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13

ELIRA

A single iron gate looms at the base of Orthani’s fortress, its bars slick with nighttime rain.

My heart thunders as I press myself against a half-collapsed wall across the narrow courtyard, scanning for guards.

Two Dark Elf sentries stand to the left, each gripping a halberd whose blade flickers with faint arcane light.

I swallow hard. It’s almost midnight, and the city’s swirling fog clings to the streets like a shroud, muffling footsteps and lending an eerie hush.

Drawing a trembling breath, I reach inward for my magic.

The tingle of illusions and space-time power dances just beneath my skin, battered by weeks of exertion but ready if I push hard enough.

I came here to rescue Vaelin.

The vow propels me forward.

No matter the cost.

My coven would call this insanity—creeping into the Overlord’s stronghold, risking capture or worse.

But after reading half a day’s worth of broken texts on sealing gargoyles, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Vaelin’s captivity would spell doom for us both.

The Overlord’s monstrous hold on him is tightening.

If Vaelin slips fully into that twisted gargoyle nature, all hope might vanish.

I still shiver remembering how I learned of Vaelin’s predicament.

Rumors from travelers trickled in: the Overlord summoned him back to Orthani, punishing him for his failure to capture me.

Then a hushed courier from an unnamed source reached my coven’s outskirts, bearing a message that Vaelin was imprisoned within the fortress walls, locked in a battle against some vile conditioning.

My heart clenched reading those words.

Despite the suspicion from the coven, I refused to let fear stop me.

He saved me once. Now it’s my turn.

Lightning snaps across the clouds overhead, briefly illuminating the fortress’s towering spires.

The guards at the gate glance upward, momentarily distracted.

Taking my chance, I shape a thin veil of illusions around myself—warping the dim courtyard into a deeper swirl of shadows.

My illusions aren’t perfect; if the guards stare too hard, they’ll see through me.

But with the rolling fog and flickering torches, I hope it’s enough.

I slip across the muddy ground, careful to avoid stepping on loose rubble that might crunch underfoot.

My heart roars with each step, pulses of adrenaline fueling me.

A few paces from the gate, I pause, inhaling the sharp scent of wet stone.

Focus. I weave a faint trick of air manipulation, coaxing the wind to howl from behind the guards.

They turn, halberds at the ready, attention pulled away from my path.

With a trembling exhale, I slide through the narrow gap at the edge of the portcullis.

The illusions swirl around me like a watery distortion, almost dissolving under my pounding nerves.

Once inside, I duck behind an upturned cart by the fortress’s side, pressing a hand to my racing chest. I’m in.

The courtyard behind the gate is a sprawling space lined with stables and storerooms. Lanterns sputter in the drizzly wind.

Most of the Overlord’s troops presumably rest or patrol deeper inside, but pockets of guards roam here.

Each passing minute intensifies the risk of discovery.

I recall Vaelin’s whispered descriptions of the fortress layout from our tense nights on the run—he once admitted to me how the Overlord’s throne room sits in the highest tower, with a labyrinth of corridors beneath.

Vaelin’s private quarters or a small cell might lie deeper underground, or in some side corridor.

I pray the rumors are correct: that he’s not simply locked away in public view, but hidden somewhere only a few loyal enforcers can access.

Another lightning flare reveals a broad doorway to the left, flanked by ominous statues of coiled serpents.

That might lead to the lower levels.

Steeling myself, I scramble toward the doorway, illusions wavering as raindrops pelt my hood.

When I reach the threshold, I peer inside.

The corridor slopes downward, lit by arcane torches that cast purplish glows on the slick walls.

My nostrils pick up a faint odor of damp stone and something sharper, like chemicals or potions.

This has to be the right direction.

I press forward, footsteps echoing lightly on the polished floor.

The corridor branches off at intervals, each passageway suffused with that same eerie violet light.

Occasionally, voices drift from behind closed doors—harsh instructions or clipped conversation.

I flatten myself against the wall whenever I sense movement, illusions pressing me into the gloom.

My shoulder twinges from old bruises, but I ignore the pain.

I have to find him.

At last, I reach a heavy iron door etched with runic symbols.

Faint arcs of energy shimmer across it—a ward, no doubt.

Two Miou soldiers stand guard, each armed with swords and wearing the Overlord’s sigil on their breastplates.

