Page 15

12

VAELIN

I stand within Orthani’s grand audience chamber, the obsidian pillars rising like dark sentinels around me.

Each column is engraved with runic patterns, swirling lines that catch and reflect the faint violet glow of arcane torches.

The floor beneath my boots gleams with polished black marble, making me feel as though I’m poised on the edge of a bottomless lake.

Normally, I might find a grim comfort in this austere environment—this is where I’ve reported countless victories to the Overlord.

But today, dread coils in my gut like a living thing.

Two lines of Dark Elf soldiers stand to either side of the long aisle leading to the dais, their gazes hooded, expressions carefully blank.

They know better than to whisper when Rython Vatoris awaits.

My cloak, still damp from the relentless rains, feels heavy on my shoulders, and my side protests every movement.

The half-healed wound throbs, reminding me of how far I’ve strayed from my usual composure.

Overlord Rython stands before his throne in the chamber.

The seat itself is carved from black stone, inlaid with silver filigree depicting serpentine shapes—emblems of his chosen patron among the Thirteen.

He’s draped in rich indigo robes, platinum hair combed sleek down his back, and pale eyes that radiate detached cruelty.

By his side slinks Charon Verthis, the advisor who always seems to hover near the Overlord’s ear.

I force myself to keep my stride measured, ignoring the urge to clutch the bandage hidden under my armor.

My heart hammers with anxiety.

I came here because the Overlord demanded it—because I can’t conceal my failures forever.

Perhaps I should have fled after letting Elira go, but where would I hide?

And more importantly…

I still hope to wrest some measure of control from this confrontation, even if the odds are stacked.

As I reach the dais, I bow low, fists crossing over my chest in the Dark Elf salute.

“My Overlord.”

His voice echoes through the chamber, smooth as oil.

“Vaelin Duskbane, at last.” He doesn’t invite me to rise, prolonging the tension.

I remain bowed, forcing myself to endure the humiliation.

“You have been… elusive. And not particularly successful in capturing our dear Purna. Care to explain?”

The question brims with menace.

I swallow hard and straighten.

“She’s resourceful,” I begin, careful to keep my tone neutral.

“The Red Purnas have also interfered, complicating my pursuit.” I hesitate, searching for the right words.

“They’ve grown bold, even offering me an alliance of sorts.”

Rython’s features remain impassive, but a faint twitch at his lips betrays his interest. “The Red Purnas.” He steps closer, robes brushing the polished floor.

“Indeed, they have become a nuisance. But I recall giving you a single, unambiguous order: Capture Elira, no matter the cost. Is that not correct?”

A chill trickles down my spine.

“Yes, Overlord.”

His eyes narrow, glacial.

“And yet she remains free. Perhaps you have an explanation for your… oversight?”

My pulse thrums. No easy explanation will appease him.

“She had the help of monstrous creatures spawned by a Wildspont,” I say, half-truthful.

“I was wounded, and she escaped.”

A terse silence follows, broken only by the hiss of the distant torches.

Charon, lurking to the side, smirks, evidently pleased to see me squirm.

Rython tilts his head, gaze raking over my bandaged side as if noticing it for the first time.

“Show me your injury.”

It’s not a request. I grit my teeth, unbuckling the top strap of my armor and tugging down my tunic.

The bandage is still spotted with dried blood, the wound beneath partially healed—thanks to my own meager chaos magic and the salves I managed to find.

Rython clicks his tongue.

“You’ve grown careless, Vaelin. Surprising, for someone with your… heritage.”

Something in his tone sets off alarm bells.

He rarely refers to my background directly.

“My wound will heal,” I say, re-securing the straps.

“It’s not lethal.”

He raises a pale eyebrow.

“Perhaps not, but your performance is lacking.” He steps forward, circling me with a predatory air.

“And I have little patience for failure.”

The unspoken threat coils around my throat.

I force my gaze forward, refusing to show fear.

He halts behind me, so close I sense the faint whisper of his robes against my cloak.

“Charon,” he calls softly.

“Bring me the artifact.”

Charon dips his head, turning to a small obsidian chest perched on a side table.

