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15

ELIRA

I wake at dawn to the soft light filtering into our cavern, the distant echoes of gargoyle roars still buzzing along my spine.

My eyes flutter open to find Vaelin’s arm draped across my waist, his breathing slow and warm against my shoulder.

My heart clenches at the memory of everything we’ve endured—battered bodies, an uncertain alliance, and a bond that has grown deeper than I ever thought possible.

For a moment, I let myself revel in his closeness.

Despite the cold stone beneath us and the tang of damp air, a faint glow of contentment stirs within me.

He’s here. We’re alive.

We have a chance, however fragile, to shape our fate.

But the prophecy looms, tangling my stomach in tight knots.

We can’t hide forever.

Gently, I shift, trying not to rouse him.

My muscles ache, bruises from past battles throbbing in protest. The faint light reveals Vaelin’s angular features, silver hair still tangled from restless sleep.

Something inside my chest tightens at the sight of his calm face, free from the torment that usually shadows his eyes.

Part of me wants to linger, to press my lips to his cheek and pretend we have a lifetime of mornings like this.

But reality tugs, reminding me of the chaos waiting beyond these cavern walls.

As I edge away, Vaelin stirs, blinking in confusion until recognition softens his gaze.

“Elira,” he says quietly, voice hoarse.

His arm retracts, as though he’s unsure whether he can keep holding me.

I offer a small, comforting smile.

“Good morning.” My pulse quickens at the intimate memory of our bond, how we fused magic and hearts to break the Overlord’s hold.

The knowledge that I’m part of the reason he’s free both humbles and terrifies me.

If I fail him, if I fail all of us…

No, I can’t dwell on that.

He sits up, wincing at the strain on his ribs.

“Another day,” he murmurs, exhaling a heavy sigh.

“Have the gargoyles grown louder?”

I pause, straining my hearing.

The wind outside the cave whispers over the rocky slopes, carrying no immediate roars.

Yet dread lingers, as though something monstrous prowls at the edge of hearing.

“Not at the moment,” I reply, shaking my head.

“But that doesn’t mean they’re gone. They might be prowling lower terrain. Or resting, if gargoyles even do such a thing.”

He grimaces.

“We should get moving soon.”

I nod in agreement and rise, gathering my battered cloak.

Our meager possessions fit easily into a single satchel.

I’m tucking away a leftover strip of dried fruit when a sudden wave of dizziness hits me, accompanied by a familiar tingle of telepathic magic.

My mind lurches—someone from my coven is reaching out.

“Elira.” The voice resonates inside my skull, urgent and layered with static.

I stagger, leaning against the cavern wall.

Vaelin springs to my side, concern etched across his face.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, brow creased.

I hold up a hand to silence him, focusing on the telepathic thread.

It’s the Matriarch’s voice, crackling with distance and strain.

“Elira,” she repeats, “hear me if you can. The Gargoyle Warlord has emerged. The Red Purnas have allied with the Overlord. They’re marching on—” The connection crackles, nearly slipping away.

I push more focus into bridging the distance, ignoring the pounding in my skull.

“Matriarch, I’m here,” I project silently, heart racing.

“What do you mean the Red Purnas allied with the Overlord?”

Her response is faint, clipped.

“They struck a deal for power. Our wards are compromised. The Gargoyle Warlord has awakened in the old fortress of Ghalarak. He’s leading the others. Elira… the prophecy is culminating. We need you—only you can stand against them.”

Fear coils in my gut.

A fortress, an army of gargoyles, and a twisted alliance between my worst enemies.

My teeth clench. “I’ll come. I’ll bring help. Where are you?”

“Retreating to the mountain pass north of the coven,” she replies, voice laced with desperation.

“We plan to fortify, gather loyal purnas. Hurry.”

Then, as abruptly as it began, the telepathic link severs.

I stumble forward, gripping Vaelin’s arm for support.

A shudder wracks me—my whole body hums with the residual magic of that forced connection.

“Elira, talk to me,” Vaelin insists, eyes dark with worry.

I inhale shakily, meeting his gaze.

“We have no time,” I manage, breath unsteady.

“My Matriarch just contacted me telepathically. The Red Purnas… they’ve allied with the Overlord. The Gargoyle Warlord is awake, leading an army. My coven is in retreat, trying to regroup. She needs me.”

His jaw sets.

