Page 2

My thoughts swirl like autumn leaves in a gale: gargoyles, prophecies, the hush in Lumeria’s voice.

There’s also the flicker of guilt I feel for being late to training this morning—childish, perhaps, but I know the Matriarch expects better of me, especially if I’m truly the one from the visions.

Dark Elves also crowd into my thoughts, though I’ve never encountered one face-to-face.

The stories I’ve heard are enough to send a chill through my core.

They rule Protheka with magic and cruelty.

They enslave humans—my ancestors—and treat them worse than beasts.

I once witnessed a few ragged human fugitives limp through our mountain passes, searching for rumored Purna help.

All I could do was offer them small illusions to cloak their escape.

Even that nearly cost me punishment for risking the coven’s secrecy.

I press a hand over my eyes, as if blocking out the memory.

My existence is so removed from those horrors; up here, the Purna coven is shielded.

But if the prophecy is real, if the gargoyles are truly stirring…

my safe mountain stronghold might shatter sooner than I ever imagined.

Footsteps approach, soft but unmistakable.

I sense the faint signature of Life Magic emanating from the person—it’s warm, restorative energy that has a distinct taste in the air.

Opening my eyes, I find Matriarch Lumeria standing in the doorway, her expression gentle.

“Child,” she says quietly.

“May I join you?”

I nod, shifting to make room on the mat.

She sinks down gracefully, the ends of her robes pooling around her.

For a few long moments, neither of us speaks.

The ambient magic in the chamber flickers, as though responding to our combined presence.

Finally, she looks at me.

“I know you have questions,” she says.

“I also know the rumors have weighed heavily on you.”

My throat feels tight.

“I don’t want to assume anything,” I begin softly, “but…do you believe I’m the one from the prophecy?”

Lumeria’s gaze flickers with empathy.

“Prophecies are complex threads, each strand representing a possible future. We do not know for certain which path fate will choose. However, your abilities—Space-Time and Transformative Magic combined—are exceptionally rare. The last Purna we know of with such gifts shaped our history. For better or worse.”

Her words send a chill through my heart.

I recall the legends of the Purna who fought the Dark Elves long ago, inadvertently creating the first gargoyles.

That single misguided spell changed the course of Protheka.

Could I wield magic so powerful?

The possibility terrifies me more than anything.

“I don’t want to bring doom to our people,” I whisper.

Lumeria’s expression softens.

“I know, child. That is why I believe in you. Your heart is kind, your intentions earnest. We just must ensure that fear does not drive you to rash actions.”

A trembling breath escapes me.

The memory of the mountain sunrise returns—its fierce beauty overshadowed by the gnawing sense that something is about to change.

I confide, “This morning, I could feel it in the air. As if the mountains themselves were tense. Does that make sense?”

She inclines her head.

“It does. There have been signs for weeks—a subtle tremor in the wards, strange sightings near old gargoyle strongholds.” Her lips press together.

“I think it might be wise for you to leave the coven for a short while. Travel to the lower passes, gather information. We have allies among the human villages. They may share news about gargoyle rumors or Dark Elf movements.”

Surprise jolts through me.

“Leave? But my training?—”

“Will continue, in a different form,” she interjects gently.

“Sometimes the greatest lessons are learned outside these walls. You’re not being exiled, Elira. I merely want you to see the bigger picture—to understand the fragile balance in Protheka beyond our sanctuary.”

The idea of venturing beyond Prazh’s hidden ridges fills me with a mixture of excitement and dread.

I’ve rarely strayed far from the coven.

But a part of me has always yearned for more.

To help the humans suffering under Dark Elf rule.

To see the world that my people left behind.

Still, the notion of stepping into potential danger stirs the fear I try so hard to bury.

“I’ll go,” I say quietly, steadying my voice.

“But I’ll come back. I’m not abandoning our coven.”

Lumeria smiles faintly.

“I expect nothing less.”

She stands, extending a hand to me.

I rise, and she places a comforting palm against my cheek.

“Trust your instincts, child. They will guide you well.”