My illusions waver dangerously close to them, but they don’t stir.

Perhaps they’re half-asleep or not expecting an intruder.

I bite my lip, considering my options.

I can’t barge in. They’ll raise an alarm.

Instead, I close my eyes and mold a subtle transformation in the lock mechanism—coaxing the metal inside to warp, as though it’s worn with age.

If it works, the bolt might slip free.

Gently, I guide my magic into the door, feeling my pulse hammer with each second.

The transformation flickers in my mind’s eye, turning rigid steel pliant enough to shift.

A soft click echoes.

The lock slides open.

My heart leaps. The soldiers perk up, glancing around, halberds angled.

I freeze, illusions hugging me close, and hold my breath.

They exchange uncertain looks.

One tries the door’s handle from the outside, confusion obvious when it doesn’t move.

I realize I must have only half-unlatched the bolt.

Damn.

Slowly, they settle back, likely dismissing the noise as the fortress’s old bones.

Grateful for their complacency, I inch closer to the door, magic swirling in my fingertips.

Carefully, I push the door inward just a crack, enough to slip through.

The illusions ripple around me as I squeeze past. The guards remain oblivious, though my heart nearly explodes when one shifts his stance mere inches from me.

Inside, the air grows even colder, the wards etched along the walls glowing with sinister intensity.

A broad staircase descends into flickering gloom.

Each step resonates with my pounding pulse.

This must lead to the deeper cells…

or the Overlord’s arcane chambers.

My thoughts drift to Vaelin’s battered face, the quiet torment in his eyes.

I have to believe he’s still alive.

I take the stairs, illusions flickering with each new wave of tension.

At the bottom, a dim hallway stretches left and right.

At the far end, an iron gate stands open, revealing a small antechamber beyond.

Low voices murmur, though I can’t make out details.

I focus on the timbre—one belongs to Charon Verthis, the Overlord’s advisor.

My gut twists. If he’s here, Vaelin might be close.

Pressing myself to the wall, I inch down the hall.

The flickering torchlight reveals etched runes upon the floor—like snaking lines that lead toward whatever arcane experiments the Overlord conducts.

Whispers swirl in my head about his rumored cruelty and twisted breeding programs. My teeth clench.

They’re hurting him.

When I reach the gate, I peer into the antechamber.

Charon stands by a small pedestal, fiddling with an orb that pulses red—an orb reminiscent of the one others described, the cursed device that augments the Overlord’s hold.

My heart clenches. So it’s true.

Then I see Vaelin. He’s on his knees, arms shackled by metal cuffs etched with runes, the chain looped through a ring in the floor.

His midnight hair hangs limp across his face, obsidian skin marred by bruises.

My chest tightens at the sight of him, battered and pale.

Gods…

Charon’s voice drifts across the stone.

“The Overlord wishes you to remain here until we hear from the Red Purnas. You’re not to leave again. You should have run away the first time you got the chance to hide in that watch tower. Once they have a lead on Elira’s location, you’ll be unleashed. Consider this your… penance for letting her go.”

Vaelin raises his head, eyes dazed with pain, but flickers of raw defiance burn behind them.

He says nothing, lips pressed tight.

Charon sets the orb on the pedestal, adjusting its position so the swirling red energies reflect on Vaelin’s face.

A spasm contorts Vaelin’s features, like something inside him writhes in response.

My nails dig into my palms. That’s the Overlord’s vile method for controlling him.

Heart pounding, I slip through the gate, illusions hugging me close.

Charon must sense something, because he pauses, brow furrowing as he surveys the antechamber.

I hold my breath, praying he dismisses the flicker in the torchlight.

Seconds feel like eons.

Eventually, he exhales, seemingly unconvinced of any intrusion, and returns his focus to Vaelin.

I seize the moment. Without hesitation, I unleash a soft wave of illusions around Charon, conjuring a swirl of phantom movement at the corner of the antechamber.

He spins, startled, reaching for a dagger at his belt.

Vaelin’s gaze snaps to the swirling illusions, confusion crossing his face.

Charon marches toward the illusions, cursing under his breath.

I slip behind him, silent as a ghost, and hasten to Vaelin’s side.

Up close, I see the lines of pain etched into his features.

He senses me before he sees me—his eyes widen in shock.