From it, he withdraws a polished crystal sphere, similar to but larger than the scry-stones used for communication.

But this one pulses with a dark light, flickers of red dancing beneath the surface.

My heart lodges in my throat.

I’ve seen it only once before, years ago, when the Overlord first tested my loyalty through a painful ritual.

“Overlord—” I begin, but Rython’s hand claps down on my shoulder, cold magic seeping through his touch.

“Hush,” he murmurs. “Let us see how deeply your loyalty runs after all this time. If you’ve forgotten your purpose, we must refresh it. Recalibrate your devotion, so to speak.”

Panic flares.

I recall the agony that orb once inflicted, how it latched onto my mind, intensifying the Overlord’s magical conditioning.

My body tenses, instincts screaming to fight or flee.

But the lines of soldiers stand around us, and I’m in no state for a futile stand.

I am caged.

Rython moves around me to face me directly, cradling the sphere in one hand.

Its glow casts a distorted crimson reflection on his platinum hair.

“You see, Vaelin, it’s time you remember who created you.” He lifts the sphere, holding it at eye level.

“All those old rumors about your lineage—did you think them nonsense?”

My blood runs cold.

I’ve suspected something for years, glimpses of gargoyle-like visions in nightmares, flashes of monstrous strength that occasionally burst free in the heat of battle.

But hearing him reference it so boldly sends ice through my veins.

“What did you do to me?” I rasp.

Rython’s smirk curves cruelly.

“Nothing you need to fear—if you stay loyal.” He inclines his head, allowing the orb’s flickering light to dance across my features.

“When Protheka was young, our people warred with monstrous creatures known as gargoyles. Some believed them extinct or dormant, but I knew better. I acquired certain… relics of their power. Through dark experiments, I blended that power with Dark Elf blood, forging a hybrid warrior. You.”

My breath hitches.

“That’s impossible.” But my heart races, adrenaline spiking.

The nightmares, the strange surges of primal rage, the roars echoing in my mind…

they align too perfectly with what he’s saying.

Gods help me.

Rython continues, a satisfied gleam in his eye.

“You’ve always wondered why your skill exceeds that of other Dark Elves, why your body recovers from wounds more swiftly, why you have those… episodes of confusion. The gargoyle blood in your veins isn’t dormant. It thrums just beneath the surface.”

The chamber seems to shrink, the pillars looming like malevolent watchers.

I swallow convulsively, mind spinning.

Gargoyle blood. Hybrid creation.

My entire identity warps beneath the weight of that revelation.

I am part monster.

The Overlord holds the orb out, letting it hover mere inches from my chest. Immediately, a wave of stifling energy washes over me.

I gasp, knees threatening to buckle.

My gargoyle side—whatever that means—roils in response to the orb’s malignant pulse.

It feels as though something inside me tries to claw free, and the Overlord’s magic presses it down, shaping and controlling it.

“Feel that?” Rython murmurs.

“This sphere is keyed to the very essence used in your making. A failsafe, if you will, ensuring your obedience. Whenever you waver, I can remind you who holds the leash.”

Pain lances through my chest, a searing ache that radiates outward to every limb.

I gasp, struggling to remain upright.

My mind floods with chaotic images—stone wings, deep caves, monstrous roars.

I see a blood-soaked ritual table in a dim laboratory, the Overlord’s face twisted with triumph.

Did that happen? Memory or illusion, I can’t tell.

Agony overrides my senses.

Soldiers stand in silent formation, unmoved by my pain.

Charon looks on with cold fascination, arms folded.

Rython’s lips curl in satisfaction.

“So you see,” he says softly, “if you harbor any misplaced sympathies, they’ll be burned out. I want Elira delivered. If you can’t manage it, I’ll find someone else to handle you—and your powers.”

Tears sting my eyes.

I clutch at the sphere, trying to push it away.

My hand meets that pulsing surface, and the jolt of magical feedback sends me staggering.

My side wound flares, fresh blood seeping under my armor.

I bite back a scream, shame lashing me.

I am helpless.

The Overlord lowers the orb, though its dark radiance still glimmers ominously.

Relief floods in, though my muscles quake with lingering tremors.