Her presence lingers like a fading warmth even after she departs.

I remain in that chamber for a few more breaths, collecting my scattered emotions.

If I am truly meant to be a pivotal piece in whatever is coming, then I have to act.

Hiding in these halls won’t stop the gargoyles or the Dark Elves.

I leave the side chamber to gather my things, half-expecting Olyssia to leap out from a corner with questions.

But she’s nowhere in sight.

Perhaps the Matriarch has assigned her another task.

Instead, I pass a few younger Purna practicing illusions in an alcove.

Their ephemeral illusions shimmer like rippling water.

One of them, a girl with freckles dusting her cheeks, glances at me with wide eyes.

I force a reassuring smile, though I suspect rumors about me and the prophecy are spreading fast.

My quarters are sparse—a single bed, a low table, and a trunk for my few possessions.

I shrug off my cloak and fold it neatly, then begin packing essentials for the journey: a few changes of clothes, a small satchel of herbs for healing or spell components, and a silver dagger.

We’re not warriors by trade, but the Purna aren’t defenseless.

Magic can fail under stress, and steel is sometimes the difference between life and death.

My fingertips drift over a small pendant shaped like a crescent moon lying atop my trunk.

It was my mother’s, or so I’ve been told.

She vanished when I was very young.

Some say she died battling a wandering monster near Prazh; others whisper darker theories.

I keep this pendant to remind me of her.

Clutching it briefly, I slide it around my neck, letting it rest over my heart.

The air is cool in here, but my mind runs hot with a thousand warring thoughts.

The day began with a simple sunrise watch, and now everything is shifting.

Gargoyles…prophecies…

leaving the coven. It all feels too sudden, yet part of me wonders if this was inevitable.

The silver streak in my hair has always hinted that I’m not like the others—maybe my destiny was sealed from the start.

I sling my pack across my shoulder, gather my courage, and step out into the corridor.

The hustle and bustle of the coven continues: chanting, practicing, hushed conversations about possible threats.

Someone calls my name, but when I turn, there’s no one there.

I suspect the tension in my magic has me on edge.

As I navigate toward the main exit, the rocky path that winds its way down to the lower slopes, I can’t help but scan the shadows.

An odd paranoia prickles at the back of my neck, as though I’m being watched.

The sensation reminds me of the stories about Gargoyles half-awake, observing the world through stone eyes.

I shake off the eerie feeling.

If there were a Gargoyle in our halls, we’d know—or be dead.

A final figure blocks my path near the exit.

It’s Mistress Kiva, one of the coven’s older members.

She doesn’t hold a position as high as the Matriarch, but she’s respected for her deep knowledge of curses and wards.

Her expression is drawn.

“You’re leaving,” she says.

It’s not a question, more of a statement tinged with worry.

“Matriarch’s orders,” I reply.

“To gather information, maybe to confirm some of the rumors.” My voice comes out steadier than I expect.

Kiva’s eyes soften. “Be cautious, child. If anything stirs in the ancient places—especially the stone prisons—stay far away. We’ve lost too many good Purna to old feuds.”

I swallow hard, nodding.

“I will.”

Her gaze shifts to the silver strands in my hair.

She says nothing about it, but I see curiosity and concern in her furrowed brow.

Then she steps aside, letting me pass with a parting nod.

Beyond her, the path slopes downward through a tunnel wide enough for two people to walk abreast. Torches flicker along the walls, but the final few yards rely on daylight filtering in.

I emerge onto a narrow landing that overlooks a steep ravine.

The sun has risen higher now, painting the rock faces in pale gold.

My heart leaps into my throat as I realize this is it—the first step away from my sheltered world, the first real test of whether I can face whatever is out there.

A breeze tugs at my cloak, and I take a moment to close my eyes, inhaling the crisp mountain air.

The bracing scent of pine and fresh snow stings my nose.

I sense the hum of my magic again, that persistent, electric thrum.

It’s as if the mountains themselves urge me onward, telling me destiny is waiting beyond these ridges.