“So that’s their plan— combining the Overlord’s resources with the Red Purnas’ inside knowledge. If they harness the gargoyles or pit them against your coven, it’ll be slaughter.”

I nod, swallowing bile.

“We can’t let it happen. The prophecy states I can seal or free them. If the Red Purnas and Overlord seize me, they’ll force me to wield my magic in the worst possible way.” My voice quavers.

I won’t become a puppet.

I’d rather die.

Vaelin’s expression hardens.

“Then we face them head-on, forging alliances of our own.”

A trembling breath escapes my lips.

“Yes. My coven is mustering loyal purnas, but they’ll need more. Humans in nearby villages might help if they realize the Overlord and gargoyles are the bigger threat. Maybe we can rally them. It’s not much, but it’s something.”

He straightens, ignoring the pain in his side.

“I’ll stand beside you.”

For a split second, relief surges in me.

I’m not alone. My lips part, wanting to thank him, but I clamp them shut, reminded we have no time for sentiment.

“Then let’s go,” I say, pulling him by the wrist.

We leave the cavern, stepping into a dawn sky tinged with ominous gray.

The wind scours the rocky slopes, and a faint echo of distant roaring prickles my ears.

A swirl of illusions envelops us as we descend, making our footsteps blend with the terrain.

Each passing hour makes my gut clench in anxiety, every flicker of movement across the mountains suspicious.

Our first stop is a cluster of small farmland nestled in a sheltered valley.

Low stone walls enclose fields of stunted grain.

From a distance, we spot a few human farmers loading up wagons, likely preparing to flee.

The Overlord’s presence in these parts has always been heavy-handed, but gargoyle rumors must have them terrified.

Vaelin and I exchange glances.

“If we can persuade them to join us or at least not ally with the Overlord, it could help,” I murmur.

He nods, though tension radiates off him.

Walking into a human settlement while traveling with a Dark Elf—especially one known as an enforcer—could be disastrous.

But if these humans realize the Overlord is forging pacts with monstrous purnas and ignoring the gargoyle threat, maybe they’ll choose self-preservation by siding with us.

We approach carefully, illusions rippling around Vaelin’s obsidian skin to dull his unmistakable features.

Still, as we draw near, a young farmhand spots us and yelps, dropping a crate of produce.

His alarm spreads quickly.

Within moments, half a dozen villagers gather, crude weapons in hand.

“Stand back!” one man shouts, brandishing a pitchfork, eyes wide.

“We’ve got no quarrel, but we won’t be taken by Dark Elves again.”

My illusions dim, revealing me clearly—just a travel-worn woman, albeit with a swirl of magic in her eyes.

I hold up both palms, voice urgent.

“We’re not here to harm you. Please, listen. Gargoyles have awakened. The Overlord is allied with radical purnas. If you stay, you risk being caught in the crossfire. I can lead you somewhere safer, or help you fortify if you want to fight.”

A ripple of fearful murmurs passes through them.

An older woman with gray-streaked hair steps forward.

“You claim gargoyles are real? Nonsense. That’s children’s tales.”

Vaelin’s jaw tightens.

He steps closer, illusions dissolving enough to show his Dark Elf features.

Gasps erupt. He lifts his hands in a placating gesture.

“I know you have little reason to trust me,” he says, voice low, “but I’ve seen them stir with my own eyes. If you remain unprepared, they’ll sweep through like a storm. And the Overlord won’t protect you—he’s too busy forging alliances with those who want to enslave everyone, be they humans or purnas.”

At his words, the crowd shifts uneasily.

One woman whispers, “But where would we go? We have no safe place.”

Elira and I share a look—my heart aches for these people who cling to a meager existence.

“If you join with my coven or loyal enclaves,” I say, stepping forward, “we can stand against the Overlord, the Red Purnas, and the gargoyles. It’s not a sure victory, but you’ll have a chance. Otherwise, you risk being alone when the armies clash.”

Silence.

Then the old woman sighs, lowering her pitchfork.

“You’re from the purnas, I see it in your eyes. My father told me once they helped travelers hide from the Overlord’s raids. If you’re truly forging alliances… perhaps we’ll try. But we can’t fight. We have only farm tools.”

I force a reassuring smile.

“Every pair of hands helps. If you can gather supplies, we might send you to a safe route. The rest can choose to stand with us or protect families further north.”

Gradually, suspicion ebbs from their expressions, replaced by fear and a faint spark of hope.

