Page 69

Outside, the coven halls stir quietly, watchers patrolling the wards in case of lingering threats. But in our simple chamber, we exist in a bubble of fragile contentment. My illusions dim to a faint halo, letting darkness envelop us. Vaelin’s heartbeat thrums beneath my hand, a reassuring cadence that banishes the nightmares of losing him forever.

My thoughts drift: tomorrow we’ll plan more thoroughly, forging alliances with orcs, humans, and any Dark Elves willing to break from Orthani. We’ll keep vigil over the gargoyle prison, ensuring no resurrection of Bladrik’s fury. We’ll watch for the Overlord’s next move. Yet behind every strategy, there’s a quiet realization that no curse, no monstrous heritage, can stand against unwavering love.We proved that.

I curl into Vaelin’s chest, illusions pulsing in drowsy flickers. His breath deepens, warmth radiating from his newly formed body. The runic lines glow faintly, a testament to the space-time magic binding his soul to flesh. I let my eyelids close, tears drying on my cheeks.We paid a harrowing price, but we claimed a life that’s ours.

As sleep claims me, I remember the moment I tore his soul from the void, guided by nothing but heartbreak and devotion. I recall how the Overlord’s monstrous experiments once dictated Vaelin’s fate, and how we shattered that destiny together. In the hush of near-slumber, I feel his arm tighten around me, illusions tangling in a languid dance above us. No prophecy foresees what we’ll do next. We’ll forge our own path, step by step, carrying a love stronger than curses, deeper than death.

Eventually, we drift into dreamless rest, hearts beating in quiet harmony. Outside our chamber, the first hints of dawn bleed across the horizon, heralding a new day free from ancient horrors. And within these walls, we—Elira the Purna witch who defied prophecy, and Vaelin the once-Dark Elf, once-gargoyle, now reborn in love—hold each other in a serenity we never dared hope for.

So begins our resolution, a future shaped by defiance of fate. The Overlord and Red Purnas flee or hide, the gargoyles succumb to the renewed curse, and Protheka shifts toward an era of cautious unity. At our center stands an unbreakable bond, sealed by illusions and anchored by devotion. And that bond, that living testament to love’s power, stands poised to guide an uncertain world from darkness into a light of its own making.

20

ELIRA

Four months have passed since the day I tore Vaelin’s soul from the void and remade him, binding his life to mine. Protheka has changed around us, just as I have changed within. The Overlord’s armies withdrew to a few scattered strongholds, licking their wounds. The Red Purnas fled into shadow, their influence greatly diminished. Orcish allies, human enclaves, and the newly strengthened witch covens have settled into a fragile yet determined peace.

High in the mountains of Prazh, our coven bustles with cautious hope. Gone is the oppressive fear that once clung to these halls; in its place, I sense a budding optimism for the future. We’ve reclaimed rooms scarred by the war, cleared debris, and reinforced our wards to keep watch over the gargoyle prison. People of different races—orc, human, even a smattering of Dark Elves estranged from the Overlord—can be found exchanging knowledge or bartering for goods.

I walk the familiar corridors, illusions dancing faintly at my fingertips in a sign of contentment rather than frantic alarm. My steps echo on polished stone, the air carrying the faint hum of magical wards that shimmer overhead. Four months have wrought so many changes: the novices who once trembled at the mere mention of gargoyles now practice illusions to strengthen our defenses, and alliances once unthinkable have begun to flourish.

At the darkened corner of the hall, Vaelin leans against a carved pillar, talking to a group of orc scouts. He’s explaining something about vantage points for patrolling the valleys. The sight of him always sets my heart thrumming with warmth. His appearance is different from the man I first met—a new complexion, faint runic patterns beneath his skin, eyes tinted with a twilight hue—but his posture, the quiet confidence, the fierce devotion in his gaze remain constant.

The orcs nod, satisfied with his suggestions. They depart, leaving Vaelin scanning the hall for me. Our eyes meet, and a gentle smile curves his lips. My illusions flutter in a wave of recognition, brightening the space between us.

