Page 20

I feel the earth tremble beneath my feet as our makeshift army pours onto the ancient battleground—a vast plateau ringed by jagged cliffs, etched with the scars of an age-old conflict.

Runes carved into crumbling stones glimmer faintly, remnants of the old wards my ancestors once used to seal away the gargoyles.

Now, with monstrous roars echoing across the wind-scoured rocks, that ancient power resonates in my bones like a distant drumbeat, warning of the doom that could unfold here again.

At my side, Vaelin grips his sword, grim determination etched on his face.

He glances my way, and I see the agony of his gargoyle blood flickering behind his eyes—an unspoken war he fights within.

I ache to reach for his hand, to ground us both against the storm building around us, but I hold my focus on the battle lines forming.

Now is not the time for tenderness, though I sense the warmth of his resolve in every stolen glance.

We stand at the forefront, flanked by purnas from my coven—some from the main body, others from smaller enclaves that have come to join us.

A handful of orc warriors prowl behind, sniffing the air warily, their tusked expressions set in scowls.

Humans clutch makeshift spears, spines rigid with fear.

And somewhere off to our left, Olyssia organizes another squad, her fiery hair catching the morning light as she confers with orcish scouts over the terrain.

I swallow, praying we can stand firm when the chaos ignites.

The wind shifts, carrying a faint stench of sulfur and decay.

My heart pounds. The gargoyles are close, I think.

Glancing toward Vaelin, I see a flicker of tension in his posture, as though he too senses them.

But the gargoyles aren’t our only threat.

Beyond the far edge of the plateau, the Overlord’s dark-elven banners flutter in the wind—sleek black pennants slashed with arcs of silver, accompanied by the crimson robes of the Red Purnas.

My stomach clenches at the sight.

The Overlord and Red Purnas, united in cruelty.

Lightning fractures the clouded sky, thunder rolling a heartbeat later.

It’s as though the world itself braces for what’s about to happen.

The Matriarch stands a short distance away, staff raised high, illusions swirling around her.

She meets my gaze, nodding once—a silent signal.

We are as ready as we’ll ever be.

I exhale sharply, calling illusions to me.

They swirl around my ankles, flickering like spectral serpents across the broken stones.

My coven sisters and brothers draw on their own magic—some brandish staves that crackle with elemental forces, others whisper incantations of protection, weaving half-seen wards into the air.

Every muscle in my body tenses as we brace for the approaching armies.

A roar reverberates from the western crags.

The first wave of gargoyles emerges, bounding across jagged rocks with terrifying speed.

Their massive frames reflect the lightning overhead, wings folded or half-spread.

My illusions spark in my periphery, responding to my surge of fear and determination.

They’re bigger than I imagined.

There must be dozens, maybe hundreds.

And overshadowing them all, I spot a mountainous figure with a crown of stone horns.

The Gargoyle Warlord.

Bladrik. My blood runs cold.

At the same time, from the east, the Overlord’s soldiers march in disciplined ranks, halberds glinting.

Red Purna purnas weave shimmering spells overhead—scarlet illusions that flicker like embers in the rain-damp air.

My jaw tightens. They’d prefer to pick us off while we’re distracted by the gargoyles.

Shouts erupt among our allied lines.

My novices clench their staves, illusions winking as their nerves threaten to destabilize the spells.

Olyssia’s voice rings out, rallying the younger purnas.

Vaelin steps nearer, pressing the back of his hand lightly against mine in a silent show of support.

I meet his gaze, and for one breath, I see everything we’ve fought for—his battered trust, my battered heart, both entwined.

Then the first gargoyle leaps forward, bellowing a challenge that echoes off the cliffs.

“Steady!” I call, illusions rippling around me in a curtain of pale light.

Several purnas beside me plant their feet, readying spells of binding or illusions meant to confuse.

Thunder booms once more, and in a heartbeat, the gargoyle vanguard slams into our forward line.

Chaos detonates.

I fling out illusions in a wide arc, twisting the visual field in front of the gargoyles so that the rocky ground appears to drop away.

A few gargoyles snarl in confusion, slamming their claws into illusions that break like mist. But others, guided by primal cunning, see past my tricks and surge forward, wings flaring.

One of them—a hulking brute with scarred flanks—plunges straight for me, claws extended.

Vaelin intercepts, sword flashing.

Steel meets stone flesh in a shriek of sparks.

The gargoyle roars, staggering back from the impact.

