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VAELIN

D usk settles over the scattered rooftops of Yarrowby Market, transforming the drab cluster of stalls into elongated silhouettes beneath a bruised sky.

This place was once a minor trading hub, or so the ragged sign by the crossroads proclaimed.

Now, half the wooden booths stand deserted, crates and tables left abandoned by frightened merchants who fled as rumors of Dark Elf patrols stirred.

A few desperate souls linger, hawking wilted vegetables and chipped pottery for whatever meager coin they can scrape from travelers.

I slip through the labyrinth of stalls, my zalkir tethered at the town’s perimeter.

It paced and snorted earlier, unsettled by my tension.

I left it behind, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention.

These cramped alleys require stealth, not a hulking, scaled beast. My boots move softly over the cobblestones, and I keep one hand near the hilt of my blade—habit born from countless hunts.

The flicker of torches illuminates a few corners, revealing anxious faces.

Most people have retreated indoors, shutters barred.

A hush blankets this place at twilight, broken only by the occasional cough of a merchant or the soft weeping of a child.

Whenever I appear at the edge of someone’s vision, they shrink away.

My obsidian skin and black armor speak volumes: Dark Elf.

Danger.

I ignore their fearful stares, forcing my gaze ahead.

My mind throbs with that familiar ache—an unrelenting pressure that has nagged me ever since I drew close to these villages.

Each step I take heightens the uneasy sense that I’m drawing nearer to what I seek.

A part of me hums with anticipation, though I can’t decide if it’s triumph or dread.

Elira. The name resonates like an unspoken promise.

I round a corner, entering a narrow lane lined by crooked buildings.

A handful of stalls remain open here, though the vendors watch me as if expecting violence at any moment.

Their half-lit signs squeak in a faint breeze.

One sells stale bread, another battered utensils.

The largest stall near the center of the street offers trinkets and dubious potions, its owner an old woman who stares with hollow eyes.

A tense hush falls the instant they notice me.

I keep my head high, posture stiff, letting my cloak drape over one shoulder to partially conceal my swords.

There’s no need for a confrontation unless someone decides to be foolish.

Yet my attention is not really on these humans.

My focus is on the subtle tingle of magic prickling at the base of my skull—a sense I’ve come to associate with her.

Through the Overlord’s conditioning, I learned to detect lingering sorcery, though it’s far from perfect.

Tonight, it flares bright as a beacon in a storm.

My fingers tighten around the hilt at my side.

I sense illusions in the air, faint but unmistakable.

It’s as if the dusk itself has begun to warp around a single presence, hiding them from plain sight.

She’s here.

I press forward, stepping beneath a sagging awning.

In the half-light, I spot a lone figure drifting between stalls.

Hooded, with a faint shimmer of distortion around her edges, so slight most eyes would miss it.

My heart kicks against my ribs.

Every detail aligns with the rumors: a woman traveling alone, obscuring herself in illusions.

That prickle intensifies.

Elira.

She glances over her shoulder—I catch her profile under the hood, just enough to see the curve of her cheek.

The moment our eyes meet, a jolt ricochets through me.

I expected a spike of triumph, but instead there’s something else—a flicker of raw, inexplicable awareness.

Her gaze widens, and I sense that she recognizes my presence instantly.

How? My illusions are minimal, and I approach like a living shadow.

Yet she senses me.

Time seems to stretch in that heartbeat of mutual recognition.

Then she pivots, slipping into a side alley.

I curse under my breath and quicken my stride, weaving past the empty stalls.

Nearby merchants scuttle back as I pass, whispering hurried prayers.

I pay them no mind; my entire being locks onto the fleeting shape of the hooded woman.

My breath comes faster, adrenaline flooding my veins.

I recall the Overlord’s directive: Seize her.

Bring her alive. That was the command, carved into my brain as law.

So why does a tremor of reluctance thread through me?

She leads me through narrow, twisting alleyways.

