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16

VAELIN

I adjust my cloak in the predawn chill, watching the makeshift camp stir to life around me.

A smoky haze drifts across the valley as purnas, humans, and scattered allies emerge from ragged tents and flickering fires.

Their faces reflect tension and determination—some sharpen old weapons, others double-check newly etched wards on armor or staves.

Nearby, a group of novices huddles around Olyssia, practicing illusions to hide supply carts.

The hum of anxious whispers reminds me we’re on the brink of a confrontation that could reshape Protheka.

Elira stands at the center of it all, guiding volunteers to their posts.

The wind stirs her dark hair, revealing the silver streak that frames her face, a mark of her rare gifts.

Each time she speaks, illusions shimmer faintly around her, as if her magic is restless.

I sense the tremor in her movements, but she cloaks it with resolute calm.

My heart aches for her.

We’re forging a fragile alliance from scraps of loyalty and fear, facing an enemy that includes monstrous gargoyles, a treacherous Overlord, and the Red Purnas.

And now, I must add my own gargoyle heritage to the maelstrom.

A bitter taste forms in my mouth at the memory of yesterday’s revelations: the Gargoyle Warlord, Bladrik, apparently knows I share his blood.

He wants me. A wave of nausea roils my stomach at the thought.

Will I betray everyone by succumbing to that primal call?

Or can I twist it to our advantage?

I step away from my vantage point near the supply wagons, heading toward Elira.

She sees me approach and offers a weary smile, relief mingling with the determination in her eyes.

“Good, you’re here,” she says softly.

“We’re nearly ready to move. The scouts report that Bladrik’s forces have advanced from Ghalarak—some gargoyles have been spotted near the southern ridges.”

My chest tightens.

“So he’s on the move sooner than expected.”

She nods, glancing at the slope where a few humans in patched armor prepare to march.

“Yes. The Red Purnas and Overlord’s soldiers might also converge, so we must keep our lines flexible. The Matriarch is forging smaller squads to guard vantage points. We want to funnel the fight to a more favorable terrain, if possible.”

My gaze sweeps over the ragtag army: purnas gripping staves glowing with runic energies, farmers clutching spears, a handful of orcish scouts scowling warily.

The Overlord’s cruelty inadvertently pushed them together.

Will it be enough? My gut twists at the memory of gargoyle roars, the savage might they wield.

Elira steps closer and whispers, “Olyssia told me something urgent. One of our scouts overheard mention that the Gargoyle Warlord specifically asked about ‘the hybrid Dark Elf.’ That must be you.”

My pulse quickens.

“So Bladrik truly knows about my gargoyle lineage.”

Her eyes reflect worry.

“Apparently he wants to recruit you—use you as proof that the gargoyle race can be reborn or expanded. Some rumor about forging a new brood. The Overlord’s experiments gave them ideas. The Warlord might even offer you a place of power if you abandon us.”

I snort, bitterness coating my tongue.

“As if I’d betray you for an existence I never asked for.” But a chill scrapes down my spine.

Could that savage part of me be swayed?

She touches my arm, illusions flickering around her fingertips.

“Vaelin, I know you. But we can’t underestimate how the gargoyle call might sway your blood.” Her voice trembles with concern.

“That’s why we must have a strategy in place.”

I exhale slowly, recalling how I offered to meet Bladrik alone if it would buy Elira time to organize.

My conscience balks at the risk—Bladrik might tear me apart or sink his claws into my mind.

Yet I see no other path.

If the gargoyles crash against our hodgepodge forces at full strength, we’ll be annihilated.

If I buy time by parleying, we might funnel them to terrain better suited for illusions and wards.

“I’ll go,” I say, voice low, my heart hammering.

“I’ll meet him on neutral ground. If I can stall him long enough, you and the coven can set traps or position yourselves advantageously.”

Elira’s grip tightens on my arm, eyes flashing with anxiety.

“It’s too dangerous. He’s no simple gargoyle—he’s their warlord. He might sense your fear or your gargoyle side and use it against you.”

My chest constricts.

“I’m aware. But if we face them head-on with no plan, we might lose everything.”

She studies me, conflict etched on her face.

Then she nods with quiet acceptance.

“Alright. But promise me—promise you won’t go alone without some plan of escape.”

My lips curve into a wry smile.

“Escape is all I’ve done lately. But yes, I’ll do what I can to survive.”

Reluctance fills her gaze, but she leans in, pressing her forehead against mine.

For a moment, the chaos around us fades, overshadowed by the gentle warmth of her closeness.

Her illusions brush against my senses, tinged with frantic devotion.

