Page 21

The Overlord’s soldiers retreat from a wedge of purnas hurling elemental blasts.

The entire battlefield crackles with magic so thick it tastes like metal on my tongue.

Gritting my teeth, I race to the Matriarch’s side, illusions whirling around me like a protective storm.

She senses my approach, staff raised high.

“Elira,” she gasps between spells.

“Bladrik is unstoppable. If we can lure him and enough gargoyles to the ancient runes?—”

“I know,” I pant.

“We must cast the sealing ritual. Where do we form the circle?”

She nods toward a broken ring of stone pillars at the center, ringed by half-buried runes.

“The old summoning circle. Our ancestors used it in the final battle centuries ago. We can reawaken the wards if we pool our magic.”

I nod, chest tight.

“Then let’s gather those who remain strong enough to join the circle. I’ll handle the focal incantation.”

Her eyes glisten with pride and sorrow.

“Yes. Go. I’ll rally them.”

I spin away, illusions fluttering.

My mind blazes with the half-learned verses from ancient texts, the warnings about life force and synergy required to seal an entire army of gargoyles.

There might be a heavy cost. But there’s no alternative.

With the Matriarch, Olyssia, and a handful of elders, we carve a path through the battlefield, illusions and wards clearing enough space near those ancient pillars.

Overhead, lightning forks again, thunder shaking the stones.

Gargoyles bellow, some wounded, others more frenzied than ever.

The Overlord’s banner flickers behind the lines; I glimpse him at a distance, masked by illusions, orchestrating Red Purna spells.

My blood boils, but I tamp down the rage.

Focus on the sealing.

We form a ragged circle around the runic pillars.

Olyssia stands at my right, flame crackling in her palms. Quelina and Yvara hold positions across from me, chanting a protective ward.

The Matriarch stabs her staff into the ground, arcane light radiating from it like threads of silver.

We chant as one, weaving a sphere of illusions and elemental energy that aligns with the faint runes etched in the stones.

The ground throbs with old magic—an echo of the first sealing.

Just like the texts described.

My heart races. We need Bladrik and his gargoyles in the circle.

But how? That’s when Vaelin’s roar slices through the storm of battle.

I look up, breath catching.

He’s engaged in a brutal clash with Bladrik, drawing the warlord closer to us.

Each swing of Vaelin’s blade sparks against the gargoyle’s stony hide.

Bladrik counters with fearsome claws.

Their conflict rips through illusions and wards alike.

Rallied by their warlord, more gargoyles converge, lunging at Vaelin or the circle.

Our allied purnas intercept, illusions tangling them, orc warriors hacking at their flanks.

Slowly, inexorably, Bladrik and his kin press nearer to the ring of pillars.

My illusions swirl in a frantic dance, urging them on by creating illusions of vulnerable purnas within the circle.

They fall for it, lusting for an easy kill.

Come closer.

At last, Bladrik steps into the ring, tail lashing.

Vaelin staggers after him, battered and bleeding, but unwavering.

My illusions flicker dangerously, nearly spent.

The Matriarch meets my gaze.

“Now,” she hisses.

We chant in unison, forging a new wave of illusions combined with elemental might.

The runes on the pillars blaze to life, arcs of old wards bridging from stone to stone.

A powerful hum reverberates through the plateau.

Gargoyles roar in alarm as the ring’s interior warps with potent magic.

Bladrik bellows, realizing too late he’s stumbled into a trap.

“No!” His claws tear at the runic lines forming in midair, but they hold—for now.

More gargoyles try to drag him out, but illusions form shifting walls, blocking their retreat.

Vaelin slips free of the ring just in time, collapsing on the outside.

My pulse hammers as I focus all my energy on the final incantation.

The air crackles with lethal tension—my illusions meld with the Matriarch’s wards, weaving space-time distortion into a sealing force.

The ring glows brighter, arcs of magic striking Bladrik and the gargoyles within.

They shriek, wings thrashing.

Each gargoyle battered by illusions that threaten to petrify them anew.