Vaelin doesn’t relent—he thrusts again, ignoring the shards of rock-like hide that splinter under his blade.

My heartbeat gallops with both fear and admiration.

He’s unstoppable. But behind Vaelin, another gargoyle leaps from the side, aiming to flank him.

I whip my staff around, summoning a bolt of pure force that slams the second gargoyle off course, sending it skidding across the shattered rocks.

My illusions swirl with adrenaline, flickering in and out as I pivot, scanning for more threats.

All around us, purnas and humans clash with gargoyles in a brutal melee.

Harsh growls and screams fill the air.

Electricity from Olyssia’s staff crackles in the distance, illuminating the twisted forms of gargoyles struck by her elemental flames.

Suddenly, I sense a surge of malevolent magic from behind me—a wave of scarlet illusions that burn like embers.

Red Purnas. I whirl, spotting robed purnas on an outcropping across the plateau, chanting in unison.

Their illusions coil outward like serpents of living fire, striking at our lines from behind.

A human fighter near me cries out, illusions searing his back as he collapses.

My blood chills. They’re using chaos illusions to sow panic among our ranks.

A snarl of frustration leaves my lips.

We’re caught between two swarms—gargoyles from one side, Overlord’s and Red Purnas from the other.

If we don’t push back, we’ll be surrounded.

The Matriarch’s voice rises above the din, chanting an older ward.

I catch a glimpse of her staff glowing bright blue, a swirl of illusions forming a partial shield that blocks some Red Purna assaults.

But we can’t hold forever.

I fling another wave of illusions at the Red Purnas, twisting the air so it fractures their line of sight.

Some screech in irritation, illusions colliding with illusions in a storm of flickering images.

Pain slices through my temples—too much magic, too fast. I push through it, gritting my teeth.

A gargoyle roars to my left, bounding over a fallen orc.

I whip my staff around, conjuring a net of transformation magic.

For half a heartbeat, I imagine turning it fully to stone, but my mind falters—fear that I might cause more monstrous creation if the spell goes awry.

Instead, I force its limbs to seize, a partial petrification that leaves it sprawling.

A human soldier lunges, finishing the beast with a spear.

The clash intensifies.

Lightning arcs from Olyssia’s vantage, frying a cluster of gargoyles that tried to flank us.

Orc warriors slam into Overlord soldiers, axes clashing against dark steel.

The wind howls across the plateau, scattering ash from the illusions.

My illusions waver, battered by the chaos, but I keep weaving them, forcing illusions to mask our weaker lines or to redirect gargoyle leaps.

Then, in the swirling haze, I spot Vaelin again.

He’s pushing deeper into the fray, sword slick with blood and stone shards.

My heart leaps—he’s headed toward the center, where a towering gargoyle shape dwarfs the rest. Bladrik.

The Gargoyle Warlord stands near a broken spire of ancient rock, roaring commands to his kin, spurring them to greater violence.

Vaelin, driven by something deep within, charges for him.

Fear punches through me.

Vaelin might be strong, but Bladrik is the warlord.

I start forward, illusions flaring.

But a sharp, mocking laugh echoes from my right.

Before I can react, scarlet illusions slam me sideways, and I stumble.

A robed figure emerges from behind a fallen pillar, eyes glinting with twisted glee.

She’s a Red Purna—one I recognize from fleeting coven gatherings.

Nerissa’s second-in-command?

My throat tightens. “So you’re the one who betrayed our people for a Dark Elf,” she sneers, illusions shimmering around her in vicious arcs.

I snarl, forcing illusions to coil.

“You’re the one who betrayed the coven, allying with the Overlord.”

She hurls a bolt of chaos illusions at me, flickers of snarling beasts that tear at my mind.

I grit my teeth, countering with a swirl of illusions shaped as glimmering shields.

The collision jolts me backward, my skull throbbing.

She’s strong.

Nearby, my allied purnas are too busy fending off gargoyles and Overlord soldiers to come to my aid.

I’m on my own. Another wave of illusions from the traitor hammers my defenses, forcing me to scramble behind a broken statue.

Her mocking laugh rings out again.

I gather my breath. This is not the time to hold back.

With a fierce whisper, I channel the space-time magic, letting it spiral around my illusions.

The ground warps under my feet, the air shimmering in a small bubble.

She lunges around the statue, illusions forming a fiery serpent that lunges at me.

I fling my bubble outward, slowing time at the serpent’s edges, distorting its trajectory.

It flails in midair, giving me an opening.