The disordered arrangement of these market stalls forms a crude maze of crates, broken carts, and piles of rotting produce.

Her illusions cast flickers of movement that vanish if I try to focus on them, but I push beyond the phantoms. A sense of inevitability beats in my chest. This chase can’t last.

At last, we emerge onto a small courtyard littered with debris—splintered boards, torn sacks, and a few deserted carts.

The remnants of an ill-fated marketplace transaction.

Torchlight flickers from a single bracket on the wall, enough to reveal that we are alone here.

The few souls who might normally traverse this route at dusk have cleared out.

Elira stops short near one upturned cart, chest rising and falling as though she’s weighing her options.

Tension crackles between us in the gloom.

My blood thunders in my ears.

I see the faint glimmer of illusions still coiling around her, a haze that tries to camouflage her form.

But up close, I glimpse more details—the line of her jaw beneath the hood, the silver streak that frames her face.

She’s beautiful in a way that rattles my composure, not with overwhelming grace, but with a fierce presence that draws my gaze.

For a second, we stare at each other.

My mouth goes dry, an unfamiliar reaction.

The Overlord’s conditioning tries to clamp down, urging me to strike fast. But something about her roots me in place, a silent war raging behind my eyes.

She shifts her weight, one hand lifting.

Magic radiates from her palm in a subtle swirl.

“Stay back,” she warns, voice trembling on the edge of desperation.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Her tone sends a pang through my chest. There’s no arrogance, no malevolence.

Only fear and a quiet determination.

I recall the Overlord’s pronouncements: She’s a threat.

Her power must be contained.

Yet here, in the half-light, she seems more cornered prey than cunning predator.

I draw one sword, letting the steel catch the flicker of the torch.

“Elira,” I say, tasting her name on my tongue.

It reverberates through me, stirring that strange ache at my core.

“I have orders to bring you in.”

She exhales sharply, illusions rippling around her face.

Now I see the tension in her jaw, the flicker of resolve in her eyes—those eyes, a deep violet hue that seems to glow with suppressed magic.

“You’re the Overlord’s enforcer,” she murmurs, voice tight with loathing.

“The one everyone fears.”

I should relish that fear, but the hint of accusation in her tone pierces me.

My grip on the sword tightens.

“I am Vaelin Duskbane.” The formal words taste hollow, yet I force them out.

“If you come quietly, I won’t harm you.”

A bitter laugh escapes her.

“You think I believe that? The Overlord’s blade, sparing the life of a Purna? I’ve seen your kind hunting humans for sport. Why would I trust you?”

Frustration flares in me.

I know the cruelty of my people toward humans.

I’ve witnessed it, carried out some of it under orders.

Yet something about her accusation stings deeper than it should.

“I serve a purpose,” I say tersely, stepping closer.

“I don’t kill without reason.”

She recoils as I approach, magic sparking around her fingertips.

A swirl of power shapes itself into faint illusions—phantom shapes flickering at the corners of my vision.

One resembles a monstrous creature with fangs, another a serpent coiling near my feet.

I clench my jaw, ignoring them.

“Your illusions won’t stop me,” I warn.

Her gaze narrows. “I can do more than illusions.”

Before I can blink, she thrusts out her hand, releasing a surge of force that knocks me off balance.

I stagger back, boots sliding on the cobblestones.

A fresh wave of adrenaline spikes in my veins.

She’s strong, a detached part of me notes, impressed despite the situation.

She’s not the typical witch, dabbling in trifling illusions.

This power is raw, potent.

My sword snaps up, deflecting a second blast of magic that crackles around the blade.

The courtyard’s debris scatters, shards of wood clattering across the stones.

I lunge forward, seeking an opening.

She ducks, nimble as a dancer, illusions swirling to obscure her exact position.

I slash at the hazy outline, but it dissolves under my blade, leaving me slicing empty air.

“Damn it,” I hiss, pivoting to track her movement.