My illusions fade around my face so he can recognize me.

“Elira,” he chokes out, voice raw.

My chest constricts with relief, but there’s no time to dwell.

“Stay quiet,” I whisper, fumbling with the shackles.

They’re etched with wards, likely keying into Vaelin’s gargoyle side.

I press trembling fingers to the runes, coaxing my transformative magic to warp the metal.

Sparks of feedback sting my palms, but I clench my teeth.

Come on, come on.

Vaelin shudders as the orb’s glow intensifies.

“He’s… in my head,” he rasps.

“I can’t fight it much longer.”

A pang stabs my heart.

I glance back. Charon stands at the opposite corner, slicing through illusions with an arcane blade.

He’ll realize the trick any second.

I force more power into the shackles, ignoring the searing pain in my veins.

The metal groans, runes flickering.

At last, with a snap, the left cuff pops open, then the right.

Vaelin collapses against me, free of the chain but drained.

Charon whirls, eyes blazing with fury.

“Purna,” he snarls, brandishing his dagger.

The orb’s red glow pulses behind him, saturating the room in malevolent light.

Vaelin tries to stand, but his legs buckle.

I can’t fight both Charon and that orb’s power in normal ways.

Desperation pushes me to a choice.

I recall the deeper technique I studied in the old texts about Space-Time magic, a method of creating a bubble of slowed or folded reality.

If I can isolate Vaelin and me from Charon’s immediate influence, we might sever the Overlord’s hold.

But it requires contact—deep, intimate contact.

Gritting my teeth, I haul Vaelin upright, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Trust me,” I murmur, voice trembling.

He meets my gaze, half delirious, but there’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

“I— I do.”

Charon lunges forward, dagger raised, but I call upon my Space-Time magic, shaping it with trembling hands around Vaelin’s body and mine.

The ambient air distorts, swirling like a vortex.

The chamber’s walls blur, the orb’s red glow fracturing into streaks of color.

My illusions meld with the raw warp of time, forging a bubble that encloses us.

We stand at the bubble’s center, reality warping in a slow ripple.

Charon’s face contorts on the edge of the distortion, his movements halting to a crawl.

The arcs of red light from the orb sputter at the boundary, unable to penetrate.

My heart seizes with exertion—this technique devours power, mental and physical.

Vaelin groans in my arms, trembling as if struggling with unseen chains.

“Elira… I can still feel… the Overlord in my mind.”

I steel myself, pressing my palm to his chest. “Focus on me,” I plead, letting illusions and space-time currents merge within us.

It’s an intimate weaving—my essence pouring into him, forging a link that might drown out the Overlord’s conditioning.

His eyes flutter shut, sweat beading on his forehead.

“You don’t know what you’re risking,” he gasps.

“That orb… it’s bound to my gargoyle blood.”

My throat tightens.

“I won’t let him twist you,” I vow.

“We do this together.”

Space and time swirl like a vortex around us, everything else receding into a haze.

My magic crackles, a ferocious hum that merges with his battered aura.

Where my hands touch his skin, a current of energy sparks.

Fear pounds in my veins—this is almost like stepping into the same torrent that created gargoyles long ago.

But I recall the texts describing how melding energies can temporarily sever external bonds.

This must work, or we lose him.

Vaelin’s breath hitches, his eyes flicking open.

A raw vulnerability glimmers there, desperation and gratitude.

Our gazes lock, and an undeniable pull draws us closer, merging magic with something deeper, older—an ache that’s built between us for weeks.

My lips part, a tremor wracking me as I lean in.

This time, it’s not simply desire.

It’s a frantic bid for unity, a final stand against the Overlord’s chains.

Our mouths meet, the kiss igniting with a surge of magic that pulses through every nerve.

My illusions shimmer, melding with the space-time bubble, forging a pocket outside normal constraints.

The world warps into a dreamlike haze.

Vaelin’s arms slip around my waist, his grip fierce as though clinging to the last thread of sanity.

My body hums with an otherworldly force, the swirl of his gargoyle side brushing my consciousness.

It’s frightening, a savage current of power, but also enthralling.

I pour my calming energy into him, weaving illusions that shield his mind from the Overlord’s voice.

Each brush of our lips crackles with tension—electric, intense.