Pain lances my mind, the cost of drawing on such potent spells.

The circle intensifies, each pillar shining with ancient runes.

Gargoyles swirl inside, some turning to stone inch by inch.

Bladrik resists, roaring defiance.

My vision spots with black.

Just a little longer.

He lunges at the circle’s edge, claws rending illusions.

Elders cry out as the strain of holding him in place overwhelms them.

The ground cracks. My illusions shiver, close to collapse.

If he breaks free now, we’re doomed.

Summoning the last thread of my space-time power, I direct it at Bladrik, forcing a final wave of transformative petrification.

A monstrous howl tears from him as stony flesh creeps across his chest, his arms locked mid-lunge.

The rest of the gargoyles trapped in the ring likewise stiffen, reverting to living statues.

My ears ring with the shrieks of those who attempted to escape too late, half inside, half out.

The chaos of swirling illusions and wards erupts in a final blinding flash.

I scream as the backlash slams into me, magic crackling across my body.

Then… silence.

My head swims, every muscle trembling.

Slowly, the light fades, revealing the ring of pillars scorched, runes smoking.

The gargoyles inside stand frozen in half-turned stone forms, including Bladrik, his horned head contorted in a silent roar.

A pang of grief and relief washes through me.

It worked. We sealed them again—but at what cost?

I collapse to my knees, illusions sputtering out.

The Matriarch and other elders sag in exhaustion, some fainting outright.

Olyssia rushes to my side, tears streaming.

“Elira! Breathe, just breathe.”

I blink, chest raw with half-spoken sobs.

“We… we sealed them,” I rasp, voice cracked.

She nods, hugging me tightly.

“Yes. The threat from the gargoyles is contained—for now.”

My eyes dart around for Vaelin.

Panic seizes me. He was outside the ring…

“Where is he?”

Olyssia points through the settling dust. I see a limp shape sprawled near a shattered obelisk.

My heartbeat stutters.

No, no, no. Ignoring the pain in my body, I scramble to him, illusions flickering with every ragged breath.

He lies on his back, sword clutched in a limp hand.

Blood dribbles from his temple, his tunic shredded.

My trembling fingers hover over his chest. Please…

I sense a faint pulse.

Relief makes me dizzy.

“Vaelin,” I whisper, cradling his head.

He stirs, eyelids fluttering open.

Pain shadows his expression, but a flicker of recognition warms his eyes.

“You did it,” he murmurs, voice weak.

“The gargoyles— I felt them vanish.”

Tears spill down my cheeks.

“Yes, they’re sealed again.”

He tries to smile, a pitiful sight with blood streaking his face.

“Then we survived.”

My illusions swirl around protectively.

Past the ring of pillars, the Red Purnas or Overlord’s forces might still threaten.

But as I glance around, I see them in disarray: many have retreated or been scattered by the orcs and purnas.

The Overlord’s banner is nowhere in sight, perhaps pulled back once the gargoyles fell.

My heart quivers with relief.

We won a crucial victory.

A hush settles over the ancient battlefield.

Broken illusions and wards flicker in the aftermath, casting surreal glows on the columns of petrified gargoyles.

Some moan or groan in partial entrapment, but the sealing is firm.

The Matriarch’s exhausted figure kneels near the ring, trembling.

Allies slump everywhere, battered but alive.

The Red Purnas, leaderless or in disarray after the circle’s success, flee into the crags or surrender.

Cradling Vaelin’s head, I exhale a shaky laugh mingled with sobs.

“It’s over,” I murmur, stroking his damp hair from his forehead.

“At least for now.”

He reaches up, brushing a finger against my cheek.

“You look like you’ve just fought an entire war alone,” he murmurs, trying for levity.

I sniff, tears splashing his hand.

“We fought it together. Don’t you dare forget that.”

He chuckles weakly, then winces, pain flitting across his face.

Guilt tugs at me. He needs healing.

Gently, I help him sit upright.

Olyssia rushes over with a novice carrying a pouch of salves.

“We’ll tend him,” she promises, breathless.