She reappears a few steps away, chest heaving.

The illusions flicker—she’s losing her grip on them.

Perhaps the extended chase has taxed her magical reserves.

Or maybe she’s simply panicked.

I charge again, hoping to overwhelm her before she can conjure a more dangerous spell.

She braces, eyes widening, and tries to raise another wave of force.

This time, I anticipate it, twisting aside so the brunt of her magic slams into a toppled cart instead.

Wood explodes in a shower of splinters.

In one fluid motion, I swing my sword down in a controlled arc, intending to knock her unconscious with the flat if possible.

The Overlord wants her alive, after all.

She manages to duck, but not fully—I catch her shoulder, sending her spinning.

She gasps in pain and tumbles to the ground, cloak tangling around her legs.

Pinning her would be easy now.

I move in to seize her arms. But the moment my fingers graze her wrist, a jolt of energy courses through me, electric and unsettling—like static that sears my skin from the inside.

A half-formed image flares in my mind: stone claws scraping rock, followed by the sound of a distant, anguished roar.

Gargoyles. My breath falters, knees buckling under a surge of inexplicable terror and longing.

That mental chaos is all she needs.

She slips from my grasp, rolling across the cobblestones.

By the time my head clears enough to refocus, she’s on her feet, one arm cradling her bruised shoulder.

Anger burns in her gaze, but there’s also a flicker of…

conflict? I sense she’s grappling with something, but I can’t name it.

We lock stares again in the torchlit gloom.

My pulse thrashes. I should lunge, end this chase.

Yet that flicker of awareness from earlier returns—an odd, magnetic pull.

My chest tightens, a sensation strangely akin to longing.

Why? I’ve faced purnas before, all cunning illusions and frantic spells, none of them stirring this confusion.

“Elira,” I murmur, feeling her name pulse through me.

“It doesn’t have to be like this.”

She presses a hand to her temple, as if warding off her own dizziness.

“You don’t understand.” She steals a glance at the single flickering torch, its flame sputtering in the growing night wind.

“You serve a master who wants to control me, to use my power for conquest. I’d rather die than become his pawn.”

Something in me twists.

I recall the Overlord’s words: She will tip the balance of power in Oshta.

Harness her or destroy her.

A portion of that vow rings hollow now, hearing her say it so plainly.

Yes, Rython Vatoris wants her under his thumb, wants to shape her magic to further his ambitions.

Another wave of guilt stirs in me.

Why is this so difficult?

I tighten my jaw. “I have my orders.”

Her laugh is brittle, pained.

“Orders. Right.” She glances past me, as though weighing the possibility of flight.

But the courtyard’s exits are narrow, and I’m blocking one.

She stands in the center, cornered by toppled carts and walls.

The tension thickens.

Resolving to end this, I surge forward one more time, sword at the ready.

She reacts instantly, summoning an incantation I can’t quite decipher.

The air warps around her, a swirling distortion.

Space-Time magic? The Overlord’s intelligence claimed she could manipulate reality itself.

A wave of dread and awe crashes over me.

I drive forward, stepping into the distortion, blade extended.

My mind reels as the world blurs.

For a disorienting heartbeat, the cobblestones under my feet shift, stretching like molten wax.

My sense of direction snaps in half—left becomes right, forward bleeds into sideways.

Nausea clenches my gut.

I fight it, forcing one step after another, determined not to yield.

Elira stumbles too, though she stands at the heart of the distortion.

She’s no master of this art yet.

I see panic flicker across her features.

If she can’t control her magic, it might tear us both apart.

My muscles strain, fighting an invisible gravity that presses me from different angles.

In that moment, our gazes lock again.

Despite the swirling chaos, I see her eyes fill with fierce resolve—tinged with sorrow.

She won’t let me take her.

The realization cuts deep.

A pang of regret stabs at me.

Why am I hesitating?

With a cry, she hurls the distortion outward, forcing me to stagger back.