Or perhaps warning me to turn back.

It’s impossible to decipher.

“Here goes,” I murmur.

Gathering my courage, I begin the descent.

Each step loosens the tension in my shoulders, but it also tightens the knot in my gut.

I’m leaving behind the only home I’ve ever known, though I tell myself it’s temporary.

I wonder if, by the time I return, everything will have changed.

Snowdrifts cling stubbornly to the path in shaded areas, so I move carefully, occasionally slipping on slick patches of ice.

The route cuts along the cliff, offering breathtaking views of green treetops far below.

I spot a waterfall cascading down the opposite ridge, glistening like a silk ribbon in the sunlight.

A flock of birds bursts from the pines, swirling overhead in a chaotic dance before vanishing among the clouds.

One day, I might find such sights purely beautiful again, but right now, unease tarnishes the wonder.

I can’t stop picturing gargoyles crouched in hidden lairs, slowly chipping away at their stone prisons.

Are they truly stirring?

Or is that just fear taking root in my mind?

The Red Purnas, the Dark Elves, the unknown Overlords…

I grit my teeth. If I’m to face any of them, I need more than illusions and half-mastered transformations.

I need knowledge.

The path curves around a bend, revealing a small plateau that transitions into dense forest. The air grows warmer as I descend, the smell of moss and pine thickening.

My pack bounces against my hip, the dagger’s hilt reassuring against my thigh.

I scan the trail ahead, looking for any sign of travelers.

I manage another half mile before the rustle of leaves alerts me to a presence.

My heart lurches, and I slip quietly behind a boulder, instincts from years of training kicking in.

Pressing against the cold stone, I peek around to see a figure standing in the clearing.

A man, by the build—tall, cloaked, and scanning the area like he’s searching for something.

He shifts, and a faint glimmer of sunlight catches metal.

A weapon? I can’t see his face beneath the hood, but dread clamps my lungs.

Could he be a Dark Elf scout?

Unlikely this far up in the mountains, but not impossible.

If so, I can’t risk direct confrontation.

Another option crosses my mind: a human traveler, maybe, or a mercenary.

This pass is dangerous, though, so I can’t trust appearances.

I steady my breathing, chanting a silent incantation under my breath.

My illusions are subtle enough that if he’s not looking for me, he might overlook me entirely.

A gentle distortion of light around my body makes me blend into the rocky terrain.

I move carefully, step by step, trying not to dislodge any pebbles.

My pulse rages in my ears.

Just then, the figure steps forward, revealing a glimpse of his face.

Human, I think. He looks haggard, with stubble across his jaw and a bandage wrapped around one forearm.

His stance is tense, scanning the path like someone fleeing or hunting.

A battered sword hangs at his side.

Suddenly, he curses under his breath and limps toward a nearby rock.

He collapses against it, clutching his arm.

A pang of sympathy cuts through my caution—he seems injured, definitely not a graceful Dark Elf or a monstrous gargoyle.

Beneath that hood, I catch sight of eyes that are wide with pain.

Gritting my teeth, I weigh my options.

The Matriarch always taught us to help humans where we can, though exposing ourselves is risky.

But this man might have information.

He might also need urgent care.

If he’s being pursued by Dark Elves, I can’t in good conscience leave him to die.

My illusions are strong enough to keep me safe for a few moments, at least.

Quiet as a breeze, I approach.

My heart hammers. Closer now, I see his wound is a mess of dried blood.

He’s trembling, face pale.

I let the illusion fade, stepping into the clearing.

He jerks upright, eyes widening with alarm.

His hand fumbles for the sword hilt, but it slips from his weak grasp.

“Stay back!” he croaks.

I hold my hands up, palms forward.

“I won’t hurt you,” I say calmly.

“You’re injured. Let me help.”

He blinks, confusion warring with suspicion.

His gaze darts around, as if expecting hidden allies.

I keep my voice gentle.

“I’m alone. My name is Elira.”

He hesitates.