I dip my head in thanks, illusions dimming further as I let exhaustion creep in.

The sun breaks through storm clouds above, rays slicing across the bloodied stones.

Survivors gather amid the rubble, checking on friends, searching for the fallen.

My coven members, battered but defiant, form a huddle around the Matriarch, exchanging tearful embraces.

My chest feels hollow, remembering those who died in the chaos.

Despite the tragedy, a fragile sense of accomplishment swells.

The gargoyles are sealed.

The Overlord and Red Purnas are beaten back—though not destroyed, they’ll think twice before another assault.

For now, we have breathing space to rebuild.

My eyes roam the battlefield’s edges.

Jagged columns of stone stand sentinel, each etched with new cracks from the magical collision.

The ring in the center glows with a faint aura.

Bladrik and his gargoyles are silent, locked in stone slumber.

A chill skates over my skin.

I recall the prophecy that I might either seal or free them.

I chose sealing—but that doesn’t guarantee forever.

We must remain vigilant.

I return my attention to Vaelin, crouching beside him while Olyssia and the novice apply healing salve to his wounds.

He grimaces at each touch, but a rueful smirk tugs his lips.

“I’ve had worse,” he jokes, though sweat beads on his brow.

I cup his cheek, illusions softly swirling.

“You’re insufferable,” I tease, voice trembling with relief.

He leans into my touch.

For a moment, the entire battlefield fades, and it’s just us—two survivors who defied fate to stand side by side.

My heart overflows with gratitude and love, a fierce ache that dwarfs the lingering fear.

At length, the Matriarch calls out, rallying the coven.

The Red Purna remnants have scattered or surrendered, Overlord’s troops fled.

The gargoyles’ unstoppable fury is contained.

There’s no immediate threat, but the cost is visible in the anguished faces around me.

We’ll need to tend the wounded, count the dead, piece our alliance back together.

The future remains uncertain, but at least we’re not overshadowed by monstrous wings or the Overlord’s cruelty at this moment.

I stand, offering Vaelin a hand.

He takes it, standing unsteadily, leaning on my shoulder.

My illusions move around us, warm and gentle.

His eyes meet mine, a silent question: What now?

I let out a shaky breath, scanning the shattered pillars, the exhausted purnas, the orcs and humans picking through rubble for survivors.

Then I meet his gaze again, hoping he sees the same conviction that thrums in my heart.

“We rebuild,” I say softly.

“We keep watch in case the Overlord tries again. And we carve out a place for ourselves in this world, free from curses, free from slavery.”

He nods, lips quirking in the faintest smile.

“With you, I’ll face anything.”

Emotion swells in my throat.

The memory of his gargoyle side, the Overlord’s hold, and the savage battles linger like shadows.

Yet I sense a path forward, an unspoken promise in our entwined hands.

I slip an arm around his waist, letting him lean on me, illusions forming a faint glow under our feet.

Step by step, we move away from the group of petrified gargoyles, leaving behind the final confrontation that nearly claimed us.

As we make our way to help the wounded, I catch glimpses of the battered alliance around us.

Olyssia cradles an injured novice, conjuring gentle flames to keep them warm.

Orc warriors share water with exhausted humans, glaring suspiciously at any sign of Red Purna movement.

The Matriarch kneels by a fallen elder, eyes closed in silent grief.

And overhead, the sky brightens with the last vestiges of storm clouds dissipating, as though the world itself exhales relief.

The prophecy may have been fulfilled in part, but the scars remain.

For now, the gargoyles slumber once more, the Overlord’s plans disrupted, and the Red Purnas scattered.

We hold onto a fragile peace in the wake of war, knowing full well that tomorrow brings new challenges.

Yet in Vaelin’s warm presence, I find strength to believe we can face them.

When we reach the cluster of survivors, I help guide Vaelin to a rock where he can rest. Then I stand, illusions glimmering around my staff as I address the shaken purnas and humans.