The alley behind me snaps into sharp relief, normal space reasserting itself.

The force knocks me onto one knee, sword clattering from my grip.

My vision spins, dread clawing at my throat.

This is no simple illusion; she’s actually warping the fabric of reality around us, if only briefly.

By the time I scramble to my feet, the distortion dissipates.

The courtyard reappears in its ordinary dimensions, the torchlight flickering.

Elira is gone, the space where she stood empty except for the swirl of her cloak fluttering on the ground.

She must have seized that moment to slip away, perhaps using illusions or a short teleport-like shift.

My heart pounds, fury and relief tangling in a knot that leaves me breathless.

Snatching up my sword, I whirl, scanning the gloom.

The corners are empty, the stalls abandoned.

A few echoes of footsteps sound far down an alley, but I can’t confirm they’re hers.

She vanished like a phantom.

A ragged exhalation escapes me.

I press a hand against the wall, trying to steady my trembling limbs.

Anger wells up—anger at losing my quarry, anger at the meltdown of clarity in my mind.

But there’s also a flicker of something undeniably tender in my chest, a sense of wonder at the power she wields.

It’s dangerous, yes, but it’s also enthralling.

Focus. The Overlord’s voice rings in my memory, commanding me to remain vigilant.

We’re closer than ever.

I just faced her, albeit briefly, and nearly had her in my grasp.

Next time, I must not falter.

But why did I falter?

The question needles me.

Her presence conjured a swirl of contradictory emotions: the compulsion to fulfill my duty, overshadowed by a baffling urge to protect her.

The memory of her wide eyes, filled with both fear and defiance, burns in my mind.

I shake my head violently, as if the gesture can dislodge these conflicting thoughts.

“Damn it,” I growl under my breath, stepping away from the wall.

The torch sputters overhead, casting erratic shadows on the cobblestones.

I brush dust from my cloak, cursing my momentary weakness.

Next time, I won’t allow such confusion to disrupt my purpose.

Footsteps approach from behind.

My sword whips up, poised to strike.

An older man, presumably a local merchant, freezes, hands raised in surrender.

“Please, don’t hurt me,” he pleads.

“I heard commotion, came to see if… if everything’s all right.”

I lower the blade slightly, swallowing my anger.

“Mind your business,” I snap, though not as harshly as I could.

My mind whirls. This man likely saw nothing beyond me standing alone in a wrecked courtyard.

Still, I can’t risk him spreading tales.

He nods frantically, stepping back.

“Yes, sir, I—I’ll go.” He darts away, footsteps echoing along the alley until they vanish into the hush of the marketplace.

Alone again, I pace the courtyard’s perimeter, searching for any hint of Elira’s escape route.

A few footprints in the dust, some scuff marks near the collapsed cart.

Nothing definitive. My gaze lifts to the rooftops.

Could she have climbed?

Unlikely with that injured shoulder.

She got away. A flare of both frustration and reluctant admiration sears me.

Finally, I force myself to leave, sword sheathed, shoulders taut.

My body hums with leftover adrenaline, a faint tremor running through my fingers.

Elira’s face lingers in my vision—the way her brow furrowed, the parting of her lips when she recognized me.

The Overlord’s warning resonates again: She is the key to harnessing the gargoyles.

Or the spark that frees them.

The brief surge of empathic sympathy I felt for her gnaws at me.

If I captured her now, perhaps the Overlord would force her to unleash unimaginable destruction.

But is that any better than letting her roam free, possibly triggering a new war or a gargoyle uprising?

I grunt, rubbing the heel of my hand against my temple.

This moral quandary is foreign territory for me.

Typically, I have orders, I carry them out.

No conflict.

Leaving the deserted courtyard, I retrace my steps through the silent stalls.

A few curious onlookers dart behind crates when I pass.

I make no effort to reassure them.

My pretense of calm is fragile enough.

