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Relief floods me, though it’s tempered by the weight of their scrutiny. “Thank you. I promise I won’t betray your trust.”

Lumeria nods, though a shadow of uncertainty lingers in her eyes. “Very well. We’ll reconvene in the library at midday. Prepare yourself.”

With that, the meeting dissolves. The elders disperse to finalize warding strategies, novices scurry to fetch fresh supplies, and the Matriarch glides away with Sarene, presumably to discuss further defensive measures. I stand in the Hall, shoulders sagging with both relief and lingering anxiety.One step at a time.

Olyssia loops an arm through mine as we exit. “We’ve got this,” she murmurs, trying to infuse confidence into her tone. “At least they’re listening.”

I offer a tremulous smile, but my thoughts remain on the gargoyles—massive beings who once nearly destroyed entire covens—and on the precarious position I occupy in this prophecy. A swirl of images crosses my mind: ancient tombs, shadows shifting underground, Vaelin’s haunted eyes, the Red Purnas’ savage ambitions.Time is running out, indeed.

As we cross a smaller corridor, I notice a cluster of younger purnas whispering. Their stares linger on me. One flinches when I glance her way, like a child caught eavesdropping.Suspicion is everywhere.My heart aches.This coven was once my family. Now, they look at me like I’m a threat.

Olyssia nudges me gently. “Don’t let them rattle you. Prove them wrong by doing what needs to be done.”

I nod, pushing aside the sting. “Yes.”

My mind drifts to Vaelin. I recall the confusion in his voice, the anguish etched on his face when we parted. Has he reported his failure to the Overlord? Are the Red Purnas forging deals with him behind my back? The mere idea of him collaborating with those fanatics twists my stomach, though I can’t see him condoning their brutality.He’s no saint, but he’s not savage.

Heat creeps up my cheeks, recalling the feel of his lips, the fleeting rush of closeness we shared. A swirl of emotions surges—yearning, guilt, anger.Focus on the coven,I chide myself.There’s no room for foolish sentiment.

Yet a quiet voice inside me insists that my bond with Vaelin isn’t mere foolishness, that it might shape the outcome in ways I can’t foresee. Shaking my head, I bury that thought. The coven needs me to stand strong, not pine after a Dark Elf who hunts me. If he truly meant me harm, he would have delivered me to Orthani by now. But that doesn’t make him an ally… or does it?

The library sits deep within the rock, behind a pair of heavy wooden doors etched with runic symbols. At midday, after a brief meal, I head there. Two elders—Falene and Yvara—await my arrival. Shelves upon shelves of tomes and scrolls line the walls, culminating in a circular reading area with a broad wooden table. Enchanted orbs drift overhead, casting gentle light without the need for torches.

Falene greets me with a curt nod, her expression stony. Yvara manages a softer smile, though caution still lurks behind her eyes. “We’ve selected materials relevant to the gargoyle containment,” Yvara explains, gesturing to a stack of ancient scrolls resting on the table. “We’ll observe while you read. Ask questions if anything confuses you.”

My pulse quickens. “Thank you. Truly.”

Taking a seat, I unroll the first scroll. The parchment crackles with age, old ink splotches hinting at frantic rewriting. Diagrams of runic circles fill the margins, referencing harnessed life magic and forbidden arcs of chaos. My heart clenches. The last time the gargoyles were sealed, the cost was dear. Purnas died or were driven mad.

A chill seeps into me as I skim the text. It details how the purnas, in ages past, attempted to turn a portion of the Dark Elves into stone, but the spell twisted them into gargoyles instead. Those gargoyles grew unstoppable until a desperate circle of powerful Purnas forced them into eternal sleep, embedding wards deep beneath the planet’s crust. My chest grows tight.So the legends were true. Our ancestors inadvertently created them, then used an even darker ritual to contain them.

As I delve deeper, Falene hovers over my shoulder, occasionally reading lines with me, ensuring I’m not skipping crucial footnotes or referencing anything beyond the assigned texts. Her presence prickles my nerves, but I focus on gleaning every detail. The final portion references an unholy synergy of life magic and space-time manipulation to freeze the gargoyles in perpetual stone slumber.Space-time magic.My heartbeat spikes. That’s my domain, though I barely grasp its full potential.

Hours crawl by in hushed tension. Yvara brings more scrolls from locked cabinets, describing the sacrifices required: purnas draining their own life force, forging a tether to the gargoyles’ essence. My stomach churns.Could I endure that? Am I even capable?

Eventually, my eyes blur, and I slump back in the chair, rubbing my temples. Falene clears her throat. “You see now why these rituals were kept sealed. Attempting them without mastery or caution could ravage your mind and body.”

I nod, exhaustion fraying my composure. “I understand. We may have no choice. If they wake fully, countless will die.”

Yvara sets a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. “Let’s pause for a moment. You’ve absorbed enough for one day.”

Reluctantly, I agree. As I stand, my muscles protest. Falene collects the scrolls, locking them away. I sense her scrutiny still lingers, unsure if letting me see these texts is wise. “This knowledge can save us, or doom us,” she warns quietly. “Tread carefully, Elira.”

My throat bobs. “I will.”

I exit the library with Yvara and Falene, tension knotting my shoulders. The hall is busier now—apprentices dart by, clutching runic talismans. A few older purnas hurry past with crates of supplies, presumably for strengthening wards. The entire coven feels like a beehive on the brink of being smoked out.

Before we part ways, Yvara murmurs, “We’ll alert the Matriarch that you’ve begun your study. Any sign of Red Purna infiltration, you’ll be among the first to know.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, voice tight with gratitude. Then I slip away, weaving through the corridors toward my chamber, mind awash with grim possibilities.If the Red Purnas strike soon, we’ll be pinned between their aggression and the looming gargoyle threat.

At an intersection, I nearly collide with a tense cluster of purnas whispering in hushed tones. They jump back, regarding me with suspicion. One of them, a broad-shouldered woman named Bialla, meets my gaze with open hostility. “You should have stayed gone, Elira,” she hisses. “Rumor says the Red Purnas only ramped up violence because they want you back.”

Her words land like a slap. “I never asked for any of this,” I protest, frustration blooming. “We either stand together or fall alone.”

She lets out a contemptuous scoff, turning away. The others follow suit, leaving me trembling with anger and sorrow. They blame me for the Red Purnas’ escalation, convinced I’ve become a magnet for chaos. Maybe they aren’t wrong.

Fighting tears, I continue to my chamber. Once inside, I collapse on the bed, burying my face in my hands. The prophecy, the mistrust of my coven, the memories of Vaelin—everything merges into a suffocating swirl.Why must fate place me at the center of such chaos?