I approach, feeling that tug of our shared bond—the anchor we forged when I ripped him from death. He’s not a gargoyle or Dark Elf anymore. He’s something unique, a new being bound to my magic in ways neither of us fully predicted. Yet, day by day, we’ve found balance.

He inclines his head in greeting. “Busy morning, Elira?” he asks, illusions sparking in his own hands, a playful mimicry of mine. Four months of practice have allowed him to weave illusions with surprising ease, though the threads shimmer in a slightly different spectrum from typical Purna illusions.

I exhale a soft laugh. “Busier than I’d like. The Matriarch had me reorganizing some older scrolls we recovered from the battlefield. She believes they might clarify the new wards around the gargoyle prison.”

Vaelin nods, stepping closer so our shoulders brush. The contact warms me, illusions swirling between us in gentle flickers. “I can help if you want. I still owe your coven for, well… everything.”

My heart aches with fondness. “You owe us nothing. You’ve already done enough—defending these halls from stray Red Purnas, guiding orcish scouts. Most of all, you stood by me.” My illusions pulse, reflecting a quiet gratitude.

He lifts a hand, brushing a lock of my hair behind my ear. The intimacy of it makes my breath hitch. Even after four months, the nearness of him can leave me light-headed. “I do it because I want to,” he says, voice low. “This place… your people… they accepted me in a way I never knew possible.”

I cover his hand with mine. “We accepted you because you chose to be one of us, to protect and build instead of destroy.”

His gaze flicks to the illusions dancing around our joined hands. “Elira, there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss,” he begins, voice faltering with uncharacteristic nerves.

I arch a brow. “What is it?”

Before he can reply, Olyssia darts around the corner, illusions sparkling with excitement. She nearly collides with us, half out of breath. “Elira! Vaelin! The Matriarch wants to see you both in the main atrium. Something about new alliances or an urgent delegation from the Yavar tribe.”

Vaelin sighs with a rueful smile, illusions dimming. “We’ll talk later,” he murmurs, giving my hand a final squeeze before we follow Olyssia through the corridors.

By midday,we stand at the center of the coven’s grand atrium—a vast, dome-like space carved from the mountain’s heart. Etched pillars support the dome, each pillar inscribed with runic patterns that glow faintly. Sunlight filters through an oculus overhead, illuminating a mosaic on the floor depicting ancient Purna symbols. Gathered around are purnas, orc representatives, and a handful of humans from the valley, all conferring on matters of trade, borders, and the watchful eye on the gargoyle prison.

The Matriarch presides over it all, seated on a curved stone bench at the far end of the mosaic. Her silver hair is braided into a coronet, illusions drifting around her in stately hues. She nods in greeting when we appear. “Elira, Vaelin. Good timing. We need your insights on coordinating with the Yavar tribe. They’re willing to provide more scouts if we can offer them wards to protect their farmland.”

We move forward, illusions shimmering. I exchange a smile with Vaelin—he’s become our liaison with orcish and human enclaves, bridging gaps no one else can. He steps up to the dais, giving the orc spokesperson a respectful incline of his head. They launch into negotiations, discussing farmland boundaries, illusions for crop protection, potential caravans to Orthani’s outskirts. The talk is brisk, occasionally tense, but overshadowed by mutual necessity.

While they converse, I drift to the side, illusions swirling idly as I greet novices who gather in small clusters. They pepper me with questions about advanced illusions or the new wards. I share what I know, though my thoughts remain half-focused on Vaelin. I sense an unusual tension in his manner, an undercurrent of anticipation.He wanted to speak with me earlier.

At last, the meeting concludes in an exchange of scrolls and illusions. The orcs depart, satisfied, while the Matriarch calls for an hour’s recess. A hush spreads through the atrium as people scatter for tea, rest, or final errands. Vaelin catches my eye, beckoning me over with a subtle gesture.

We slip away through a side corridor that leads to a small courtyard open to the sky. The air is crisp, scented with mountain wildflowers that have begun blooming in the warmer season. A gentle breeze stirs the vines climbing the courtyard walls.