Soon, I reach the open area where the zalkir stands, shifting from foot to foot in clear agitation.

It senses my unrest.

As I mount, the creature snorts, tossing its scaled head.

“Yes, I know,” I mutter, stroking its neck.

“She was here, and I lost her.” The zalkir rumbles as if chastising me.

I can’t deny I feel the same self-reproach.

The night air feels oppressive as we trot away from Yarrowby Market.

A few torches flicker on the outskirts, revealing anxious villagers peering from shutters.

They see me pass, their dread-laden eyes reflecting the torchlight, but I pay them no mind.

My objective lies elsewhere, along the path Elira has taken.

Once outside the market’s boundaries, I guide the zalkir into a loping canter along a dirt road.

The moon hangs low, partially obscured by drifting clouds.

My gaze sweeps the darkness for any sign—shadows shifting, footprints left behind.

If she’s clever, she’ll hide from open roads, relying on illusions.

But illusions can’t mask everything, especially if fatigue sets in.

She won’t have the strength to maintain them endlessly.

Wind whips against my cloak, stinging my cheeks.

The events of the last hour spin in my head, refusing to settle.

Our scuffle replays in flashes: her fierce eyes, the crackle of her magic, the way my chest constricted when I touched her.

I recall that jarring surge of images—stone claws and roars, tethered to a part of me I barely comprehend.

Did her presence trigger it, or is something else at play?

A shiver runs through me.

The Overlord insisted my heritage is nothing special.

They’re just rumors, he claimed.

Pay them no heed, Vaelin.

But I’ve seen glimpses.

I feel them in my bones.

Riding deeper into the countryside, I realize how quiet the world seems. No travelers roam at this hour, no farmers tend fields.

Even the usual chirping of insects feels subdued, as though the land itself senses the tension.

My mind drifts back to that odd flicker of longing—like the ghosts of desire swirling in my chest when I faced her.

Could it be just a momentary fascination?

A trick of her illusions?

Or is it something else, a resonance between her magic and the secrets buried in my blood?

I grit my teeth, forcing my thoughts to realign.

Focus on the mission.

The Overlord wants her subdued.

She’s proven formidable but not invincible.

She’s untrained in harnessing the full might of her Space-Time magic—her attempt nearly spun out of control.

If I can corner her again, be more prepared for that distortion, perhaps I can knock her unconscious, slip the Overlord’s binding crystal around her wrist, and end this chase once and for all.

The question remains: Will I do it without hesitation?

The conflicted swirl in my gut suggests otherwise.

Something about the way her gaze mirrored my own confusion—like she sensed the same strange tether.

I catch myself scanning the dark horizon for a sign of her.

The farmland stretches into rolling meadows, dotted with scattered copses of trees.

She might have taken refuge among them, or carried on to the next village.

A gust of wind brings the tang of damp earth to my nostrils, a reminder that storms often brew in these plains at night.

If one hits, tracking her will become exponentially harder.

Clucking my tongue, I urge the zalkir to pick up the pace, the creature’s claws digging into the packed dirt.

Moonlight reveals faint wagon ruts, but I see no fresh footprints or horse tracks.

She’s traveling on foot; she can’t outdistance me forever.

Yet time is not on my side.

The Overlord expects swift results.

He might dispatch additional squads if I tarry too long, and I’ll lose my chance to capture her alone.

The Overlord can be savage with his subordinates who fail.

We press onward for half an hour, hooves echoing in the emptiness.

Every so often, I pause to listen, hoping for a clue—a rustle in the brush, a flash of illusions.

Silence. My earlier anger morphs into a heavy sense of disappointment I can’t fully explain.

It’s as if I wanted to speak with her, even beyond the chase.

I recall that fierce look, her unwillingness to yield, and a sliver of admiration threads through me.

She’s no coward.

Eventually, I come upon a fork in the road.

One branch leads northeast, the other northwest. Both vanish into the gloom.

