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4

VAELIN

Astiff wind combs through the crooked pines, carrying the tang of frost and old secrets. I stand at a narrow precipice, peering down into the steep ravine below. Mist coils over jagged rocks, swirling with each gust, as if the landscape itself is alive. My zalkir—a formidable reptilian beast—shifts restlessly behind me, scraping its claws over loose gravel. It senses my disquiet.

I’ve ridden deeper into these mountains than most Dark Elves dare to roam alone. The path grows less distinct with each mile, vanishing into a tangle of dense conifers and towering crags. Light struggles here, filtered by a canopy of twisted boughs. It’s midday, yet the atmosphere feels like perpetual dusk. I can’t shake the conviction that shadows lurk just beyond my vision, breathing down the back of my neck.

I try to bury that discomfort, focusing instead on the next steps of my mission. After all, Overlord Rython gave me a single, unambiguous order:Find the rumored Purna called Elira, subdue her, bring her back.Obeying is second nature. Yet something inside my mind thrums with a low undercurrent of reluctance—a feeling I can’t fully name.

As if summoned by that thought, a faint moan echoes up from behind a clump of boulders. My shoulders tense. Beyond the precarious ledge, we made camp last night in a sheltered hollow. A bare minimum of supplies, no fire, to avoid drawing attention. It’s there, hidden from the wind, that I’ve secured a prisoner: a bedraggled human who claims knowledge about the Purna’s movements. He’s not the first I’ve interrogated, but something about his presence sets my teeth on edge. Maybe it’s the timing. Maybe it’s the haunted look in his eyes.

I step carefully, boots crunching on the gravel. The zalkir follows at a short distance, chained to a jut of rock. It hisses, steam curling from its nostrils, but it’s well-trained enough not to stray. Around a bend in the path, a makeshift lean-to of branches slopes against a boulder. Beside it, tied with rope, slumps the spy I captured late yesterday.

He is a scrawny, sallow-skinned man, wearing threadbare trousers and a vest that’s torn at the seams. His face is streaked with dirt, and one eye is swollen shut from a scuffle. I hadn’t intended to break him so thoroughly—my style is swift, incisive—but he fought like a cornered rat when I cornered him near an abandoned watchtower. If nothing else, I respect his attempt at resistance, even if it was doomed.

Approaching, I note how his breathing quickens. He lifts his head, flinching at the sight of me. “P-please,” he croaks, voice raspy. “I’ve told you everything. Let me go.”

I crouch, resting an elbow on my knee so I can look him in the eye. “You’ve told meenough,” I correct, letting my tone slide from bored to threatening. “But I sense you’re holding back. Spies always do.”

His gaze flits nervously to the zalkir, then back to me. “I’m not a spy,” he insists, trembling. “Just a courier—carrying messages between villages.” A half-truth at best; his clothing and the scars on his wrists suggest a history far more complicated than he admits.

I reach into my pouch, extracting a small vial of faintly glowing purple liquid. It’s a mild truth-serum derivative, refined by the Overlord’s alchemists. I rarely use such methods; intimidation alone usually suffices. But this time, time itself feels too short. The Overlord’s demands weigh heavily, and the whispers about gargoyles—combined with the rumored Purna—grow more urgent by the hour.

With deliberate slowness, I uncork the vial, holding it near the man’s face. His eyes widen with panic. “What is that?”

“Insurance,” I reply, pressing the vial’s rim to his chapped lips. “Drink.”

He resists, jerking his head aside, but I clamp my free hand around his jaw, forcing it open. The bitter liquid dribbles into his mouth. He sputters, gagging. I withdraw the vial and stand, capping it again with a steady hand. The entire process takes seconds. By the time I pocket the vial, the spy’s expression grows slack.

His pupils dilate, shining with an unnatural brightness. He mutters incoherently for a moment, body trembling. I wait in silence, arms folded. The wind picks up, whining like a lost spirit over the boulders. My mouth tastes of iron and regret—an odd reaction. Usually, I feel nothing.

After a minute, the man slumps forward, tethered only by the rope around his torso. “Ask… ask your questions,” he mumbles, voice dull.

I lower my tone. “You spoke of rumors. That the gargoyles are stirring?”

A twitch contorts his features. He takes shallow breaths. “Yes,” he finally says. “Some say… cracks are appearing in their stone prisons… especially in the high peaks near the old battlefields. Whispers spread across the lowland villages… everyone’s afraid.” His words come haltingly, as if each one costs him.

I stiffen. I have heard hints of such talk—vague, unsubstantiated—but hearing it confirmed again shakes me more than I’d like. My heart quickens. If the gargoyles truly awaken, all Protheka stands on the brink of catastrophe. The Overlord’s concerns, it seems, are well-founded.

“What else?” I press, stepping closer. “You mentioned a prophecy. Something about a Purna who can either seal or free gargoyles?”

His eyes gloss over. “The humans whisper of it in hushed corners. They say a witch in the mountains, with a power beyond measure. A special… something… that ties her to the curse on the gargoyles.” His breathing rattles. “They think she’ll either become our salvation… or our doom.”

A faint pang lances my gut. My suspicions sharpen. This must be the woman Overlord Rython wants me to capture. Elira Vex, if the rumors hold. Another piece of evidence that my mission is no mere errand. I keep my face impassive. “These rumors—did you witness anything yourself?”

He groans, gripping the rope with numb fingers. “No. I just carried letters—messages for certain… parties. Some from humans who want to side with the gargoyles if it means overthrowing the Dark Elves, others from purnas who think they can harness the gargoyle’s power. They all mentionher.” A shudder runs through him. “Elira, they called her. The one who manipulates time and shape with ease.”

So it’s certain now. The Overlord’s intelligence matches this wretch’s testimony. I swallow a rush of conflicting emotions. On one hand, relief that I have confirmation. On the other, an inexplicable anxiety simmering beneath my ribs. If this Purna truly wields power over gargoyles, capturing her might be more dangerous than I anticipated.

I drag in a slow breath. “Where do these purnas hide?”

His head lolls. “High in the Prazh range. Some say you can find them if you follow the black pines to a hidden valley. But none of us… none of us common folk… actually saw them. We just pass along what we’re told.”

I arch an eyebrow, tension coiled in my muscles. “Which is?”

He grimaces, swallowing convulsively. “That she’s… there. That the purnas gather around her. They fear the Dark Elves. They fear each other. The… Red Purnas, they call them, want to start a war. I only know scraps.”

A quiet hush settles between us. The wind rattles a loose piece of rope. I weigh the man’s words. A renegade faction of purnas who seek open conflict… that complicates things further. Could they harness the gargoyles if they awaken? Could the Overlord do so first if he controls Elira?