Sweat beads on my eyebrow as I concentrate, forcing the Overlord’s hold away.

Let me in, I urge silently, channeling everything I have into stabilizing him.

His mouth claims mine in a desperate motion, half pain, half raw need.

Our hearts race in unison.

The corridor’s edges vanish.

We stand in a place that exists only for us, the bubble of magic offsetting time and space.

Charon’s outraged shouts fade to distant echoes.

The orb’s red glow flickers, overshadowed by the shimmering union of illusions and gargoyle-born chaos swirling within Vaelin.

He groans against my lips, tension radiating from his muscles.

“I can feel it—the Overlord’s anchor loosening. Don’t stop…”

My chest clenches at his plea.

I deepen the kiss, one hand tangling in his hair, the other pressed to his chest, magic coursing from me to him.

His skin warms, the rigid lines of his face easing as he finally wrests free from the Overlord’s mental lash.

Our closeness transcends mere physical sensation; it’s a fusion of our essences, a chaotic swirl that redefines us both.

A ragged moan slips from me, half agony, half exaltation, as the power surges.

The link is nearly overwhelming—a kaleidoscope of emotions and memories.

I sense Vaelin’s pain from childhood, his forced conditioning, and that gnawing fear of losing control to the gargoyle side.

In return, he feels my longing for freedom, my terror of the prophecy, and the flickering hope I cling to.

Our bodies tremble with the strain, pressed tight, hearts pounding in a frantic rhythm.

Magic pulses around us, drowning out the rest of the world.

The sensation is frighteningly intimate, deeper than any normal union.

I gasp into his mouth, tears spilling from my eyes as I absorb the raw anguish he’s carried, and he cradles my face like I’m the only tether he has left.

At some point, it becomes too much.

My illusions waver, the space-time bubble flickering.

But I sense victory: the Overlord’s mental hold recedes, a door slammed shut.

Vaelin shudders, burying his face against my neck, exhaling in a shaky rush.

“Elira… you did it.”

I feel the shift in his aura—his gargoyle nature subdues, no longer yanked by that malevolent orb’s power.

Relief floods me, tears blurring my vision.

Our lips seek each other again, gentler this time, a quiet affirmation of the bond we’ve forged in this swirl of magic and vulnerability.

We cling together in the hush, the storm within us settling into a breathless calm.

Slowly, the reality around us reasserts itself.

The corridor’s walls come back into focus, the flicker of torches once more visible.

Charon’s outraged shout pierces the air from beyond our bubble, and I realize how precarious our situation is.

The Overlord’s fortress won’t remain oblivious for long.

I break the kiss, panting.

Vaelin’s eyes glisten with a mixture of awe and lingering pain.

“We have to go,” I whisper, voice raw.

He nods, still clutching my arm.

“I can stand.” Gingerly, he tests his footing, wincing but determined.

“Your magic… it cut off the Overlord’s anchor.”

I help him upright, illusions flickering around us again.

Charon stands on the far side of the antechamber, spitting curses as he struggles to push through the receding space-time distortion.

The orb’s red glow flares wildly, but it no longer envelopes Vaelin’s mind.

“Come on,” I murmur.

“We won’t have long before reinforcements arrive.”

Still trembling with aftershocks of our spiritual unity, we dart toward the corridor.

Each step is unsteady—Vaelin leans on me, his side evidently throbbing.

My illusions swirl, half-formed, but enough to confound Charon for precious seconds.

We push up the staircase, hearts pounding, the distant clank of armor echoing.

The Overlord’s fortress stirs like a hornet’s nest.

I grit my teeth.

“We’ll never reach the main gate unnoticed. Is there another way out?”

Vaelin hisses a breath, forcing away pain.

“There’s a side passage in the eastern wing—old catacombs leading to a cliff exit. Risky, but better than fighting an entire garrison.”

We careen into the upper corridors, ignoring the startled cries of a lone guard we pass.

My illusions flicker, cloaking us in partial invisibility.

The guard yells an alarm, but we’re already gone, footsteps echoing down a side hallway.

Dark Elf soldiers converge from the main corridor, halberds gleaming.

I tighten illusions around us like a shifting veil.

A staccato of shouts bounces off the stone walls.

Vaelin takes the lead now, guiding me through narrower passages, each lined with battered doors and dusty alcoves.