“We won this battle,” I say, voice echoing across the haunted plateau, “but we must remain united. The Overlord is not defeated, nor are the Red Purnas gone for good. We hold the gargoyles at bay, but only if we stand vigilant, side by side.”

Exhausted faces lift, some with tears, others with faint smiles.

The hush that follows is heavy with shared resilience.

Olyssia, standing with a tear-streaked face, raises her staff, and a low cheer arises.

Even the orcs let out guttural shouts, relieved at the end of immediate danger.

My cheeks burn with emotion.

I glance at Vaelin, who watches me with a soft awe that makes my heart skip.

Yes, we’re battered, but not broken.

At last, the adrenaline ebbs, leaving only the hammering of my heart and the chill wind across the plateau.

I step to Vaelin’s side again, letting illusions fade.

He lifts a hand to my cheek, weariness etched in his face.

“Elira,” he murmurs, voice cracking, “thank you for choosing to fight.”

My throat thickens.

“Thank you for standing with me, even when your blood screamed otherwise.”

He musters a tired grin.

“I meant what I said: with you, I’ll face anything.”

The overhead clouds part, revealing a shaft of sunlight that gilds the ring of gargoyles in eerie radiance.

A hush falls among the survivors, each of us realizing the weight of the moment.

We’ve reshaped destiny in these ancient ruins.

I lean forward, resting my forehead against Vaelin’s.

The tang of sweat and blood mingles in the cold air, but the warmth of his closeness chases away the gloom.

“We’ll need to rebuild,” I say softly, voice trembling with a thousand unspoken hopes.

“Repair wards, unify the coven, maybe forge real alliances with humans, orcs… even those open-minded Dark Elves. We might create a future free from the old hatreds, a place not overshadowed by monstrous curses.”

Vaelin lifts a hand, brushing a streak of blood from my temple.

“Then let’s do it,” he whispers, eyes dark with promise.

“We’ll show them all—Overlord, Red Purnas, or even slumbering gargoyles—that we refuse to be pawns of fate.”

Tears well in my eyes.

He’s no longer the Overlord’s enforcer, and I’m no longer a witch cowering from prophecy.

We stand as equals. In that shared resolve, I see the seeds of what might become a new dawn.

Distant moans and cries remind me we have wounded.

I pull away, illusions stirring around my staff.

“Come on,” I say, voice shaking with compassion.

“We have people to save.”

He nods, pushing to his feet, still favoring his side.

“Lead the way.”

And so, with the petrified gargoyle forms towering behind us—silent witnesses to the final confrontation—we move across the battlefield, aiding the injured, comforting the grieving, ensuring the Overlord’s scattered troops and Red Purnas have indeed retreated.

Each act of mercy, each pang of loss, cements our unity.

The lines once drawn between Dark Elf and witch, orc and human, blur under the necessity of shared survival.

By day’s end, the plateau grows hushed, survivors setting up temporary shelters near the ring of pillars.

No one dares approach the gargoyles’ statues yet.

We all recall how swiftly slumber can become a new onslaught.

The Matriarch and I perform reinforcing wards around the ring, ensuring Bladrik and his kin remain sealed.

I sense Vaelin’s presence behind me, watchful.

The Overlord’s hold on him may have shattered, but the gargoyle essence remains.

He stands tall, refusing to yield to that monstrous heritage, forging a future at my side.

Night falls once more, the sky a tapestry of stars over the eerie silhouettes of petrified gargoyles.

Campfires flicker across the plateau.

The orcs, battered and weary, share strong drink with humans, an unlikely camaraderie born from facing a mutual nightmare.

My coven members exchange hushed stories with novices about glimpses of the final sealing, how illusions and wards merged with space-time magic in a swirl of catastrophic beauty.

Some weep for fallen friends, others vow to rebuild in their memory.

I drift among them, offering solace or healing spells where I can.

My body screams with fatigue, illusions faltering at the corners of my eyes.

Yet a fierce joy burns in my heart.

We did the impossible.

We sealed the gargoyles again, thwarted the Overlord’s alliance with the Red Purnas—for now.

Our world isn’t saved permanently, but it’s given a chance to breathe.

