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For a moment, I look nothing like Elira Vex, the Purna with silver-streaked hair. Instead, a willowy, dark-haired woman wearing a cloak of shimmering emerald stands in my place. Olyssia arches an eyebrow, impressed.

“No flicker so far,” she notes. “Keep it steady.”

I concentrate. The reflection remains consistent. Half a minute passes, then I allow the illusion to dissipate gently, returning my reflection to normal. I grin at Olyssia, relief mingling with triumph. “I think it’s better than yesterday.”

She pats my shoulder. “Definitely. You’ll outdo the Red Purnas in illusions soon enough.”

Her mention of the Red Purnas makes my stomach tighten. They’re a faction of our own people, but from what I’ve gathered, they view our cautious way of life as weakness. Rumors persist that they want to seize power across Protheka—overthrowing the Dark Elves, or at least challenging them, rather than hiding. A bold, dangerous ambition. Matriarch Lumeria has never spoken about them openly, but there have been whispered stories of entire covens fracturing under Red Purna influence. We prefer to remain neutral, hidden. But tension simmers, even within these halls.

Before I can dwell on that too long, Lumeria’s voice echoes across the chamber. “Gather, my daughters. We have matters to discuss.”

A hush falls. The other Purna set aside their practice and converge near the dais. Olyssia and I exchange a curious look, then join the circle forming around the Matriarch. Her gray eyes pass over each of us in turn, measuring our expressions. Light from the enchanted orbs gilds the silver streaks in her hair, adding an ethereal quality to her stance.

“We sense a disturbance,” she begins calmly. “Our wards have been trembling at odd intervals. Something is shifting beyond our mountains.” Her gaze locks onto me, sending a quiver of apprehension down my spine.

A murmur stirs among the group. One Purna with short-cropped hair speaks up, her tone anxious. “Gargoyles?”

Lumeria shakes her head. “It is not certain. The Gargoyles have remained in stone sleep for nearly a century. Our magic saw to that, aided by the final battles of our ancestors.” She tilts her chin. “However, we must not become complacent. Dark Elf rumors reach even our hidden ears. Whispers of…” She pauses, as if the words themselves are sour. “Whispers of something awakening. Old powers. Old hatreds.”

A shiver crawls up my arms. I recall the crackling sense of disquiet I felt at dawn, how the sunrise seemed less like a promise and more like an omen. My thoughts flicker to the stories of the Gargoyles—beings once twisted from Dark Elves by misused Purna magic. Their hatred of our kind is said to be as deep as the roots of Protheka itself.

“Matriarch,” says another Purna, voice quaking, “do you think the Red Purnas might be stirring trouble again? Trying to break the old spells that keep the Gargoyles contained?”

Lumeria’s lips press into a firm line. “Perhaps. Or maybe the Dark Elves themselves. King Rython in Orthani, or King Throsh in Pyrthos. There are many who crave more power.” Her eyes trace the circle. “Regardless, we must be vigilant. And we must prepare.”

A collective unease ripples through us. Some Purna exchange worried looks. Olyssia shoots me a knowing glance—like she recognizes the tension brewing inside me. My chest tightens, and I realize I’m clenching my hands until my knuckles ache.

“The prophecy,” I blurt before I can stop myself. My voice echoes around the hall. Silence falls as everyone’s attention shifts in my direction. Heat flushes my cheeks, but I press on. “Is it true there’s a prophecy about a…a powerful Purna who might…?” I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence. I’ve heard rumors of a Purna destined to protect or doom us all, but I’ve never had the nerve to ask directly.

Lumeria studies me with those piercing eyes. Then she nods once, curt and solemn. “We do not discuss prophecies lightly. They are glimpses of possible futures, not certainties.” She inhales, her chest rising. “But we must acknowledge the possibility that events are moving quickly. The future of our coven—of all Purna—could hinge on the actions of one among us.” Her voice hardens. “We will not name her yet, for that knowledge could endanger everyone. Simply know that we must remain united. No matter what storms approach.”

My pulse pounds. I stare at the floor to avoid the sea of curious faces. A myriad of emotions churn within me: fear, excitement, confusion. Could I be that Purna they whisper about? The notion seems absurd; I’m no legendary savior. Yet the quiet way Lumeria’s gaze lingers on me suggests she suspects as much. Have I been singled out for more than just my unusual magic?

The Matriarch dismisses us with a gesture, and the coven disperses like dandelion seeds scattered by the wind. Olyssia tugs on my sleeve as we retreat from the dais. “Are you alright?” she asks softly.

I exhale, my breath shaky. “I’m not sure. Something feels…off. It’s like my magic’s humming in my bones.”

She nods in understanding. “My own power’s been prickly lately too.” Her gaze flickers around to ensure no one else overhears. “Elira, if you ever need to talk, I’m here. No matter what.”

I grip her hand in thanks, grateful for her unwavering friendship. We part ways, and I wander the cavern aimlessly, hoping the echoes of footsteps and the hush of stalactites overhead might calm me. The halls of our home have always been my sanctuary. I grew up listening to the drip of mineral-rich water into crystal pools, practicing illusions in corridors lit by enchanted orbs. But now the echoes feel less soothing and more foreboding, like something lurks beneath the surface.

Eventually, I emerge into a smaller side chamber used for private meditation. The walls are lined with carved depictions of the Purna’s storied past—the arrival of human women from Earth, the war with the Gargoyles, and the centuries spent in hiding. My heart catches on the carved image of a monstrous stone creature with massive wings, tearing through a line of cloaked figures. Even in the muted carving, the gargoyle’s fury is palpable.

I kneel on a woven mat, close my eyes, and attempt to steady my breathing. My thoughts swirl like autumn leaves in a gale: gargoyles, prophecies, the hush in Lumeria’s voice. There’s also the flicker of guilt I feel for being late to training this morning—childish, perhaps, but I know the Matriarch expects better of me, especially if I’m truly the one from the visions.

Dark Elves also crowd into my thoughts, though I’ve never encountered one face-to-face. The stories I’ve heard are enough to send a chill through my core. They rule Protheka with magic and cruelty. They enslave humans—my ancestors—and treat them worse than beasts. I once witnessed a few ragged human fugitives limp through our mountain passes, searching for rumored Purna help. All I could do was offer them small illusions to cloak their escape. Even that nearly cost me punishment for risking the coven’s secrecy.

I press a hand over my eyes, as if blocking out the memory. My existence is so removed from those horrors; up here, the Purna coven is shielded. But if the prophecy is real, if the gargoyles are truly stirring…my safe mountain stronghold might shatter sooner than I ever imagined.

Footsteps approach, soft but unmistakable. I sense the faint signature of Life Magic emanating from the person—it’s warm, restorative energy that has a distinct taste in the air. Opening my eyes, I find Matriarch Lumeria standing in the doorway, her expression gentle.

“Child,” she says quietly. “May I join you?”

I nod, shifting to make room on the mat. She sinks down gracefully, the ends of her robes pooling around her. For a few long moments, neither of us speaks. The ambient magic in the chamber flickers, as though responding to our combined presence.

Finally, she looks at me. “I know you have questions,” she says. “I also know the rumors have weighed heavily on you.”

My throat feels tight. “I don’t want to assume anything,” I begin softly, “but…do you believe I’m the one from the prophecy?”