She doesn’t want me to risk my life.

A distant horn blasts, jolting us.

Olyssia appears, panting, staff glimmering with faint flame.

“Elira, Vaelin—scouts have sighted a gargoyle vanguard crossing the next ridge. We must move now or lose the advantage.”

Elira draws back, stealing one last soft glance at me.

“We’ll march in half an hour. Are you sure about meeting Bladrik?”

I square my shoulders, forcing courage into my tone.

“Yes. I’ll find him. Give your forces the time they need.”

The next hour is a whirlwind.

Purnas dismantle the campsite, novices weaving illusions over supply lines to keep them hidden from any gargoyle scouts.

The Matriarch organizes squads of purnas to reinforce specific choke points.

Some humans and orcs, armed with rudimentary weapons, guard flank paths.

Elira is a constant presence, her illusions flickering in controlled bursts as she coordinates.

She casts me worried glances each time we pass.

My chest throbs with conflicting impulses: the desire to stay by her side, protect her from the chaos, and the conviction that I must confront Bladrik alone.

Eventually, I gather a small kit of supplies, including a handful of bandages, a waterskin, and a steel dagger etched with minor runes.

A pathetic arsenal against a gargoyle warlord, but stealth and cunning might serve me better.

Near midday, as the allied forces mobilize, Olyssia directs me to a rocky trail leading east. “Scouts say Bladrik’s main force is further north, but he’s sent a delegation or vanguard to test our strength. They might be near that gorge. If the warlord himself isn’t with them, he’ll be close by.”

I nod, exhaling a tight breath.

“I’ll find him. Stall him. Give Elira time.”

She nods, eyes flickering with uncertainty.

“Be careful. If he senses your gargoyle blood, he might try to provoke it or bind it to his will.”

“I know,” I reply, swallowing dread.

We part ways. On the outskirts of camp, I find Elira waiting with arms folded tight, illusions dancing around her ankles in nervous tpurnas.

My heart warms at the sight, but it’s tinged with sadness.

We might not see each other again if this goes wrong.

She meets my gaze, saying nothing.

I step close, letting the hush envelop us.

Then, tentatively, she reaches for my hand.

“I’ll station illusions along the ravine,” she says softly.

“If things go bad, run to the marked path. You’ll see my illusions as faint white lights. They’ll guide you to our lines. We’ll cover your escape.”

My throat tightens.

She’s giving me a route back.

“Thank you,” I manage, voice cracking.

She lifts her other hand, brushing the edge of my jaw.

Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears.

“You saved me from the Overlord’s fortress. Let me return the favor, if it comes to that.”

Unable to find words that match her sincerity, I lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to her brow.

The world around us fades for a moment—just the rhythm of our breath, the press of her body against mine, the regretful knowledge that I must leave.

I break away, forcing a steady exhale.

“I’ll come back,” I promise, even though fear gnaws at me.

“Wait for me.”

She nods, stepping aside.

My chest feels hollow as I turn and start along the rocky path eastward, illusions swirling faintly to keep me concealed from airborne scouts.

Each step weighs on me.

Am I walking into a trap?

Very likely. But if this can stall the gargoyles, it’s worth the risk.

The terrain grows harsher.

Craggy spires jut from the earth, cliffs tumble into deep ravines.

Occasionally, I spot swirling shapes in the distance—gargoyle scouts, perhaps, gliding on leathery wings.

My gargoyle blood bristles each time they pass overhead, a nauseating tingle that sets me to an almost nervous breakdown.

They can sense me, or I can sense them.

Near a jagged ridge, I find a narrow pass leading down into a rocky basin.

My illusions flicker, but I let them thin in case Bladrik’s scouts interpret my concealment as hostility.

If I want to talk, they need to see me.

Heart pounding, I descend, each footstep echoing in the still air.

A thunderous roar reverberates off the canyon walls, startling a flock of crows into flight.

I tense, hand creeping toward my dagger.

The roar is followed by a rumble of sliding stones.

Then a massive shape appears atop a stone outcrop: a gargoyle, seven feet tall, wings folded behind a bulky torso of living stone.

Its eyes blaze golden in the midday glare, and it regards me with a sneer.

I swallow, ignoring the fear that prickles my skin.

“I’m here to speak with Bladrik,” I call, forcing my voice steady.

“He wants me—then let him show himself.”

A guttural snarl passes the gargoyle’s lips.

“We know you, half-breed.” The words are rough, but comprehensible.

“Bladrik said you’d come. Follow me.”

He leaps from the outcrop, landing with a crunch that rattles stones.

His tail swishes, and the faint stench of sulfur emanates from his hide.