At last, I find Vaelin standing at the edge of camp, gazing over the silent valley.

The glow of distant torches highlights the bruises on his face, the faint silver tint of his skin, and the shadows under his eyes.

I approach quietly. When he senses me, he turns, a faint relief in his expression.

Without words, I slip my arms around him, pressing myself to his chest. He sighs shakily, arms folding around my shoulders.

“We made it,” he murmurs, voice tinged with disbelief.

“Yes,” I whisper, burying my face against him.

“Because of you. Because we refused to give up.”

He kisses the top of my head, a gesture so tender it draws tears to my eyes.

“Tomorrow, the Overlord may regroup, the Red Purnas might hatch another plot. But for tonight…”

I tilt my head, meeting his gaze.

“Tonight, we rest. And we dream of a world we can shape, free from monstrous curses or cruel overlords.”

His lips curve into a small, hopeful smile.

Slowly, gently, he dips his head, capturing my mouth in a soft kiss.

Unlike our frantic, desperate embraces before, this one is slow, warm, suffused with the promise of a new start.

My heart thuds with a mixture of relief and longing—relief that we survived, longing for the days ahead when we can finally explore this bond without a war overshadowing us.

When we part, breath mingling in the cool night air, he rests his forehead against mine.

“Elira,” he murmurs, words thick with emotion, “I’m yours, if you’ll have me.”

My throat tightens.

So simple, so fraught with meaning.

“I choose you,” I reply softly.

“Despite everything.”

He exhales, and I sense the weight of his dark heritage, the Overlord’s manipulations, the legacy of gargoyle blood.

Yet beneath it all is the man I’ve come to cherish.

Hand in hand, we return to the camp’s fires, illusions flickering around us like drifting fireflies.

Survivors glance our way with tired smiles, some murmuring blessings.

The Matriarch nods in approval, though sorrow lines her features from the day’s losses.

Olyssia waves us over to share a meager meal.

We join them, side by side, forging a sense of community in the aftermath.

And high above, the cluster of petrified gargoyles stands silent under the moon, a monument to our victory and a caution that this evil can rise again if we falter.

But for now, the prophecy is fulfilled in a way that spares countless lives.

We can rebuild. We can stand together.

As the fires burn low, and the hush of the exhausted camp settles, Vaelin and I find a quiet corner beneath a leaning pillar.

He pulls me into his arms, illusions drifting around us in comforting whorls.

My chest warms with every beat of his heart against mine.

We’ve found a fragile peace in each other, a sanctuary after the storms.

Tomorrow, we’ll shape a new future—one where purnas and dark elves, humans and orcs, can find common ground.

Where gargoyles remain sealed or, if ever freed, might be guided to exist without endless slaughter.

Where the Overlord’s tyranny doesn’t define us, nor do the Red Purnas’ betrayals.

Where Vaelin and I can walk in the open, hand in hand, forging something we dared not dream of before.

He strokes my hair, his voice barely a whisper.

“Rest, Elira. You’ve earned it.”

I smile, closing my eyes against his shoulder.

My illusions flicker, sliding into a gentle dimness, and exhaustion envelops me.

I feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat, a soothing lullaby after so much violence.

The memory of that final sealing, the shimmering pillar of magic that locked Bladrik away, hovers at the deepest recesses of my mind.

We’ve won, at least for now.

And we did it together, forging a bond that defies our bloodlines and our pasts.

In the quiet hush of the plateau, where the echoes of battle still linger in the air, I let myself hope that this fragile peace is a beginning.

A chance to rewrite prophecies.

A chance to choose love over fear, unity over division.

My eyes flutter shut as I drift into dreams of dawn breaking over a land free from monstrous shadows.

Vaelin’s arm around me, the warmth of his breath against my hair, I dare to believe that we can carve out a future worth living—a future shaped by our own hearts, not by curses or crowns.

And for once, the darkness that threatened to devour us both recedes, leaving only the echo of our shared vow to stand side by side against whatever horrors might yet come.