At a T-junction, he wavers, color draining from his face.

I steady him, heart clenching at how weak he seems. Even severed from the Overlord’s control, he’s not invincible.

“Here,” he mutters, pointing to an iron door scrawled with archaic runes.

A guard stands there, half-dozing.

He spots us too late—Vaelin lunges, driving an elbow into the guard’s helm, knocking him unconscious.

I stifle a cry at the ferocity in Vaelin’s eyes, a flicker of gargoyle feralness.

But it fades as he sags against the door, panting.

We push through. A damp spiral staircase plunges downward, air growing musty and cold.

No torches light this way; it smells of abandonment and old secrets.

The door slams shut behind us.

“They’ll follow soon,” Vaelin mutters.

“We must hurry.”

The catacombs unfold in a maze of crypt-like chambers, stone sarcophagi littered with cobwebs, columns cracking under centuries of neglect.

My illusions glow faintly, offering just enough light to navigate.

Each step makes me even more anxious—one misstep, and we could be buried or cornered.

When footsteps resound behind us, a chorus of shouting soldiers, Vaelin curses.

“They’re close.”

My mind races.

“We can try my space-time magic again, but I’m nearly drained. I don’t know if we can hold them off for long.”

He grimaces.

“We might not need a full distortion. Just enough to confuse them while we slip outside.”

I nod, adrenaline spiking anew.

We pick up pace, ignoring the burn in our muscles.

The labyrinth eventually narrows into a tunnel that slopes upward, water dripping from the ceiling.

At the far end, I glimpse faint moonlight seeping through cracks in a grated exit.

We’re almost free.

But the Overlord’s soldiers pour down the staircase behind us, their voices echoing off the catacomb walls.

I sense them closing in, illusions or not.

Blood roars in my ears.

One last push.

We break into a run, feet splashing in shallow puddles.

The exit looms—an ancient grate secured by heavy iron bars.

Vaelin coughs, pressing a hand to his side.

I dash forward, illusions swirling as I press my palms to the grate.

Transformative magic sparks again, turning the bars pliant.

My arms tremble with exhaustion, but I force the metal to warp just enough for us to squeeze through.

“Go,” I rasp. Vaelin slips past the twisted bars first, then reaches back, yanking me through.

The catacomb air behind us explodes with shouts as the soldiers round the final bend.

We have seconds.

The moment we’re both outside, I let the bars snap back, sealing the gap.

The soldiers pound on them from within, cursing and slashing.

Vaelin and I stagger away, panting in the moonlit wilderness.

We stand at the end of a steep ravine, the fortress walls towering above us on an outcrop.

The swirl of night air stings my lungs.

We’ve escaped—barely.

I slump against the damp rock, illusions flickering into nothingness.

Vaelin rests a trembling hand on my shoulder.

For a few heartbeats, neither of us speaks.

Our gazes meet, raw emotions swirling between us: relief, shock, and the lingering echo of our magical union.

My cheeks heat, recalling how intimately our essences merged.

A flush of something like longing washes over me, even in this precarious moment.

Vaelin’s voice, low and hoarse, cuts through the hush.

“Elira… you freed me from that hold. I… I owe you my life.”

I swallow, tears threatening.

“Don’t say it like that. I couldn’t bear leaving you there, not after…” My words trail, the memory of our desperate closeness still vibrating in my chest.

He steps closer, brushing off the pain in his side.

“That power you unleashed—space-time illusions and your life magic—it severed the Overlord’s chain. I can still feel his presence at the edges, but it’s muted, like a door slammed shut.”

I nod, emotion thick in my throat.

“It won’t last forever. He’ll try again. That orb?—”

Vaelin’s mouth quirks into a grim line.

“I know.” He lifts a hand, tentatively brushing knuckles across my cheek.

It’s such a tender gesture, surprising me.

My pulse quickens. “Still… you gave me a chance to fight back.”

My lips curve into a weak smile.

“We can’t linger here. The fortress’s forces will fan out soon. We need to put distance between us and Orthani.”

He sighs, jaw tight.

“Yes, you’re right.” Then, quieter, “Thank you. For risking everything.”

I reach up, curling my fingers around his.

The memory of that frantic, intimate magic enveloping us resurfaces in a wave of warmth and sorrow.