I nearly sag to my knees, breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Do you understand now?” Rython asks, each syllable dripping with control.

“Your leash is short. Your purpose is singular: bring Elira to me, or watch your own monstrous side tear you apart.”

I want to protest, to shout that I won’t be his puppet.

But the memory of that agony, the flicker of gargoyle essence surging beneath my skin, robs me of defiance.

Instead, I force myself to stand straighter, though tears of pain blur my vision.

“I… I serve,” I choke out, the words like broken glass in my mouth.

His grin expands. “Good. Now, go. Recover your strength, and then return to the hunt. The Red Purnas are moving quickly, so you’d best outpace them. If they capture Elira, you’ll have even more to answer for.”

I nod numbly.

My entire body resonates with the aftershock of the Overlord’s cruel demonstration.

I glimpse Charon’s smug face as I turn away.

The soldiers remain silent, forming a corridor of judgment as I limp back toward the chamber doors.

Passing through that gauntlet of stoic guards, I feel more exposed than I ever have.

Usually, I stride out of Orthani’s throne room with confidence, orders in hand.

Today, I leave battered, reeling from the revelation of my own monstrous heritage.

Part gargoyle. The thought lodges in my mind like a splinter.

Beyond the chamber’s massive doors, the hallway arches overhead, lit by faint arcane orbs.

My breathing is shaky, my legs unsteady.

Each step stings the wound in my side, intensifying the swirl of helplessness.

I picture Elira’s face—a fleeting balm to the dread.

Then I recall the Overlord’s promise of what will happen if I continue to fail.

He’ll unleash that cursed orb again, twisting the gargoyle blood inside me until I break.

I manage to reach a small alcove near the fortress courtyard, leaning heavily against a stone column.

My vision swims, and I press a hand to my wound, warm blood slicking my palm.

Damn. In my frayed state, I risk collapsing.

I need medical attention, or at least a fresh bandage.

A figure approaches—one of the fortress healers, robed in black.

She keeps her hood low, features hidden.

“Vaelin,” she says quietly, “I saw you leaving the throne room. You’re injured.”

I stiffen, reluctant to show vulnerability, but I can’t dismiss her offer.

“Yes,” I reply tersely.

“Help me rewrap it.”

She leads me to a narrow bench, guiding me to sit.

With deft hands, she peels back the old bandage, wincing at the fresh bleeding.

“The Overlord does not treat his loyal soldier kindly,” she murmurs, voice laced with subtle defiance.

I cast her a sharp look, but she averts her gaze.

Perhaps she sympathizes with me, or maybe she’s just stating the obvious.

I keep silent, letting her apply salve and fresh wrappings.

When she finishes, I test the wound gingerly, exhaling a shaky breath.

“Thank you,” I say, voice hollow.

She nods, expression impossible to read under her hood.

“Go carefully, Vaelin. Whispers run rampant about you and the Purna. The Overlord might not be your only threat.” With that cryptic remark, she slips away, leaving me with my battered thoughts.

Once my head clears enough to walk, I leave the fortress.

The fortress gates swing open, revealing Orthani’s sprawling city: black stone buildings, narrow streets patrolled by Dark Elf soldiers, and towering spires that pierce the storm-laden sky.

My zalkir stands in the courtyard stable, snorting impatiently.

Its scales glint under flickering mage-lights, and it paws at the ground as I approach.

“Easy,” I murmur, stroking its neck.

My mind still whirls with Rython’s revelations.

Gargoyle blood. I’ve been a walking abomination all this time.

I mount the zalkir carefully, my side stiff with new bandages.

The stable hands avert their eyes, clearly sensing my foul mood.

Guiding the beast through the iron gates, I pass into Orthani’s main thoroughfare.

Citizens part nervously, aware of my status as the Overlord’s enforcer.

Usually, that authority bolsters me.

Now, it feels like a chain coiled around my throat.

I head for the city’s outskirts, each clatter of hooves echoing a hollow feeling in my chest. The Overlord wants results.

The Red Purnas want an alliance.

And Elira… she’s out there, trying to protect her coven from both threats.

My battered sense of duty wars with my memory of her warmth, her kindness, her impossible resilience.