My illusions shape into whips of force, lashing across the traitor’s illusions.

She screeches as my magic tears at her robe, scorching her illusions with raw power.

Her eyes blaze with fury.

“You can’t stop the prophecy from devouring you. The Red Purnas will harness your power, whether you like it or not!”

My heart clenches.

“You’re deluded!” I force more illusions around her, shaping a labyrinth of mirrored images.

For a moment, she stumbles, disoriented by my illusions reflecting her every move.

I seize the chance, summoning a binding spell that crackles along the ground.

It reaches her ankles, tangling them in shimmering threads.

She screams, twisting illusions in a final attempt to break free.

I brace, sweat dripping down my brow, forcing the binding to solidify.

With a flash of arcane light, she collapses, illusions unraveling.

Bound, but not dead.

My chest heaves, exhaustion rattling me.

No time to rest. I lurch back to my feet, ignoring the ache in my skull.

Vaelin. I sense his presence on the other side of the battlefield.

I dash past a ring of orc warriors hacking at Overlord soldiers.

My illusions flicker, half-spent, but enough to keep me from being an easy target.

Sparks fly as purnas and Red Purnas clash overhead, illusions colliding in showers of color.

Gargoyles swarm the plateau, some wresting humans to the ground, others tangling with orc blades.

The air reeks of ozone and sulfur, and the thunder of roars mixes with screams. So much chaos.

Yet I focus on Vaelin’s silhouette, glimpsed near that towering rock spire.

My heart thuds painfully.

He’s locked in combat with Bladrik, the Gargoyle Warlord’s stony wings half-spread, horns glinting.

The two circle each other, exchanging fierce blows.

Bladrik’s claws slice the air with terrifying speed.

Vaelin parries, teeth bared, but I see the strain in his posture, that half-gargoyle energy flickering across his obsidian skin.

He’s struggling to keep control.

Desperate, I sprint, illusions swirling in an attempt to reach them.

A wave of Overlord soldiers blocks me—Dark Elf warriors with halberds bristling.

They lunge. I fling illusions to confuse their lines, forging ephemeral doppelg?ngers of myself that scatter, drawing their thrusts away.

My staff cracks one soldier across the helm, illusions tangling his legs, sending him sprawling.

Another soldier roars, slashing at me.

I duck, forcing him off balance with a hastily summoned gust. I have no time to kill or maim them all—I just need to get past.

At last, I break through, panting.

Vaelin’s roars match Bladrik’s as they collide in a frenzy of steel and stone.

Bladrik’s tail whips out, striking Vaelin’s ribs, sending him tumbling.

My heart lurches. He crashes against a broken pillar, coughing blood.

“Vaelin!” I scream.

Bladrik snarls, wings flaring menacingly as he advances on Vaelin’s prone form.

Something inside me snaps.

My illusions flare with raw intensity, space-time magic crackling at my fingertips.

I hurl a wave of illusions at Bladrik, forging towering walls of shifting glasslike surfaces.

He growls, smashing through them with brute force.

But I buy enough time to race to Vaelin’s side.

He groans, blinking at me blearily.

Blood trails down the side of his face.

No… My chest seizes with dread.

“Vaelin, hold on,” I murmur, illusions coiling around us in a protective swirl.

His eyes flick to me, but they’re unfocused.

“Elira…” he rasps. “He’s too strong.”

I swallow a wave of panic.

We must retreat or find a miracle.

Bladrik roars again, already regenerating from illusions I threw at him.

The ground shakes beneath his fury.

My illusions flicker as my strength wanes.

Goddess, how do I save him?

Before I can act, more Red Purnas appear—two robed figures, illusions crackling around them.

They fling spells of chaos at me, knocking me aside.

I slam into a fallen statue, agony lancing my shoulder.

No, not now.

Vaelin tries to rise, but Bladrik seizes him, claws digging into his collar, hoisting him off the ground.

My blood turns to ice.

Bladrik’s laughter booms. “So fragile, half-breed. Join me or die.”

Vaelin spits, even as his face contorts with pain.

“I’d rather die.”

A savage snarl from Bladrik.

He rips Vaelin’s sword away, tossing it aside.

I choke down a scream.

The Red Purnas close in on me, illusions swirling in a net that pins me to the statue.

My tears blur my vision as I thrash, desperately trying to break free.

They hiss, chanting incantations to keep me bound.

“Elira,” one of them sneers, “so much power wasted on you.”

I fight with every ounce of magic I have left, illusions fracturing their net.