“I… I’m Jonas,” he manages, labored breath shaking his chest. “Caught my arm on a beast’s claws. Lost my friends. I’ve been stumbling through this forest for two days.”

A sharp pang of sympathy lances me.

“Let me see your wound,” I urge.

He lifts his arm slowly.

The bandage is soaked, the edges crusted with dark blood.

Biting back a grimace, I kneel beside him and gingerly unwrap the bandage.

The gash is deep, possibly infected.

My mind races through the small collection of healing spells I’ve practiced.

I’m no master of Life Magic, but I know enough to cleanse and seal minor wounds.

“Hold still,” I murmur, placing a hand just above the torn flesh.

Jonas flinches, but doesn’t pull away.

“This will sting a bit.”

I summon a thread of healing energy, the incantation forming in my mind.

A soft glow emanates from my palm, sinking into his arm.

He hisses, sweat beading on his brow.

As gently as I can, I weave the magic, coaxing new flesh to grow, forcing out infection.

It’s not perfect—my healing abilities are limited—but I at least manage to close the worst of the tear and reduce the risk of further contamination.

When I finish, he exhales a ragged breath, awe flickering in his eyes.

“You… You’re a witch?”

The term stings, but I swallow my annoyance.

“Purna,” I correct quietly.

“I live in the mountains.”

“Purna,” he echoes, recognition dawning.

“I’ve heard rumors… They say your kind can do impossible things.” His voice cracks.

“Thank you.”

I offer a small nod.

“Do you know if any Dark Elves are nearby? Or… anything else?”

He shakes his head, slowly flexing his healed arm.

“I saw some Dark Elf soldiers days ago, patrolling near the base of the range. They’re always about, rounding up humans they catch outside the villages. But I kept my distance.” A haunted look crosses his face.

“As for other things… I heard rumors in the last town of gargoyles stirring, but that’s madness. Everyone knows they’ve been asleep for an age.”

My heart clenches.

So it’s not just our coven hearing these rumors.

“Sometimes rumors carry a grain of truth,” I say softly.

He grimaces. “Then Protheka’s about to get a lot deadlier.” He glances at me, a glimmer of hope in his gaze.

“Are you… Are you going to a human village? I might find help there.”

I hesitate.

If he accompanies me, I’ll have to be extra cautious using magic.

But leaving him alone could spell disaster for him.

“I can guide you part of the way,” I decide.

“But first, we have to get down this mountain safely. And we must avoid the Dark Elf patrols.”

He nods, swallowing thickly.

“Thank you.”

Standing, I shoulder my pack.

The morning sun is well past its peak, meaning we’ve lost hours.

My plan to slip through unnoticed just got more complicated, but perhaps Jonas can tell me more about the rumors once he’s rested.

I hold out a hand to help him up.

He grips it, unsteady but determined.

Beneath my stoic exterior, nerves flutter in my stomach.

Everything the Matriarch warned us about might already be unfolding.

Gargoyles, Dark Elves, possibly even the Red Purnas.

And here I am, standing on a lonely trail in the wilderness, fulfilling a destiny I never asked for.

Clutching my cloak against a sudden brisk wind, I guide Jonas toward the winding path that continues downward.

My thoughts swirl with questions about the gargoyles, about who I might be in the grand scheme of Purna prophecy.

But for now, I place one foot in front of the other, determined to uncover the truth—and protect the innocent from whatever dark forces prowl these lands.

As we descend the mountainside, a final glance over my shoulder reveals a fleeting glimpse of the Purna stronghold.

The morning light glimmers on the rocky slopes, and for an instant, I imagine I see the silhouette of Matriarch Lumeria watching from high above.

Perhaps it’s only in my mind.

Still, I can almost feel her gentle reassurance urging me onward.

I breathe in, letting the clean air fill my lungs.

My journey begins here, with the crisp dawn on the heights of Prazh and the uncertain path stretching before me.

Whatever fate or prophecy lies ahead, I will face it.

The fire in my chest may waver, but it will not be extinguished.

And so I take the first step, forging a path through the whispering pines, the hush of fate growing ever louder in my ears.