Page 63

ELIRA

I’m kneeling on the makeshift funeral pyre when I realize I can’t let him go.

Dawn struggles to lift over the bruised sky, casting half-hearted rays through the ragged clouds. All around, the plateau lies devastated, dotted with the remains of the final battle. The towering pillars that once marked the ancient gargoyle ring stand cracked and silent, their magic spent. Broken illusions drift like fading fireflies, illuminating the jagged silhouettes of petrified gargoyles sealed once again.

My coven sisters and brothers shuffle quietly across the battlefield, tending to the wounded or gathering the fallen. I can feel the pulse of grief running through every living soul on this plateau—witch, human, orc, even the occasional Dark Elf defector who turned on the Overlord. They’re all exhausted, hearts bruised by the sacrifices demanded here.

Yet none of their sorrow resonates as fiercely as mine. Because laid upon a wooden bier, half-sheltered from the icy wind, lies Vaelin. His cheeks pale with death, his once-fierce eyes closed forever. My breath shakes as I brush strands of midnight hair from his brow, remembering the way he’d gaze at me with unwavering devotion, even in the midst of turmoil.

Tears sting my eyes.He’s gone.The words gnaw my soul. He bled out in my arms scarcely hours ago, torn apart by the monstrous energies the Overlord forced into his body. He gave his final breath to destroy the Gargoyle Warlord, saving us all from Bladrik’s fury—only to be stolen from me at the moment of victory.

I press my forehead to his cold chest, illusions sputtering around me in grief-laced sparks. My magic reflects my heartbreak in jagged pulses of color, though I can’t quell this wave of despair. The hush of the plateau wraps us both, disturbed only by the occasional moan of survivors and the shuffle of worn boots on broken stone.

From behind, I sense Olyssia approach—her fiery curls dulled with ash, eyes rimmed red from tears. She lays a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Elira,” she murmurs, her voice cracking. “The Matriarch’s preparing a farewell. He died a hero.” Her sorrow thrums beneath her words.

Anger and heartbreak twist my stomach. “I don’t… want him remembered as just a hero,” I rasp, voice trembling. “I want him here. With me.”

She kneels beside me, illusions swirling at her fingertips, subdued by her grief. “I know,” she whispers, eyes glistening. “But death is final, Elira. You can’t change?—”

“I can,” I interrupt, suddenly certain. The words erupt from my lips, hammered by raw conviction I can’t deny. “I won’t accept this.”

Confusion knits her brow. “What do you mean?”

Hot tears spill from my lashes, and I lift my gaze to the stormy dawn sky. The faint memory of centuries-old tomes flickers through my mind—scrolls referencing the darkest corners of Purna lore. “There’s a ritual,” I whisper, illusions rippling in agitation. “A forbidden rite that warps space-time magic to resurrect the dead, bridging soul and body. The texts called it abominable, a defiance of natural law.”

Olyssia’s breath catches. “Elira, that’s madness. The Matriarch has forbidden such attempts. The cost?—”

“I know the cost,” I snap, voice shaking. “But I won’t let him slip away, not after all we survived. If the Overlord can twist life, if the Red Purnas can break taboos for power—why must we hold back when love hangs in the balance?” My illusions flare a savage pinkish hue, reflecting my desperate fury.

Her hand trembles on my shoulder. “The Matriarch will never condone it. If you fail, it might destroy you. Or worse, twist Vaelin into something monstrous.”

I gaze down at Vaelin’s still form, a pang of longing lancing my heart. “He was already part monster,” I whisper, tears dripping onto his tunic. “But I loved him anyway. And he loved me. That’s enough to risk anything.” My illusions glow, spiking the air with tension.I will defy every law if it brings him back.

Olyssia shakes her head, half in awe, half in fear. “Then let me help. You’ll need a circle, a conduit. You can’t do it alone.”

I press my palm to Vaelin’s chest, breath ragged. “We can’t involve the entire coven. This is… forbidden, Olyssia.”

She meets my gaze, eyes fierce despite her grief. “I won’t tell the Matriarch. But you need me—my illusions, my flames, whatever synergy I can provide. The ritual demands at least two, right? An anchor and a conduit. You’re the anchor. Let me be your channel, at least.”

My chest loosens with the faintest relief. “Thank you,” I whisper, tears renewing. “I won’t forget this.”

She stands, illusions swirling in determined arcs. “Then let’s move fast, before the elders finalize the funeral rites.”

We slip away from the main camp, carrying Vaelin’s body on a cloth stretcher. Each step crushes my heart—his limp hand dangling from the side, his face colorless in the pale light. But I cling to the conviction fueling me:He won’t remain dead.

We find a secluded hollow beneath the plateau’s edge, half-concealed by a tumble of ancient boulders. The air here feels charged, perhaps a lingering echo of the battle’s magic. The stench of smoke and blood still clings to the wind, but at least we’re far enough from prying eyes. I set Vaelin gently on the stony ground, illusions fluttering around his still form.

Olyssia stands behind me, staff in hand, eyes darting nervously. “All right,” she says, voice taut. “How do we begin?”

I inhale, recalling the scattered references from the restricted scrolls. “We need a circle of illusions and space-time conjurations to anchor his soul to a remade body. We’ll need raw life essence—some from me, some from you—to fuel it. The risk is if the soul resists or is trapped halfway.” My voice trembles on that last note, imagining Vaelin’s spirit torn between realms.

She nods, swallowing hard. “I’m with you. Show me the pattern.”

My illusions surge, weaving a faint circle around us. Despite my exhaustion, I shape the lines carefully, forging arcs of light and swirling runes gleaned from half-remembered texts. Olyssia exhales flame-tinged illusions, reinforcing the perimeter with flickers of elemental fire. The circle glows faintly, crackling with potential. Vaelin’s body lies at the center, motionless. My heart clenches with dread and hope in equal measure.

“Okay,” I say, shaking from head to toe. “Let’s join hands and channel. I’ll focus on bridging space-time, seeking Vaelin’s soul beyond. You feed me your illusions so I don’t collapse from the strain.”

Her lips tighten, but she sets her staff aside, stepping into place. We kneel on either side of Vaelin, our hands clasped across his chest. The circle brightens, illusions swirling in mirrored arcs. Sparks of flame dance around Olyssia’s fingertips, merging with the ribbons of space-time I conjure.