Focus. The Overlord’s ultimatum leaves no room for moral debate.

If I don’t deliver Elira, he’ll tighten his monstrous hold, possibly unleashing the gargoyle side of me with that cursed orb.

My breath grows ragged.

I can’t let him do that.

I can’t become a mindless beast.

Once outside Orthani’s walls, I urge the zalkir into a swift canter.

The air tastes of damp stone and ashes from the city’s many furnaces.

On the horizon, rolling plains stretch out, dotted with flickers of lightning in the distance.

A fierce wind tugs at my cloak, reminding me of the storms I braved days ago.

My thoughts drift to the orchard meeting the Red Purnas insisted upon.

I told them I needed time to gather a squad, but after seeing the Overlord, I have no illusions about forging a real alliance with them.

Rython simply wants me to use them if it helps trap Elira, and then discard them.

Perhaps I can sabotage their plans instead.

But the Overlord’s new hold over me complicates everything.

I recall how he used the orb to incite my gargoyle essence—a vile feeling of raw power and savage hunger.

Even now, my blood simmers with an unfamiliar heat.

If he triggers it again, I might lose all sense of self.

A wave of despair washes over me.

I’m enslaved by my own veins.

As the plains open wide, I slow to a trot, letting the zalkir navigate a winding path.

In the distance, I spot the silhouette of a lonely watchtower perched on a rise, an ideal place to shelter for the night and gather my wits.

I angle the mount in that direction, mind churning with conflicting loyalties.

Memories of Elira surface again, unbidden.

The tremor in her voice when she insisted she’d never betray her coven, the way her eyes flashed when we fought side by side against monstrous spawn, her gasp against my lips in that ruin.

She stirs something human in me, something that defies the Overlord’s shaping.

My heart tightens with longing—and fear that this bond will only doom us both.

Dusk settles by the time I reach the watchtower’s base.

It’s a squat structure of weathered gray stone, ringed by scraggly bushes.

A battered wooden door stands half off its hinges.

Dismounting, I lead the zalkir inside the outer yard, tethering it to a collapsed cart.

Then I test the watchtower door.

It creaks open under my push, revealing a musty interior.

The spiral stairs inside lead upward to a partial second floor, though the roof appears to have caved in long ago.

With a few quick spells, I conjure faint violet orbs of chaos-light, illuminating dusty corners.

No signs of bandits or travelers.

Good enough for a night’s rest. I gather broken timber scraps and dry grass to kindle a small fire in the corner.

My limbs tremble with exhaustion—physical and emotional.

The Overlord’s revelations have left me raw.

Collapsing onto a section of fallen beam, I press my palms to my temples, eyes sliding shut.

What do I do now? I can’t deliver Elira to Rython’s clutches, but if I refuse, he’ll use that cursed orb to break me, unleashing a monster inside I barely comprehend.

My entire existence feels like a sick joke—made from gargoyle blood to be a perfect killer.

The Overlord’s puppet.

The fire crackles softly, bathing the watchtower’s crumbling walls in flickering light.

The air smells of damp stone and charred wood.

My side thumps with dull pain, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in my chest. Would Elira look at me with the same empathy if she knew I’m partly gargoyle?

Maybe she’d recoil. Maybe she’d see only a monster.

My throat constricts.

I rub my arms, trying to chase away the chill creeping through me.

Outside, the wind whistles through cracks in the stone, as though echoing the despair curdling in my gut.

My eyes drift to the small fire, remembering the first time I saw Elira’s illusions dance around flames.

She was so graceful, even in her panic.

My breath catches, a pang of longing flickering behind my sternum.

I should drive these thoughts away.

Yet, I can’t. Each recollection of her is a lifeline against the Overlord’s suffocating hold.

Perhaps that’s why I cling to them.

She stands for everything I was trained to suppress: compassion, autonomy, the possibility of forging my own destiny.

I imagine her fiery eyes if I told her about the gargoyle blood.

Would she scorn me, or would she see the broken man behind the Overlord’s creation?

A frustrated growl escapes my lips.

I’m pinned on all sides: The Overlord demands results or threatens to unleash my monstrous nature.

