Page 14

“I’d never do that. Gods, Olyssia, you know me.”

She must see the anguish in my eyes because she nods quickly.

“I do. But fear twists people’s minds.”

My gaze drops to the half-empty bowl.

Gargoyles, the Red Purnas, the Overlord…

all converging on me.

My hand trembles on the spoon.

“I can’t let the gargoyles roam free to slaughter innocents,” I say quietly, “nor can I allow the Red Purnas or the Overlord to use me as a weapon.”

She brushes a stray curl from her brow.

“So what do we do?”

My throat constricts.

“If the gargoyles truly wake, we must be ready to seal them again. That means I have to learn more about the spell that trapped them in the first place—how the Purna did it long ago. Maybe we can replicate or strengthen it.” My lips press together.

“The Matriarch has records, I’m sure, but she’s always been reluctant to share the full details. The cost was high. Many purnas died casting that magic. Still, it might be our only chance.”

Olyssia nods, though apprehension lines her face.

“I’ll help you. But you’ll have to convince the Matriarch and elders to trust you enough for that knowledge.”

I grimace.

They already question my loyalty.

“I’ll do whatever it takes.” I set the bowl aside and reach for her hand, holding it tight.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

She squeezes back, offering a small smile.

“Rest a bit more. Then we’ll approach the Matriarch together. We might have to wait until morning. The elders are convening about new wards as we speak.”

I nod, leaning back against the pillow.

Anxiety hums in my veins, but I’m too weary to argue.

“Yes… morning,” I repeat, letting the word settle.

My eyelids grow heavy once more.

Olyssia strokes my hand reassuringly, a silent gesture of support.

Sleep claims me in fitful waves, but in the dark corners of my dreams, I see flickers of gargoyles shattering their stone prisons, wings scraping across cavern ceilings.

I hear roars that rattle my bones, sense chaos swallowing the land.

And behind it all, Vaelin’s voice calls my name—a plea or a warning, I’m not certain.

When morning finally creeps into my chamber, the anxiety remains, sharper now.

I rouse to find Olyssia dozing in a nearby chair, arms folded.

I shift, wincing at my sore muscles.

My mind instantly recalls the day’s urgency: gargoyles stirring, Red Purnas on the warpath, the Overlord’s relentless pursuit.

I can’t let fear paralyze me.

Easing off the bed, I stretch my stiff limbs, rotate my injured shoulder.

It still hurts, but at least I can move.

My clothes are wrinkled, dusty from travel and conflict.

I rummage in an old chest, pulling out a fresh tunic and leggings, then lace up my boots.

Olyssia stirs at the noise, blinking blearily.

“You’re up early,” she mumbles, yawning.

“Did you sleep at all?”

“Some,” I answer, tugging the tunic over my head.

My hair is a tangled mess, so I quickly braid it, ignoring stray wisps.

“We have work to do.”

Her gaze sharpens with resolve.

“Right. Let’s see the Matriarch.”

We exit my chamber, the corridor more active than last night.

I sense the tension thrumming in the air—purnas whispering in worried clusters, novices darting around with armfuls of supplies for wards.

They eye me warily, some with open suspicion.

My gut twists. They wonder if I’m still on their side.

At the Grand Hall, we find the Matriarch surrounded by elders and a few senior purnas.

They appear deep in discussion about ward placements, lines of protective runes, and the possibility of Red Purna infiltration.

The sight of me hushes their chatter.

Lumeria inclines her head, expression guarded.

“Elira, you’re awake. Feeling stronger?”

I nod.

“Yes, Matriarch. I need to ask you something crucial.” My voice wavers, but I press on.

“The gargoyles are stirring, and we have limited time before they might break free. I want access to the old records detailing how they were sealed before. I need to understand the spell.”

A ripple of uneasy murmurs passes among the elders.

One of them, Elder Falene—whose presence I failed to notice earlier—steps forward, tall and austere.

“Those records are restricted. The rituals used then were dangerous beyond measure. We nearly lost our entire coven in that conflict.”

My heart clenches.