They begin discussing among themselves, voices hushed yet urgent.

I guide them to gather necessary provisions while Vaelin stands at my side, his posture stiff, as though expecting betrayal at any moment.

But the villagers seem to sense we aren’t here to enslave or rob them.

We’re urging them to flee or unite.

Time is short. Once we confirm a handful are willing to attempt travel to my coven’s territory, we sketch directions in the dirt, explaining hidden trails.

They vow to move quickly, within a day, packing their wagons and making the journey with what meager animals they can spare.

It’s not a perfect solution—they face danger on the road—but at least they won’t be sitting ducks.

As we depart, a nervous farmhand tugs at my sleeve, voice trembling.

“If… if we see any Dark Elf patrols, what do we do?”

My throat tightens.

“Hide if you can. If they corner you, feign ignorance. Don’t mention us. The Overlord might be busy with bigger ambitions, but his soldiers won’t hesitate to subjugate you. If you must, claim you’re fleeing gargoyle raids.”

He nods, swallowing hard.

I press a small defensive talisman into his hand—one I hastily conjured with leftover energy.

“It might help conceal your presence for a short while,” I murmur.

He offers a trembling smile.

“Thank you. Goddess watch over you both.”

Vaelin and I move away, illusions swirling once more.

We stick to the foothills, each stride quickening as we near the pass leading toward my coven’s territory.

My heart throbs with anxious energy.

The Matriarch’s telepathic summons echoes in my memory: The Red Purnas are with the Overlord.

The Gargoyle Warlord has emerged.

My nightmares spin to life.

Somewhere around midday, we crest a ridge offering a panoramic view of the valley below.

Dark shapes cluster at a distance—hard to distinguish, but it might be gargoyles mustering near an ancient ruin.

My stomach churns. They’re organizing.

Possibly under that so-called Warlord’s leadership.

Vaelin’s eyes narrow, gargoyle essence flickering in his gaze.

I sense his internal conflict, but he keeps stride with me, a grim resolve hardening his features.

“We’ll need more than farmers with pitchforks,” he mutters.

I nod. “My coven has purnas skilled in battle magic, illusions, and protective wards. If the Overlord and Red Purnas unite, we’ll have to gather sympathetic enclaves of humans and maybe lesser-known tribes. Waira, or drifter clans, if we can find them in time.”

He exhales, lips thinning.

“It’s a tall order.”

My heart clenches.

“I know. But what choice do we have?”

We resume our trek, conversation lapsing into tense silence.

By late afternoon, we reach the outskirts of my coven’s domain—jagged mountain paths guarded by hidden wards.

I sense them in the air, subtle vibrations that ripple across my magical awareness.

Usually, these wards are invisible to outsiders.

Now, I see them flicker, partially undone.

The Red Purnas’ betrayal must have compromised them from within.

A cluster of figures waits at a rocky outcrop, all in simple cloaks.

My pulse leaps—these are Purna purnas loyal to the Matriarch, presumably stationed as lookouts.

The moment they spot us, illusions shimmer around them, and they brandish staves.

My illusions fade in response, revealing Vaelin and me plainly.

“Elira!” one of them calls, stepping forward.

It’s Olyssia. Relief fills me at the sight of her fiery curls, though her face is drawn with tension.

Another wave of purnas fans out behind her, expressions wary.

Their gazes snap to Vaelin.

Anxiety flares in their stances.

I raise a hand. “He’s with me!” I shout, climbing the last rocky step.

“We come in peace, to speak with the Matriarch.”

Olyssia rushes over, staff lowered.

“Elira,” she breathes, voice cracking with relief.

“Thank the Goddess you’re alive. The Matriarch’s telepathic summons nearly flattened half the coven with urgency. We thought you might not—” She cuts herself off, glancing sideways at Vaelin.

I place a hand on her shoulder, meeting her gaze.

“We made it. The Overlord and Red Purnas unites. Gargoyles are rising. We have little time.”

Her brow furrows.

“We know. The Matriarch is gathering everyone in the high valley, preparing defenses, but we’re disorganized. Some purnas fled, others refuse to fight. She’s hoping you can tip the balance, especially with… well, the prophecy.” She grimaces, eyes flicking to Vaelin’s obsidian skin.

I steel myself. “I’ll do whatever I must.”

One of the purnas behind Olyssia, a stern-faced woman named Falene, crosses her arms. “And him?” she demands, voice laced with suspicion.

