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I stand at precipise of the world, or at least it feels that way.

Dawn breaks over the mountains of Prazh in a blaze of gold and rose-colored light, igniting the jagged peaks until they glow like shards of amethyst. The wind tears at my hair—midnight black with a single silver streak running from my right temple down to my collarbone.

That silver strand has been there for as long as I can remember, though no one can fully explain why.

The early morning air is cold enough that my breath puffs out before me in small white clouds.

Below, a steep slope plunges into a sprawling valley, dotted with tall pines and thick brambles.

I savor this chill, letting it nip at my cheeks and remind me that I am alive.

Somewhere in the distance, birds caw—ravens or hawks, perhaps.

Even from here, I can spot their silhouettes circling above the tree line.

A thick tension coils in my stomach, an undercurrent of disquiet that refuses to settle.

My magic senses something—like an electric hum skittering across my skin.

I shake out my arms, trying to dispel the goosebumps that erupt despite my warm cloak.

Usually, a sunrise like this clears my mind and reaffirms why I love Prazh’s jagged beauty.

But this morning, the familiar comfort of the mountains eludes me.

I inhale deeply, searching for calm.

Our coven’s refuge lies higher up, hidden among jagged crags so steep and forbidding that few outsiders would ever risk the climb.

We Purna have always lived in secrecy, especially here in the mountains where nature cloaks us.

My Matriarch often reminds me that we must remain elusive: too many threats lurk outside our sanctuary, from Dark Elf raiders to monstrous beasts spawned by wild magic.

The greatest danger, though, is the centuries-old hatred the Dark Elves harbor for our kind.

They enslave human women without hesitation—and Purna are prized even more, though most have been hunted almost to extinction.

I rub my arms, the day’s first rays warming my face as I step away from the precipice.

The craggy path back to the coven is narrow, lined with rough stone that demands careful footing.

Over the years, I’ve learned to walk it with fluid grace, even when the wind tries to shove me off balance.

Each rock, each curve in the trail, is etched into my memory.

This place is my home, my fortress, and it comforts me in a way no lavish palace ever could.

A faint voice echoes from behind the large pines.

“Elira!” It’s Olyssia, a fellow Purna from my coven.

Her tone wavers between exasperation and amusement.

“Stop daydreaming and get back here before the Matriarch has my head.”

I grin in spite of my unease.

Olyssia is one of my closest friends—tall, with fiery curls and a penchant for setting things ablaze whenever she’s startled.

Literal flames, conjured by her elemental magic.

As children, we used to dare each other to sneak past the boundary wards that keep the coven hidden.

I was better at illusions, while she excelled at raw firepower.

We caused quite a ruckus back then.

“I’m coming!” I call out, tugging my cloak tighter around my shoulders.

With a last glance at the fiery sunrise, I follow the narrow ledge toward the staircase of carved stone that leads us back inside our enclave.

The stairway delves into a hidden alcove in the mountainside, sheltered from casual view by thick shrubs and a strategically placed boulder.

Despite my heavy boots, my steps are silent against the smooth rock.

Years of training have taught me how to move without sound, and I relish the way I can slip through the world like a wraith.

Pushing aside a curtain of vine-like moss, I enter a small antechamber lit by glowing orbs of arcane energy.

We craft these orbs ourselves—magic condensed into spheres that gently illuminate our halls.

Their soft hum resonates in the back of my mind, a subtle reminder of the power that runs through our veins.

We Purna draw magic from within, or so our Matriarch tells us.

Unlike the Dark Elves, who claim their sorcery is granted by distant, malevolent gods, we believe we owe nothing to any deity.

Our strength is our own.

I find Olyssia leaning against the damp stone wall, arms crossed.

Her russet curls are bound in a loose braid, stray wisps framing her bronze face.

She fixes me with a mock glare.

“You know the Matriarch wants us to begin training at sunrise, right? She about bit my head off when she saw your spot empty.”

I offer a sheepish shrug.