I dismount, crouching to see if the mud or gravel shows footprints.

The faint moonlight reveals only well-worn tracks from past travelers, no sign of recent passage.

I swear under my breath.

She could’ve easily taken to the fields or a hidden path, avoiding roads altogether.

A sense of futility grips me.

Perhaps I should rest and renew the search at first light.

My body still trembles from the Space-Time distortion, my head pounding with each pulse of blood.

Driving myself forward in this state might lead me astray.

My training warns that exhaustion dulls the senses, guaranteeing mistakes.

Letting out a reluctant sigh, I guide the zalkir off the road.

We find a shallow depression at the base of a hill, shielded by a copse of spindly trees.

It’s not ideal, but it offers some shelter from prying eyes.

I tether the beast loosely, allowing it to graze on the sparse grass.

Then I sink to the ground, back against a trunk.

My gaze drifts to the moon, half-shrouded behind clouds.

The stillness of night settles in, broken only by the soft grunt of the zalkir.

My thoughts revolve around Elira’s face, her voice, the raw power she brandished.

Why do I keep replaying that fleeting contact when our hands grazed?

A strangled mix of guilt and longing churns in my gut.

I’m supposed to be unflinching, forged for duty.

Yet the memory sparks a warm flutter under my ribs, like an ember of something I can’t name.

She’s your target, I remind myself sternly.

Nothing more. If I fail to capture her, the Overlord will find someone else to do it, likely someone without my restraint.

Then she might face a far harsher fate.

That realization sours my tongue.

Despite the night’s chill, sweat beads on my neck.

My entire life has revolved around following orders, submerging personal desire in the Overlord’s will.

But now, that rigid certainty falters.

Why does it matter if she ends up in the Overlord’s hands?

Because a part of me—some seed of decency I thought long crushed—knows it would be disastrous for her, for others, perhaps for the entire realm.

Something about her essence calls to me, urging me to deviate from the path of cold obedience.

The notion unsettles me to my core.

I press the heels of my palms against my closed eyes, willing the confusion to fade.

The Overlord’s conditioning taught me to extinguish rebellious thoughts.

But they surge now, unstoppable as a rising tide.

Perhaps capturing her is the lesser evil compared to letting her roam free and risk the gargoyles’ release.

Or perhaps I can’t bear to see her bound in Orthani’s dungeons, forced to serve a master who revels in cruelty.

Stop, I order myself, heart racing.

This is madness. She’s a fugitive, a threat.

My duty is clear. The unwelcome swirl of attraction or pity must not deter me.

Next time we meet, I’ll be prepared.

The memory of her parted lips, the softness in her gaze just before she unleashed that distortion…

I grit my teeth, banishing the thought.

Focus.

Lightning flickers on the horizon.

A storm brews, likely to hit by dawn.

The wind rustles the sparse leaves overhead.

I sigh, settling into a guarded posture.

Sleep is tenuous, but I need at least some rest. I force my eyes shut, ignoring the turmoil that wracks me.

Maybe with a brief reprieve, I’ll regain the clarity demanded of me.

In the hollow hush of midnight, her face drifts behind my eyelids again, refusing to leave me in peace.

A pang of yearning flutters in my chest—nothing I’ve felt before, not in all my years of violence and unwavering loyalty.

It’s maddening. If the Overlord knew, he’d stamp out this weakness, remind me of the punishments for betrayal.

The night stretches on, every minute a battle against these disquieting emotions.

Ultimately, exhaustion claims me, pulling me into a fitful doze.

My last conscious thought is of Elira—her trembling voice, the fear and strength mingled in her gaze—and the strange, impossible hope that she might be more than just a mark to deliver.

Or perhaps I’m reading illusions into illusions.

Either way, tomorrow brings another chase, another chance to corner the elusive witch.

And next time, I vow, I won’t let her slip away so easily—no matter how my heart or my heritage conspires to undermine me.