“The Dark Elf enforcer? After everything we’ve heard?—”

Vaelin stands tall, posture guarded.

“I stand with Elira,” he says simply, though tension underlies his words.

Olyssia glances between us, doubt warring with hope in her expression.

I force my tone calm.

“We can’t afford old grudges. Vaelin is free from the Overlord’s control. He helped me. We need every ally to stand against the combined threat of gargoyles, Red Purnas, and the Overlord’s armies.”

A hushed silence follows.

Then Olyssia nods, stepping aside.

“The Matriarch said to bring you straight away. Let’s go.”

We ascend a winding path carved into the mountainside, illusions from the guard purnas rippling to mask us from overhead threats.

The journey is grueling, but adrenaline propels me onward.

Vaelin’s breathing grows shallow, though he stubbornly keeps pace.

My heart twists at the memory of how battered he’s been, how far we both have to push ourselves.

Finally, we reach the high valley—a broad plateau ringed by jagged peaks.

Normally, the coven’s central halls nestle here, wards shimmering around communal gardens and carved dwellings.

But now, signs of conflict scar the land: collapsed walls, scorched patches of earth, and purnas hurrying to reinforce barricades.

A cluster of novices huddles near an improvised infirmary, while a senior witch tends to them with shaky hands.

My throat tightens at the devastation.

Olyssia leads us through the chaos to a large clearing overshadowed by spires of rock.

There, the Matriarch stands with a cadre of elders, each radiating a mixture of dread and resolve.

The moment she spots me, her eyes flick to Vaelin, a fleeting shadow of distrust crossing her features.

Yet she beckons us forward without hesitation.

“Elira,” she greets, voice subdued but warm.

“You received my summons. Good. The situation is worse than we feared. The Gargoyle Warlord—Bladrik, they call him—has awakened in the fortress of Ghalarak. Rumor says he’s begun assembling his kin. The Red Purnas offered the Overlord an alliance, promising him domain over these lands if he helps them subdue or exploit the gargoyles.”

Vaelin stands at my side, fists clenched.

“If that alliance holds, they’ll sweep across Protheka. The gargoyles’ numbers alone might dwarf what your coven can muster.”

The Matriarch nods grimly.

“We’ve lost many purnas to the Red Purnas’ treachery. Our wards have been compromised from within. Humans in the outlying settlements are terrified or fleeing. We must unify any remaining enclaves if we hope to stand a chance.”

I exchange a look with Vaelin, recalling our brief success persuading that small farmland.

We can do more. I step forward, voice wavering with the weight of the prophecy.

“We’ll face them head-on. I’ll gather what loyal Purnas remain, plus any humans or allies who’ll join us. We can’t let the Overlord and Red Purnas harness the gargoyles. The cost would be unimaginable.”

A murmur spreads among the elders.

Some look uncertain, others relieved to see me take the lead.

The Matriarch’s gaze rests on Vaelin.

“And you, Dark Elf? Do you truly stand with us?”

He meets her eyes without flinching.

“I do. The Overlord betrayed me as well—he made me into a monster, but I refuse to do his bidding.” His voice grows tight.

“Elira saved me from his control. I owe her my life. I’ll fight to protect her coven, if you’ll let me.”

A tense hush follows.

The Matriarch studies him, then finally inclines her head.

“Very well. We have no luxury to turn away capable help.”

Relief courses through me, though I sense some elders stiffening at the idea of a half-gargoyle Dark Elf among us.

The Matriarch extends a hand, beckoning me closer.

“Elira, the prophecy has always pointed to you. Whether we like it or not, the final stand revolves around your ability to seal the gargoyles or free them. Right now, the Red Purnas and Overlord want to exploit that power. The Gargoyle Warlord likely wants to destroy you out of vengeance. All converge here.”

A tremor seizes my legs, but I force myself to stand tall.

“I won’t run,” I whisper, voice tight.

“We’ll gather an alliance, stand against them. I might not be fully prepared, but we have no choice.”

Her stern features soften, a flicker of pride in her eyes.

“Then let us begin. We’ll send scouts to the human enclaves, to wandering tribes, even to rumored orcish settlements if they’ll listen. Meanwhile, we fortify what remains of our wards, especially around the pass to Ghalarak. If we can intercept the gargoyle forces there, we might keep them from sweeping across the continent.”

“Thank you, Matriarch,” I say quietly.

