does the Matriarch gather every Purna at once. Something must be terribly wrong. “Thank you,” I manage, nodding at Mayten before slipping past her. The corridor yawns ahead, lit by glowing orbs shaped like crystalline flowers. They cast ghostly reflections on the smooth walls, causing phantom shapes to dance in my peripheral vision.

The deeper I go, the more I sense a palpable tension. A cluster of younger Purnas brush by, their whispers too hushed to catch, but the dread in their eyes tells me plenty. Others pass me with hurried steps, clutching talismans or magical staves. One woman in a green tunic meets my gaze, then averts hers as though I might burn her with a glance. Unease snags my throat. I suspect these anxious looks mean they know or suspect something about me—and it’s not good.

My boots echo as I enter the broad chamber we call the Gathering Hall. Smooth pillars carved with symbols of growth and unity line the perimeter. At the far side, a dais sits beneath a large skylight, where the last rays of sunset filter in like molten gold. That warm light clashes with the somber mood of the assembled Purnas. They stand in tense clusters, voices hushed. Olyssia is among them, her fiery curls impossible to miss, but she’s too distracted to notice my arrival.

At the dais, Matriarch Lumeria’s imposing figure commands attention. She’s dressed in a flowing robe of midnight-blue, hair braided in a coronet around her head. Several elders accompany her, each exuding an aura of power—women who have lived through wars and hunts and have the scars to prove it. Though their expressions are calm, something about their stance suggests alarm.

Lumeria spots me. Her eyes, twin storms of gray, spark with urgency. “Elira,” she calls, beckoning me closer. “Come forward.”

The chatter in the hall dies abruptly. A path opens as I move through the throng, my footsteps too loud in the silence. My heart thunders. Everyone is staring—some with curiosity, others with suspicion. There’s a subtle shift when I pass a group in red-trimmed robes: the Red Purnas. They’ve always existed on the outskirts of our coven’s daily life, engaged but separate, pushing for more aggressive strategies against the Dark Elves. I feel their eyes on my back, and a chill prickles on my nape.

I pause at the dais, glancing up at the Matriarch. “You summoned me, Matriarch?”

She exhales, placing a hand on a sculpted staff at her side. “Yes, child. There has been… an awakening. A vision came to me last night, one I dared not interpret alone. It concerns our future—and yours.”

My pulse races. “My future?”

The Matriarch’s mouth tightens. “I have seen glimpses: a swirl of stone wings, magic dancing on the edge of ruin, and you, Elira, standing at the center of it.” Her voice resonates through the chamber, weaving a hush over the gathered Purnas. “I fear the Gargoyles stir. Our wards sense an upsurge of energy near old battlegrounds—places once ravaged by their kind. And in my vision, your power is central to either sealing them away forever or… freeing them from their slumber.”

A collective gasp ripples across the hall. My stomach drops as if I’ve just stepped off a cliff’s ledge. The gargoyles—a race cursed by our ancestors, locked in stone for a century. They’re monstrous, unrelenting in their hatred for the Purnas who warped them from Dark Elves. Everyone believed them safely trapped, but rumors have been drifting in the wind. This new revelation slams down with terrifying clarity.

“Me?” I hear my own voice, distant and unsteady. My gaze sweeps the crowd. Dozens of eyes stare back with a mix of awe, doubt, and fear. “I’m just one Purna. How could I possibly…?” Words tangle in my throat.

Matriarch Lumeria’s expression softens. “Your gifts are not ordinary, Elira. You know this. Space-Time magic is exceedingly rare, even among us, and your Transformative abilities exceed the typical illusions we teach novices. I have tried to guide you without feeding rumors, but it seems fate will not wait.”

I grasp for logic. “What do you want me to do?”

Before she can answer, a sharp voice cuts in from the side. “Yes, Matriarch, whatdoyou propose? For us to sit idly by while one untested girl holds the fate of our entire coven in her grasp?” The speaker steps forward—a tall, striking woman with chestnut hair braided close to her scalp. Her robe is accented in crimson thread, marking her as one of the Red Purnas. A half-ring of her cohorts fans out behind her like a formation of hawks.

Tension rakes my nerves. The woman is Nerissa, a known leader among the Red Purnas. She’s championed more aggressive tactics for years, insisting that we should openly fight the Dark Elves instead of living in perpetual secrecy. Her stance is combative, chin lifted in defiance.

Lumeria’s eyes narrow. “We are not sitting idly by, Nerissa. We are deciding our next steps based on facts, not fear.”

Nerissa smirks, folding her arms. “Facts, you say? Like the fact that the gargoyles slaughtered entire covens before they were sealed away?” She sweeps her gaze around, voice dripping with challenge. “Or the fact that the Dark Elves continue to enslave and butcher humans with no repercussions? Perhaps we can use Elira’s special abilities to deal with both threats at once. Turn the gargoyles on the Dark Elves, or vice versa, and seize control of Protheka.”

My breath catches at her brazen suggestion, but a ripple of uneasy agreement stirs in some corners of the hall. The Red Purnas believe our isolation only emboldens the Dark Elves and leaves us vulnerable to old enemies. Part of me understands their anger—but turning me into a weapon to wage open war? That idea paralyzes my thoughts with dread.

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