But they reinforce the threads, scarlet arcs sizzling across my arms. My staff lies out of reach.

I can’t fail now. Across the broken stones, I see Vaelin’s eyes flaring with gargoyle energy, lips peeling back in a half-snarling expression.

But Bladrik’s grip tightens, claws drawing blood.

Any moment now, I fear he’ll crush Vaelin’s throat.

A wave of fury surges through me.

I refuse to lose him.

The Red Purnas’ illusions sear my mind, but I latch onto a deeper reservoir of magic—space-time.

My heart drums. One last push.

Closing my eyes, I shape a swirling distortion around my own body, forcing time to warp.

The Red Purnas cry out as the net unravels in slow motion, illusions bending under my paradoxical wave.

My entire being throbs with pain, but I break free, stumbling forward with a gasp.

Bladrik roars again, lifting Vaelin higher, as though to slam him into the earth.

“Submit!” the Gargoyle Warlord bellows.

“No!” I scream, illusions igniting around my staff as I yank it from the ground.

Summoning a raw transformation spell, I unleash it at Bladrik’s outstretched arm.

The stone-like flesh of his forearm stiffens.

He snarls, momentarily immobilized.

Vaelin drops from his grip, coughing and wheezing.

“Vaelin!” I dash forward, illusions coiling protectively around us both.

He staggers, trying to regain his footing.

Bladrik wrestles against the partial petrification on his arm, cracks spiderwebbing as he tears free.

Our illusions can’t hold him forever.

The Red Purnas close in again, chanting.

Grit fills my mouth.

We have to retreat or…

Suddenly, a horn blares from across the plateau.

My heart leaps—reinforcements?

Sure enough, a swarm of allied purnas led by the Matriarch rush into the clearing, illusions blazing.

Olyssia flanks them, hurling arcs of lightning that slash into the Red Purnas.

The Overlord’s forces, scattered by orcish and human strikes, struggle to regroup.

Gargoyles, momentarily distracted, pivot to face the new threat.

I grab Vaelin’s arm, illusions swirling around us both to hide our retreat.

He’s breathing hard, battered but conscious.

I half-drag him behind a half-collapsed obelisk.

Another gargoyle leaps overhead, snarling.

Our illusions confuse it long enough for a pair of purnas to strike it down with combined elemental force.

We slump behind the obelisk, hearts hammering.

My eyes dart around, seeing the scale of the chaos: gargoyles rampage, Red Purnas fling illusions that collide with our wards in explosive bursts of color.

The Overlord’s banner still waves near the far edge, suggesting he’s directing his soldiers.

All across the ancient battlefield, magic churns the air, sparks of illusions and elemental lightning colliding in kaleidoscopic bursts.

Fallen bodies litter the stones—both witch and gargoyle, human and dark elf.

My stomach churns with the horror of it.

Vaelin coughs, spitting blood, but a flicker of grim resolve lights his gaze.

“We can’t keep fighting like this,” he rasps.

“The gargoyles… unstoppable.”

I clutch his hand, illusions still swirling around my staff.

“There’s one chance,” I whisper, voice trembling.

The final sealing spell.

The Matriarch and I have dreaded this.

If the gargoyle Warlord or his army can be forced to a single focal point, I could attempt the ritual that once sealed them away.

But it might cost me everything.

Before Vaelin can protest, a fresh roar shakes the plateau.

Bladrik, enraged, tears through illusions and wards, heading directly for the Matriarch’s position.

My eyes widen. “He’s going after her. If she falls…” We lose the synergy needed to cast the final spell.

Vaelin staggers upright, grabbing a nearby fallen sword—his original blade lost in the melee.

“I’ll hold him off again. Go to the Matriarch. Prepare that sealing ritual or whatever you must.”

My heart wrenches.

“Vaelin, you’re injured?—”

A fierce light burns in his eyes.

“And you’re the only one who can seal them. If we let Bladrik kill the Matriarch, you’ll have no circle strong enough to cast the final spell. Stop worrying about me.”

Tears prick the corners of my eyes.

“Don’t you dare die.”

He attempts a crooked grin, though pain etches his features.

“I’ll do my best.” Then he limps away, illusions flickering around him just enough to shield his approach toward Bladrik’s rampage.

I force back a sob, turning to the east where I see the Matriarch battling a cluster of Red Purnas.

With a surge of illusions, I weave through the chaos, slipping past gargoyles locked in mortal struggle with orc warriors.