“We’ll need your best purnas. I can’t do it alone.”

An elder steps forward—Quelina, her hair pulled tight in a severe bun.

“We’ll stand with you. But remember, the Red Purnas know our tactics. They’ll be ready to counter illusions and transformations. We must be creative.”

Olyssia joins, folding her arms. “Count me in. I’m done letting them terrorize us from the shadows. My flames will keep those gargoyles at bay.”

A flicker of confidence sparks in my chest. I turn to Vaelin.

“It’s time we trust each other completely. No more secrets. If we’re to unify these scattered forces, we need your insight into the Overlord’s tactics, and how the Red Purnas might manipulate them.”

He dips his head in agreement.

“I’ll share everything I know, about supply lines, potential weak points in the Overlord’s armies. As for the gargoyles… my blood might sense them before they strike. It’s an edge, though an unsettling one.”

I nod, ignoring the pang in my heart at that reminder of his cursed heritage.

“Then let’s move quickly. We’ll assign purnas to each region, gather any humans willing to stand with us. The rest can fortify these mountains.”

The Matriarch touches my arm, voice low.

“Elira, we have a plan, but the final piece is the ritual you discovered. If it comes to it—if the gargoyle horde pushes us to the brink—we’ll rely on you to seal them away again, as our ancestors once did. That will require a circle of powerful purnas. Possibly… sacrifices.”

A chill crawls down my spine, recalling the grim details from the scrolls.

“I understand.” My hand slips into Vaelin’s, seeking reassurance.

His grip tightens, silent promise swirling between us.

Within the hour, the plateau hums with urgent preparation.

Purnas rush about, preparing travel kits, marking wards on parchment, studying old tomes.

The Matriarch issues swift commands, dispatching small teams to rally humans or guard strategic passes.

Olyssia volunteers to handle communications, sending flares of elemental magic into the sky as signals.

Quelina organizes novices, ensuring they have basic illusions to cloak vulnerable caravans.

Meanwhile, Vaelin and I gather near a makeshift table outside the largest rock hall.

We pore over a rough map of the region, my illusions lighting the surface as we plot potential infiltration routes for Red Purna forces and the Overlord’s armies.

Vaelin speaks in clipped tones, describing how the Overlord might deploy scouts or set traps.

I note each threat in a ledger, fighting the tightness in my chest.

At one point, Olyssia appears, breathless.

“Elira—some loyal purnas in the far valley managed to convince a band of human travelers to join. They’re heading here with supplies. And a handful of orcish scouts have been spotted near the western ridges. We might persuade them too, if we can prove we’re not their enemies.”

I bite my lip, a flutter of optimism stirring.

“This is good. We might forge a decent coalition if everyone unites.”

Vaelin sets a hand on my shoulder.

“We can do it. We just have to hold off the Overlord long enough. If the gargoyles attack soon, though…” He trails off, the weight of his words unspoken.

We might be overrun.

I muster a nod. “We face them head-on, exactly as the Matriarch said.”

As dusk settles, I stand near the edge of the plateau, gazing at the distant lights of small fires in the valley below.

Each flicker represents another group of purnas or humans converging.

My heart swells with a strange mix of terror and pride.

We’re forging an army from scraps.

Footsteps approach—Vaelin.

He stops beside me, cloak rustling in the wind.

We exchange a somber look.

“We made our choice,” he says quietly.

“To fight. Even if it’s likely we’ll stand against impossible odds.”

I exhale, leaning my head against his shoulder.

“That’s what the prophecy demands, I guess. But it’s our choice too—to save rather than destroy.”

He slips an arm around my waist, gaze distant over the twilit sky.

The hush that follows wraps us in a moment of delicate intimacy.

Despite the swirl of voices behind us, the scraping of purnas hauling supplies, it feels like we’re alone on this cliff, hearts colliding in a single breath.

My mind flashes to the fortress corridor where we first truly connected, the desperate magic that fused our souls.

The memory stirs warmth in my chest, banishing the chill of impending war.

He lowers his voice, so soft only I can hear: “Thank you for trusting me.”

Tears prick my eyes.

“You’ve earned it, Vaelin. Together… maybe we can tip fate in a better direction.”

The rumble of distant thunder echoes across the mountains, or perhaps it’s the roar of gargoyles prowling Ghalarak’s peaks.

Either way, it’s a stark reminder that time is short.

I pull away, squaring my shoulders.