“I know the risks, but if the gargoyles awaken fully, countless lives will be lost. We must prepare. The prophecy… it points to me, doesn’t it?” I glance at Lumeria, hating the tremor in my voice.

“If I’m meant to seal them or free them, I’d rather choose sealing. But I need knowledge to ensure I don’t trigger the opposite.”

Lumeria’s brow knits.

She trades a somber look with the elders, then sighs.

“You speak sense, child. Yet many here fear giving you such power, worried about your… experiences beyond the coven. They’re unsure where your loyalty lies.”

I stiffen.

“My loyalty is here. I’m not colluding with the Overlord or the Red Purnas. I returned to protect our people, not betray them.”

Falene’s sharp gaze probes me.

“We can’t ignore the possibility you’ve been swayed by outside influence, intentionally or not. The cost of misusing that ritual is catastrophic.”

Frustration surges.

Olyssia steps forward, an edge in her voice.

“She’s risked her life to warn us. Shouldn’t that count for something? The gargoyles won’t wait while we bicker. And the Red Purnas certainly won’t.”

Yvara nods in cautious agreement.

“We can’t remain paralyzed by doubt. Time is slipping away.”

Sarene steeples her fingers, expression grave.

“Perhaps a compromise. We allow Elira partial access. We guide her carefully, ensuring she doesn’t attempt the ritual alone.”

A tense pause follows, then Lumeria lifts her hand, signaling for quiet.

“We will do this in measured steps,” she pronounces.

“Elira, gather your strength. You may access certain relevant documents under direct supervision of the elders. Falene and Yvara will oversee. If you truly mean to seal the gargoyles again, let us ensure you have the knowledge to do so responsibly.”

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?

A faint brush of air signals someone entering.

I raise my head to find Olyssia in the doorway, face creased with concern.

“I heard about your run-in with Bialla,” she says gently.

“Don’t let her words consume you. She’s just afraid.”

I nod, tears pricking my eyes.

“All of them are afraid. So am I. The Red Purnas, the Overlord, the gargoyles… I’m just so… tired.”

She moves to my side, sliding an arm around me.

“We can’t control their fear, but we can stand firm together. I believe you’ll find a way to seal the gargoyles if they rise. You’ve always been stronger than you realize.”

Her unwavering faith cracks open my chest. I lean into her shoulder, letting a single tear slip free before I sniff and compose myself.

“Thank you, Olyssia. I need that reminder right now.”

She returns the embrace, murmuring reassurances.

A flicker of hope warms me.

Despite the suspicion riddling the coven, I’m not alone.

Olyssia stands by my side, and the Matriarch hasn’t cast me out.

We might yet overcome the darkness.

Still, Vaelin’s face hovers in my thoughts—his wounded expression, the urgent need in our shared moment.

My cheeks burn remembering that stolen intimacy.

A complicated tangle of longing and guilt pulses.

He’s out there, wrestling with his own loyalties.

I sense it.

But for now, I can’t dwell on him.

Duty calls me to defend my coven from the Red Purnas, brace ourselves for the gargoyle threat, and possibly unravel the spells that once bound them.

I close my eyes, inhaling Olyssia’s comforting presence.

The path ahead is steep, littered with enemies and uncertain allies, but at least I’ve reclaimed a measure of trust here.

When I speak again, my voice is steadier.

“We’ll gather what we can. And if the Red Purnas strike first… we’ll be ready.”

Olyssia nods, determination shining in her eyes.

“Yes. We’ll face them, together.”

Outside, distant footsteps echo through the corridors, carrying the pulse of an anxious coven.

I tighten my grip on Olyssia’s hand, silently vowing that no matter what storms rage beyond these walls, I won’t bow to fear.

Despite the swirling chaos—despite the prophecy, the Overlord’s ambitions, and the Red Purnas’ fanaticism—I remain resolute.

My people need me.

And so, with hope and dread braided in my heart, I brace myself for the battles to come, uncertain whether I can truly seal the gargoyles or shield my coven from betrayal.

One thing is clear: time is running out, and each choice I make may determine the fate of Protheka, along with the fragile bond blossoming in my chest—one linked to an obsidian-skinned Dark Elf I can’t quite banish from my thoughts.