My instincts scream to run, but I clench my jaw and stand firm.

This is why I came.

He beckons with a clawed hand.

I cast one glance behind me at the ridge.

No illusions from Elira yet—she must be waiting further out.

Sighing, I follow the gargoyle deeper into the basin, each step a silent prayer.

The stone walls close in, overshadowed by jagged peaks.

After a few winding turns, the pathway opens into a wide hollow strewn with boulders.

Dozens of gargoyles occupy the space, perched on rocks or crouched on ledges.

My stomach flips at the sight—so many monstrous forms, each easily capable of tearing me apart.

Their eyes track me with predatory curiosity.

I’ve never felt so out of place—even among Dark Elves.

At the center stands a towering gargoyle with broad wings and a crown of stony horns.

He’s nearly eight feet tall, muscle-bound, his skin mottled like basalt.

A ragged scar crosses his chest, likely from some ancient battle.

The aura around him crackles with raw power.

Bladrik.

The gargoyle who guided me bows low before him.

“Warlord, the half-breed has arrived.”

Bladrik’s golden eyes lock onto me.

A smirk reveals fanged teeth.

“So you’re the Overlord’s experiment.” His voice resonates deep, each word dripping with contempt.

I straighten, ignoring the tremor in my limbs.

“I was never his willing creation. He twisted me.”

Bladrik steps forward, each footfall making the ground tremble.

“Yet you stand here, alive, proof that the gargoyle blood stirs in your veins. We can sense it.” He inhales, nostrils flaring.

“Yes… I feel it raging beneath your elf skin.”

My pulse spikes, the gargoyle side roiling in response.

Focus. “I came to speak, not to join you.”

His laughter echoes among the gathered gargoyles.

Some grunt or hiss in response, as though amused by my boldness.

“Speak?” Bladrik echoes.

“What use do we have for talk? We are awakening to claim what was stolen. Your Purna ancestors cursed us, forced us into stone slumber. Now we break free, to rule as we were meant to.”

I recall Elira’s warnings: Bladrik wants a war of vengeance.

“They sealed you because you ravaged their lands. If you continue, countless innocents will die.”

Bladrik snarls.

“Innocents? The purnas twisted us from our original forms. The Overlord’s experiments mocked our heritage. We owe them nothing but destruction.” His molten gaze narrows.

“Yet you are proof that our blood can thrive, even in a bastard vessel. Join us. Embrace your true nature. Help us shred your weak elf kin and these human pests.”

A shudder ripples down my spine.

My gargoyle instincts pulse, a primal thrumming that resonates with Bladrik’s aura.

Part of me wants to join—no, I can’t allow that.

I recall Elira’s face, her unwavering acceptance.

“I’m no ally of the Overlord, nor do I want to destroy the world,” I say, voice trembling with suppressed emotion.

“My loyalty is my own.”

Bladrik advances, wings half-spread.

“So you spurn your blood? Pitiful. The Overlord wants to enslave you. The purnas want to twist or kill you. But I offer you belonging. We are your kin, half-breed.” He lifts a taloned hand, as though beckoning me to stand by his side.

A wave of dizziness clutches me, that black swirl of gargoyle essence shrieking in my veins.

I gasp, dropping to one knee under the sudden pressure.

Gargoyles around me hiss in excitement, sensing a struggle.

My vision blurs with monstrous shapes, echoes of roars.

Focus on Elira.

“N-no,” I manage, forcing my mind to latch onto the memory of her gentle voice, the warmth of her illusions.

“I won’t help you slaughter innocents.”

Bladrik’s lips peel back in a feral grin.

“Then you fight us?”

An image of an entire gargoyle horde rampaging across the land sets my nerves on fire.

“If I must,” I breathe, summoning what courage I can.

“But I came to propose a different path—stay out of this war. Don’t let the Overlord manipulate you, or the Red Purnas. You’re free now. Why wage mindless destruction?”

A hush falls among the gargoyles.

Bladrik’s eyes flash.

“You dare speak of freedom to me, half-breed? Our vengeance is centuries overdue. The purnas will try to seal us again. The Overlord wishes to command us. We respond by crushing them first. This is our world to reclaim.”

My heartbeat thunders.

They won’t back down.

But I must stall them.

“The Overlord uses you, or tries to,” I say, voice raw.

“He allied with the Red Purnas. They might offer you illusions of power, but in truth, they want to harness your might for their own ends.”

Bladrik tilts his head, considering.

“We are not ignorant. The Overlord’s approach is cunning. But a temporary alliance can amuse us until we’ve grown strong enough to tear him apart.”