“She can’t have been that angry, or I would have heard her yelling from here.”

Olyssia snorts, stepping aside so I can pass.

“I’d say she was more…perturbed. In that very quiet, terrifying way of hers. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I reply dryly.

The Matriarch’s displeasure is the last thing I want.

But there’s no sense avoiding what’s to come.

My boots click against the stone floor as I move deeper into the cavern, Olyssia trailing behind me.

The corridor widens into a grand hall chiseled straight from the mountain’s core.

Smooth pillars support an arched ceiling, and at the far end sits a broad dais where our Matriarch usually addresses the coven.

Sunlight glances in through hidden slits in the rock, forming shifting patterns on the floor that resemble dancing leaves.

The air smells faintly of incense—lavender and sage—burned to aid meditation.

Around a dozen other Purna mill about, some seated on low cushions, others chatting in small groups.

All female, with varied appearances—some have hair the color of wheat, others as dark as mine.

A few carry staves carved with runic symbols.

I spot one older Purna chanting under her breath, practicing some new incantation.

Our coven’s daily rhythms revolve around harnessing or honing magical skills, as well as caring for our hidden gardens and livestock.

It’s a simple life, but a guarded one.

At the dais stands Matriarch Lumeria herself, tall and regal, with ash-blonde hair woven into a single thick braid that falls over her shoulder.

Fine wrinkles crease the corners of her eyes, but there’s a fierce vitality in her gaze.

She’s been Matriarch since long before I was born, and rumor says she’s mastered at least three types of magic.

I’ve always looked up to her, though that admiration is edged with a healthy dose of fear.

She doesn’t glance my way immediately.

Instead, she presses her hand over a kneeling Purna’s shoulder, murmuring instructions I can’t quite hear.

Then her head lifts, and her storm-gray eyes find me with ease.

My heart drums an unsteady beat.

“Elira,” she greets, her voice serene yet unyielding.

“You greet the sunrise outside again?”

“I do,” I reply, clearing my throat.

“Apologies if I missed the start of training.”

She waves a hand.

“We’ve barely begun. Olyssia will show you to your station. Try not to let your mind wander.” Her lips press into a taut line.

“There is…much to do.”

I dip my head in acknowledgment.

The Matriarch’s expression is unusually somber, which does nothing to ease the anxiety that’s been plaguing me.

Something stirs in the pit of my stomach again, that electric hum in my veins.

Before I can ask about her tone, she dismisses me with a small nod.

I fall in step beside Olyssia as we walk toward a section of the hall reserved for advanced training.

A series of shallow pools reflect shifting lights onto the ceiling, used for practicing water or elemental magic.

Farther in, there’s a circle of runes drawn in white chalk, designed to contain illusions or transformations.

That’s where Olyssia and I are headed.

As we arrive, I release a slow breath and square my shoulders.

Training typically involves refining our techniques, pushing the limits of our inherent gifts.

For me, that means wrestling with illusions, transformations, and the faint flicker of Space-Time magic that sets me apart.

Others in the coven can manipulate illusions, yes, but my transformative skills are advanced enough that I once turned a predator wolf into a docile hare—by accident.

And then there’s my Spatial Distortion trick, which I can barely control.

Olyssia folds her arms. “Ready?” she asks, her voice quieter now.

I glance at her. “As I’ll ever be.”

She steps back, and I focus on the circle of runes.

My first exercise is simple—an illusion meant to mask my appearance for thirty seconds.

The Matriarch wants me to refine the edges, making sure no flicker betrays the truth.

I hold out my hands, concentrate on the swirl of energy in my chest, and exhale slowly.

The world around me fades into sharper focus as I draw on my magic.

It feels like threads of shimmering power are woven through my veins, waiting for me to tug them.

I direct those threads toward my skin, envisioning an opaque shell that changes my face, my body, even the color of my clothes.

A mild tingle skates over my arms. In the reflection of the nearest pool, I see my features waver and shift—a trick of the mind as much as of the eyes.

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.