“We should finalize plans with the Matriarch. Tomorrow at dawn, we march to intercept the gargoyles or meet any threat along the pass. We can’t let them break through to the human lands.”

He sets his jaw.

“I’m with you.”

We rejoin the coven’s elders by a large bonfire stoked on the plateau.

Shadows dance across determined faces.

The Matriarch stands at the center, staff in hand, her silver braid swaying in the wind.

She acknowledges our approach with a nod.

“Elira, Vaelin—are we ready?”

I glance at him, then face the gathered purnas.

My voice carries more confidence than I feel.

“Yes. At dawn, we move out. We’ve rallied who we can. The Red Purnas and Overlord might march from the east, the gargoyles from Ghalarak. We’ll intercept them in the valley if possible. If the gargoyle Warlord emerges, we confront him directly.”

A murmur of both dread and agreement sweeps the circle.

Olyssia steps up, shoulders tense.

“We’ll position illusions to mask our numbers, lure the gargoyles away from any villages. Meanwhile, a second unit wards our flank against the Red Purnas. If the Overlord’s troops appear, we rely on Vaelin’s knowledge to undermine them.”

Vaelin inclines his head, ignoring the uncertain glances from a few purnas.

“I’ll do my part.”

Quelina sighs, gripping her staff.

“We face monstrous odds. But if we stand united, perhaps it won’t be a complete slaughter.”

The Matriarch’s gaze sweeps us, solemn yet resolute.

“Stay vigilant. The gargoyles have an ancient cunning, and the Red Purnas know our tactics. Elira, if the Warlord attacks in force, you may need to attempt the sealing spell. The rest of us will support you.”

A shiver crawls along my spine, remembering the lethal cost of that spell.

So be it. I lift my chin.

“I’ll do what I must, Matriarch.”

With that, the council disperses, purnas hurrying to make final preparations.

I stand by the bonfire, flames casting wavering light across Vaelin’s features.

He stares into the embers, expression distant.

Gently, I slip my hand into his.

He squeezes back, a silent acknowledgement of the uncertain road ahead.

Above us, the night sky spreads thick with stars, no moon in sight.

The wind whistles across the plateau, carrying faint echoes of monstrous roars.

We stand on the brink of war, yet I cling to the fragile alliance we’ve built.

My heart beats with renewed determination.

I choose to fight, to believe we can save each other from the darkest fates.

When I look at Vaelin, I see more than the Overlord’s forged weapon or a tortured hybrid.

I see a man struggling to define himself beyond chains, forging a path anchored by the tenuous bond between us.

And when he looks at me, I hope he sees not just a prophecy-laden witch, but someone willing to defy her own fate to protect what—and who—she loves.

As the bonfire crackles, I lean against him, letting his warmth ease the trembling in my limbs.

Tomorrow, we head into the fire of prophecy.

But tonight, we hold each other, hearts aligned in fragile unity, resolved to stand against a storm that threatens everything we hold dear.

Near midnight, I retreat to a small alcove prepared for me in the communal barracks—an old chamber carved into the mountainside.

Most purnas sleep fitfully or not at all, anticipating dawn’s march.

I settle onto a simple cot, illusions conjuring a soft glow across the rough-hewn walls.

My muscles ache, and my mind buzzes with a thousand worries.

Footsteps approach. My pulse quickens, half expecting it to be Vaelin.

Instead, Olyssia appears at the threshold, lips pressed in a thin line.

“Thought I might find you awake,” she murmurs, stepping inside.

I sit up, tucking my legs beneath me.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I admit.

“Too many thoughts.”

She folds her arms, eyes flicking over me with concern.

“This is big, Elira. The final stand. The gargoyles, the Overlord, the Red Purnas. We’re outnumbered. But seeing you and Vaelin together… it gives me hope.”

My cheeks flush.

I sense the half-question in her voice.

“He’s… he’s my ally,” I say simply.

Ally, confidant, perhaps more.

My chest tightens. “I know how it looks—trusting the Overlord’s former enforcer. But he’s proven himself.”

A slight smile curves her lips.

“I believe you. And from the way he watches you, I suspect there’s more than alliance between you.”

Heat spreads in my cheeks.

I can’t deny it. But I manage a small nod.

“Yes, but let’s not dwell. We have a war to fight.”

She huffs a soft laugh.

“Fair enough. Just… be careful. The prophecy weighs heavily on you.”