Their single-minded thirst for devastation chills me.

“You’ll face an alliance of your own—purnas, humans, maybe even orcs,” I warn, hoping to sow caution.

“We’re not as weak as you think.”

He sneers, baring fangs.

“We relish the challenge. And you—will you stand against us? Or bend your knee?”

Gargoyles close in, hissing, claws scraping stone.

My illusions flicker, but I can’t hope to cloak myself from so many.

Fear clenches my throat.

Yet, at the center of that terror, a flicker of defiance burns.

I have Elira’s trust. I can’t let the gargoyle side devour me.

Taking a shaky breath, I glare at Bladrik.

“I stand with those who want to protect, not destroy. If that means opposing you, so be it.”

An echoing roar tears from his throat.

“Then you die with the rest,” he growls, stepping closer, claws extended.

My muscles tense, every instinct screaming to flee.

But I hold my ground.

“I accept that risk.”

For a moment, I sense a wave of admiration from some gargoyles, as though they respect my audacity.

But Bladrik’s lips curl in contempt.

“You waste your potential.”

He raises a taloned hand, energy crackling around his stony skin—some savage magical force.

“Your gargoyle side calls to us, yet you deny it. I will show you our power.”

Panic surges.

Elira’s illusions are far away.

No rescue in sight. My only hope is to stall further.

“Wait,” I gasp, stepping back.

“Fight me if you must, but let me speak to your clan. Many of them might prefer to avoid an unwinnable war. You risk facing two armies at once.”

He huffs a humorless laugh.

“Arrogant. You pretend we’d fail. We overcame slumber and cursed wards.”

A bead of sweat slides down my temple.

“You overcame ancient wards, yes, but your numbers might be fewer than the combined forces arrayed against you. If you rush in blindly, the purnas’ new sealing spell could trap you again.”

His eyes narrow at that, a flicker of caution crossing his gaze.

“They plan to bind us again?”

“It’s their last resort,” I say.

“But they’ll use it if forced. If you’d only wait, avoid the Overlord’s manipulations, perhaps find a path that doesn’t end in another bloodbath.”

Some gargoyles behind Bladrik exchange uncertain looks.

Bladrik, however, snarls, bright eyes raging.

“Our path is vengeance, half-breed. I offered you a place at my side, and you spat on it. Get out of my sight before I tear you limb from limb.”

My chest heaves.

I sense the moment slipping away.

He won’t yield. But maybe I’ve sown a seed of doubt among his kin.

“Then I go,” I say, mustering calm.

“But remember my warning. The Overlord and Red Purnas use you as a weapon. They’ll discard you once they have no more need.”

Bladrik advances another step, towering over me.

My gargoyle essence quivers, but I lock my knees, refusing to flinch.

He leans in, breath hot with the reek of sulfur.

“If we meet on the battlefield, I’ll claim your gargoyle side myself. And you’ll beg for mercy.”

A tremor runs through my limbs.

“Then I’ll see you there,” I manage, voice tight.

He snorts, dismissing me with a flick of his claws.

“Begone.”

The gathered gargoyles part, some snarling, others eyeing me with curiosity or disdain.

Heart slamming in my chest, I spin and make my way back up the rocky path, illusions flickering around me.

Each step feels like a victory and defeat all at once: I’m alive, but I’ve failed to dissuade him.

At least I delayed his immediate wrath.

Elira, I hope you’re ready.

The sun hangs low in the sky by the time I crest the ridge.

Anxiety churns in my gut.

Did I buy enough time for Elira’s forces?

The Overlord and Red Purnas remain a wild card, and the gargoyles—led by a merciless warlord—are poised to strike.

My mind replays Bladrik’s snarling threat, the savage pull of gargoyle blood.

I feel it even now, a throbbing echo in my veins.

Suddenly, illusions flicker up the slope: faint white lights.

Elira’s signal. My breath hitches.

She must be near. Thank the Goddess.

I follow the illusions around a bend, scanning for her or the allied purnas.

In a shallow ravine, I spot the glint of metal—armed humans, orcs, and purnas forming a defensive line.

Elira stands at the forefront, cloak whipping in the wind.

Relief surges at her sight.

She rushes to meet me, fear and hope mingling in her gaze.

“You made it.” Her chest heaves with tension.

“What happened?”

I grimace, stepping aside so we’re somewhat out of earshot from the watchers.

“I found Bladrik. He wanted me to join him, threatened me when I refused. They plan to march soon. But I sensed a flicker of hesitation among some gargoyles—he might not speak for all.”

Elira’s jaw tightens.