The Red Purnas circle like vultures, wanting to manipulate me or wipe me out.

The gargoyles themselves stir beneath the earth, a ticking bomb.

And at the center, Elira holds a power that might seal them or free them.

My role? Her captor or her ally.

Possibly both, in a twisted sense.

I rake my fingers through my hair, ignoring the dull throb in my ribs.

Eventually, I force myself to rummage in my pack for a ration of dried meat and stale bread.

Chewing mechanically, I stare at the wavering flames.

The Overlord’s ultimatum still burns in my mind: Bring her, or lose yourself.

The horror of that orb’s presence lingers, making my skin crawl.

When I finish eating, I rise, pacing the tiny space.

The second floor is half collapsed, the stairs leading to a rubble-strewn platform open to the sky.

I climb them anyway, seeking fresh air.

At the top, the night wind buffets my face.

Dark clouds shift above, revealing glimpses of stars.

Orthani’s distant lights glow on the horizon, a reminder that Rython’s seat of power never sleeps.

I lean on the stone ledge, breathing deep.

My side protests, but I welcome the sharp pain—it’s real, grounding me.

What next, Vaelin? The question has no easy answer.

I suspect I’ll track Elira again, but not to deliver her like a lamb to slaughter.

Instead, I’ll warn her, help her, or…

gods, I don’t know. The Overlord’s orb is a looming threat.

Even if I find her, can I protect her from him?

Protect myself?

An unexpected wave of hopelessness surges.

I press my fist to my chest, recalling that moment in the ruined temple, the closeness we shared.

A flicker of warmth seeps into me, a memory of how her breath hitched when she whispered my name.

That bond might be my only chance at redemption.

But if the Overlord tightens his hold, I might become a monster that destroys her.

The very thought makes me quake with revulsion.

Lightning flashes far off, painting the nightscape in stark white.

A thunderous rumble follows, distant but resonant.

I close my eyes, letting the wind whip my hair around my face.

My tears slip free, hot against my cheeks, though I quickly rub them away.

I am not weak. But each breath tastes of despair.

At length, I force myself to descend the stairs, returning to my modest fire.

I can’t linger in self-pity.

Dawn will bring another day of searching, another day of playing this deadly game between the Overlord, the Red Purnas, and my own fractured conscience.

I settle against the rubble, letting the fire’s warmth lull my trembling muscles.

The zalkir shifts outside, probably dozing while standing.

Sleep is slow to come.

Every time I drift, I see glimpses of the Overlord’s orb, that malevolent red glow.

I feel the phantom pain of gargoyle essence clawing at my mind, urging me to unleash savage strength.

Then I see Elira’s face—eyes wide, lips parted in a silent plea: Don’t become that monster.

Jarring awake, I realize my fists are clenched, nails digging into my palms hard enough to bleed.

By the time true sleep claims me, the fire has died to embers.

The watchtower’s darkness envelopes me like a grave, and my last coherent thought is the echo of Rython’s voice: You belong to me.

I want to scream that he’s wrong, but the memory of that orb’s agony binds my defiance.

Tomorrow , I think, in the delirium between waking and slumber, I’ll find a way to resist. No matter the cost.

Yet even as the vow forms, a deeper terror lurks: What if my gargoyle blood awakens in full?

The Overlord holds the leash, and I’ve glimpsed the monstrous power thrashing inside my veins.

If that day comes, I might be lost entirely, a hybrid abomination with no memory or mercy.

And that, more than the Overlord’s threats, chills me to the bone.

Exhaustion finally pulls me under, leaving me with nightmares of stone wings and red orbs, illusions melding with scattered memories.

I dream of Elira standing on a precipice, calling my name with tears in her eyes, while the Overlord laughs, orb in hand, yanking a chain attached to my chest. I reach for her, but each step draws me deeper into a labyrinth of shadows.

My heart pounds with the knowledge that if I don’t shatter these chains soon, I will become the monster Rython designed me to be—and in doing so, lose the only glimmer of hope I’ve ever known.

So I sleep, fitful and tormented, the watchtower’s broken walls providing scant shelter from the storm within my soul.