I exhale shakily.

“I will. Tomorrow, we face them all. It’s terrifying, but I’m ready.”

Olyssia squeezes my shoulder, then departs, leaving me stewing in my tangled feelings.

My illusions flicker along the walls, reflecting my anxious heartbeat.

Eventually, exhaustion claims me, and I lie down, letting darkness drift over me in a restless haze.

The next morning, dawn breaks in pale gold across the mountain peaks.

A clamor arises throughout the plateau: purnas grabbing staves and scrolls, novices rushing to distribute last-minute charms, half a dozen newly arrived humans forming small militia groups under supervision.

The air tastes of tension and adrenaline.

I stand at the center of it all, Vaelin at my side.

The Matriarch and elders finalize the battle lines: illusions to confuse gargoyles, wards to repel the Overlord’s soldiers, a strike force to handle Red Purna infiltration.

My mouth goes dry—these plans might crumble in the first wave of chaos.

But we must try.

We set out just after sunrise, the entire force trickling down the rocky paths.

A hush falls, broken only by the rustle of cloaks and the dull clank of improvised weapons.

Vaelin keeps pace with me, ignoring the stares from purnas still uneasy about his presence.

I sense his tension in the rigid set of his jaw.

Halfway down the slope, I pause at an outcropping, scanning the horizon.

In the distance, beyond the rolling foothills, a dark shape blots the morning light—Ghalarak fortress, I presume, where the Gargoyle Warlord bides his time.

My stomach twists. I won’t let them enslave me or subjugate entire realms.

Vaelin stands with me, quiet.

Then he reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together in plain view of the purnas behind us.

A faint murmur ripples through them, but I ignore it.

Right now, I need his closeness more than I fear their judgment.

His voice is low, nearly lost in the mountain wind.

“We’ll face them. Together.”

I nod, heart pounding.

Yes, we fight. I accept the prophecy’s burden, forging a fragile alliance to challenge the horrors of gargoyles, Overlord, and Red Purnas.

Stepping forward, I raise my chin, illusions swirling in a subtle display of resolve.

The entire column of purnas and allies halts, glancing my way for guidance.

My throat tightens with nerves, but I find the courage to speak.

“Listen,” I call, voice resonating across the rocky terrain, “we face an impossible threat. Gargoyles have awakened, aided by powers that would see us enslaved or destroyed. But we stand with loyal purnas, with humans seeking freedom, even with a Dark Elf who broke his chains.” I pause, meeting Vaelin’s gaze for strength.

“We choose to protect each other. We choose to fight for a future that defies tyranny, that defies monstrous fate.”

A subdued roar of agreement ripples through the crowd.

My heart swells with gratitude.

They believe. Or they want to believe.

That’s enough.

We resume our march, adrenaline burning in my veins.

I recall the Matriarch’s urgent telepathic call, the Red Purnas’ alliance with the Overlord, and the gargoyle roars echoing across the land.

No more hiding. No more fear.

By midday, we approach the lower valleys, where we plan to rally or intercept any incoming threat.

As we descend, Vaelin squeezes my hand.

I glance at him, reading the unspoken question in his eyes: Are we truly ready?

I press a trembling kiss to his knuckles, letting illusions shimmer around our entwined fingers.

My heart floods with a fierce love that transcends fear.

“We are,” I whisper, voice thick with emotion.

He exhales, relief flickering in his eyes.

In that moment, I realize fully: I trust him, monstrous blood and all.

Whatever the prophecy demands, I’ll stand with him, forging a path that might save Protheka from descending into utter ruin.

The day stretches long, the slope behind us now lost in swirling mist. Each step thrums with tension, yet my resolve only grows.

This is the break into three, I think, recalling how stories often pivot at such moments: a final push toward destiny.

And so, hand in hand with Vaelin, I lead an army of frightened but determined souls to the front lines of a conflict that might reshape our world forever.

We might fail. We might die.

But I refuse to bow to terror.

Because in Vaelin’s eyes, in the loyalty of my coven, in the fragile alliances we’ve built, I see a spark of something unstoppable: hope.

And so, as we march toward a horizon darkened by gargoyle wings and the Overlord’s looming shadow, I lift my chin, illusions rippling, blood racing with unwavering conviction.

I choose to fight. I choose to believe we can save each other—and save a broken world that teeters on the edge of destruction.

Let the prophecy come.

We’re ready to face it head-on.