“Then we have a chance to splinter his forces, if we can hold them off or sow doubt.”

I nod, though Bladrik’s unwavering hatred lingers in my thoughts.

“He made it clear they want vengeance, especially against purnas. The Overlord might be offering them resources or feeding that hatred for his own ends.”

She exhales, illusions rippling with stress.

“The Overlord and Red Purnas could arrive any moment from the east. We scouted glimpses of their banners near the old trade route. Gargoyles approach from the west. We’re caught in the middle, but we’re dug in with illusions and wards. If Bladrik tries to push through or join forces with the Overlord, we’ll do everything to stop them.”

A hush forms between us, the enormity of the upcoming clash pressing down.

I ache to draw her into my arms, to whisper that we’ll survive, but the presence of so many watchers stays my hand.

Instead, I settle for a gentle brush of my knuckles against hers.

“I told him we’d fight if forced.”

Her eyes soften.

“Thank you,” she whispers, voice low enough that only I catch.

Turning, we join the others.

The Matriarch stands atop a small outcrop, scanning the horizon with practiced calm.

At her nod, purnas begin forming units behind makeshift barricades.

Humans gather in flanks, hearts pounding, while a few orcish warriors scowl impatiently.

In the distance, thunder rolls.

Or perhaps it’s the echo of gargoyle wings beating the air.

We don’t have long to wait.

A scout rushes up, panting.

“They’re here. Gargoyles cresting the western ridge, at least fifty. Possibly more behind them. And from the east, banners of the Overlord’s legion, accompanied by Red Purnas in crimson robes.”

A chill grips me.

Bladrik is making his move.

The Overlord and Red Purnas, too.

Elira steps forward, illusions coiling around her ankles like restless serpents.

“Positions!” she calls, voice trembling with authority.

The allied force shifts, purnas’ staves aglow, novices forming illusions to conceal part of our ranks.

Humans tighten their grips on spears, faces pale.

My heart thuds against my ribcage as I take my place near Elira, every nerve braced for chaos.

The sun dips lower, bathing the valley in bloodred light.

Then we see them: massive silhouettes, gargoyle forms leaping from rock to rock, wings half-spread.

At the same time, a column of Dark Elf soldiers emerges from the eastern slope, red-robed figures among them.

I spy the Overlord’s crest fluttering in the gloom.

An unholy convergence.

A hush falls, broken only by the rasp of breath and the distant roar of gargoyles.

The line between friend and foe has never been clearer: monstrous gargoyles seeking vengeance, the Overlord’s forces craving domination, and we—a ragtag alliance fighting for survival.

And me, a hybrid straddling both worlds.

I sense Elira’s hand tremble on her staff, illusions swirling in a bright halo.

She looks at me, eyes shining with final resolve.

“This is it, Vaelin,” she whispers, voice carrying an odd tenderness.

“Thank you for returning. For standing with us.”

Emotion constricts my throat.

“I promised,” I rasp.

And I will not break that promise again.

A thunderous roar splits the sky as gargoyles descend the ridge, their war cries echoing across the valley.

Far opposite, the Overlord’s horn sounds, and his troops surge forward, Red Purnas chanting malevolent spells.

Caught between these converging threats, our allied lines brace.

My gargoyle side flares, surging at the presence of so many of my monstrous kin.

My teeth clench, fear colliding with a fierce protectiveness for Elira and her people.

Elira raises her staff.

“Hold!” she shouts, illusions rippling out to camouflage our flanks.

The allied purnas chant protective wards, novices unleashing illusions of spiked barriers.

Humans grip spears, hearts pounding.

Orcish scouts crouch, weapons ready.

The final confrontation looms.

I step forward, drawing my blade.

This is the moment my entire life has led to—resisting the Overlord, denying the gargoyle warlord, choosing my own path.

The ground vibrates under stampeding forces.

Through the swirl of illusions, I see monstrous forms leaping in, and behind them, the glint of Dark Elf steel.

Elira stands at my side, eyes aflame with resolve.

Our alliance is fragile, our odds grim, but the spark of unity across purnas, humans, orcs—and one half-gargoyle enforcer—might be the key to defying fate.

As the roar of battle ignites, I sense the stirring of destiny.

Despite the fear that thrums in my veins, I grip Elira’s hand briefly, letting that single contact steady my soul.

Then we break apart, each ready to face the onslaught.

The prophecy culminates, our hearts battered yet undaunted.

I will not bow to my monster side, nor to the Overlord’s chains.

With a final breath, I surge forward into the fray, illusions swirling, wards igniting, and the thunder of gargoyle roars enveloping us all.

The finale has begun.