“We’ll figure out the rest once we’re safe.”

With difficulty, we navigate along the ravine’s edge, the fortress looming behind us like a dark omen.

Torches flicker atop its walls, and faint shouts drift on the wind.

Rain drizzles anew, soaking our clothes.

Vaelin clenches his teeth, pressing a hand to his ribs as we pick our way over jagged rocks.

Once or twice, he slips, nearly toppling, but I steady him, illusions flickering to hide us from any passing patrol.

At last, we reach a narrow trail descending the ravine, each step precarious on the wet stone.

Lightning flashes overhead, revealing the vast plain below, dotted with stunted trees.

The city lights of Orthani glimmer to the south, a stark reminder of what we just left behind.

We need to vanish from their grasp.

Eventually, the slope levels out into a small hollow sheltered by rock overhang.

Exhaustion crushes me, knees trembling, illusions nearly spent.

Vaelin leans heavily on a boulder, gasping for air.

I rummage for a scrap of cloth to bandage his side anew, ignoring my own trembling limbs.

He flinches as I press the cloth to his reopened wound.

“I’m not sure I can keep going tonight,” he admits, voice laced with frustration.

“I’m half convinced we should keep moving, but my body disagrees.”

My heart twists at his vulnerability.

“We’ll rest here until dawn,” I say softly.

“I’ll cast illusions to conceal us. We can’t push further without collapsing.”

He nods, eyes clouded with pain.

I offer my half-torn cloak as a makeshift cover on the rocky ground, and we settle side by side, battered bodies craving warmth.

The drizzle peters out, leaving a chill in the air.

Shadows shift across Vaelin’s face—his obsidian skin bruised and scraped, yet somehow still achingly familiar.

A lump forms in my throat as I recall the intense intimacy we shared in that corridor.

My cheeks flush. We might never speak of it plainly, but the memory hums between us.

The Overlord’s fortress, the shimmering bubble of space-time magic, the desperate melding of our powers, and that frantic, consuming kiss.

It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a forging of something deeper.

“Elira,” Vaelin murmurs, drawing me from my thoughts.

His voice sounds small in the hush of the ravine.

“I don’t know how to repay what you did.”

I close my eyes, resting my head against the damp rock.

“Don’t repay me. Just… stay true to yourself. Don’t let the Overlord warp you again.”

He lifts his hand, hesitates, then gently takes mine.

Warmth pulses where our fingers intertwine.

Neither of us mentions the improbable bond growing between us, but it fills the silence with unspoken promise.

In this dire world of monstrous threats and endless betrayal, maybe we can find some measure of hope.

We rest, hearts still thrumming from near disaster, bodies pressed for warmth against the cold night.

My illusions weave a faint shimmer around the hollow, hiding us from prying eyes.

Lightning arcs in the distance, the sky rumbling a muted threat.

I remain hyperaware of Vaelin’s labored breathing, the faint brush of his shoulder against mine.

Despite everything, a sense of solace nestles in me.

At some point, our gazes lock in the flickering shadows, a silent acknowledgment passing between us.

We’re bound by more than circumstance now.

That second moment of intimacy in the fortress changed everything.

Fear still coils in my stomach—fear of what the Overlord will do next, of the Red Purnas’ looming threat, and of the gargoyles that stir in Protheka’s depths.

But for the span of this night, I cling to the fragile connection that might see us through.

Eventually, exhaustion drags us under.

Vaelin drapes an arm around me, his body trembling slightly from cold and pain.

I whisper a minor warming spell, letting illusions cradle us in a cocoon of heat.

Our shared breath mingles in the quiet, and I drift into a fitful sleep, lulled by the steady drum of his heartbeat beneath my ear.

We’re alive. We’re together.

For now, that’s enough.

Morning will bring new horrors.

The Overlord’s forces surely hunt us already, and the fragile severance of Vaelin’s bond might not hold forever.

Yet in the hush of predawn, as we lie entwined under a battered cloak, I dare to hope we’ve carved out a chance—to stand against the Overlord, to thwart the Red Purnas, and perhaps to shape a fate that defies the prophecy’s grim promise.

When my eyes finally close, I dream of silver wings and bright illusions, of Vaelin’s murmured gratitude, and the faint glimmer of sunrise across an uncharted horizon.