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18

VAELIN

T he ground quakes beneath my boots as I sprint toward the circle of shattered pillars, ignoring the agony ripping through my chest. The storm-black sky churns overhead, lightning forking between roiling clouds.

All around me, shadows flicker with unnatural life.

Purnas shout spells, illusions shimmer, and the battered allied forces cling to the ragged hope we carved out of the chaos mere hours ago.

Yet I sense a shift—a terrible tearing in the wards that once held the Gargoyles at bay.

Slick with blood and sweat, I force myself to keep moving.

My side throbs where Bladrik’s claws tore me earlier, but I push through.

In the near distance, the petrified gargoyles stands silent—those we sealed in the epic clash that seemed to grant us a respite.

But that respite is shattering.

A fissure of red light crackles up the largest statue, the one we recognized as Bladrik, the Gargoyle Warlord.

My heart seizes at the sight.

He’s breaking free.

“Elira!” I roar, scanning the battlefield.

My illusions swirl around me in a halfhearted attempt to cloak my presence.

Too many voices crash through my head—distant cries from wounded orcs, the frantic chanting of purnas reinforcing wards, humans calling for their loved ones.

My gargoyle blood surges with dread, and I taste iron in my mouth.

He’s awakening again.

And he’s more furious than before.

At last, I spot Elira near the collapsed ring of pillars, illusions dancing around her in frantic bursts.

She’s at the center of a swirl of battered coven elders, their staves raised, chanting incantations to mend the wards.

Olyssia stands to one side, hurling arcs of flame at the creeping cracks in the stone.

Their efforts appear useless—the centuries-old runes carved into the ancient monoliths flicker and die, one by one.

My pulse pounds. If Bladrik breaks free now, everything we fought for unravels.

I recall that moment we sealed him: the life-draining synergy of illusions and old magic that imprisoned him in stone.

But the Overlord must be interfering from afar, or the Red Purnas are twisting the wards—something is fracturing the circle of petrification.

Before I can reach Elira, the stone face of Bladrik’s statue splits with a deafening crack.

A roar resonates across the plateau, a deep, savage sound that rattles my bones.

Pieces of petrified hide tumble away, revealing mottled flesh beneath.

He lurches forward, half statue, half living gargoyle.

My throat closes in raw fear.

He’s not fully free, but almost.

“Elira!” I bellow again, staggering to her side.

She tears her focus from the runes just long enough to see me.

Relief and terror flood her eyes.

“He’s—” I gasp, but I can’t finish.

She knows.

She and Olyssia redouble their illusions, weaving them around Bladrik’s half-stone form.

Elders chant, arcs of defensive wards lashing the air.

Yet the Warlord’s roar intensifies.

Piece by piece, the stone cracks away, letting him flex massive wings.

The ground trembles.

My gargoyle side clenches in recognition.

My blood hums, stirring a savage resonance that both enthralls and terrifies me.

We tried so hard to deny it.

“Elira, we have to—” I start, but I see the strain etched in her face.

She’s spent, illusions flickering.

The coven is battered from the last onslaught.

Her eyes meet mine, a silent apology.

They can’t hold him.

Bladrik lurches free with a final heave, stone fragments raining down.

He towers over the circle of pillars, horns scraping the dark sky.

Gargoyles pinned in partial stone forms moan behind him, but Bladrik is wholly alive, wings flaring, eyes molten gold with fury.

The wards sputter and fail.

A cataclysmic hush falls as he lifts his head to the heavens, unleashing a roar that curdles my blood.

His gaze snaps to me.

“Half-breed,” he snarls, voice rumbling like thunder.

The single word carries a venomous hatred that sears my nerves.

“You dared seal me.”

Behind me, I hear Elira panting, illusions fracturing in luminous shards.

She tries to rally the purnas, but I see the hollowness in her eyes.

They’re exhausted from keeping the wards for so long.

If Bladrik rampages now, he’ll annihilate us.

I can’t let that happen.

For a heartbeat, I recall the Overlord’s monstrous experiments, the forging of gargoyle blood in my veins.

I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms. This twisted power might be our only chance.

“I’ve got him,” I rasp to Elira, ignoring her startled gasp.

She grabs my arm. “Vaelin, you’re wounded?—”

I turn, pressing a brief, fierce kiss to her forehead.

My heart aches with longing and regret, suspecting the cost of what I must do.

“If I don’t, we all die,” I say, voice shaking.

“Trust me.”

Tears shimmer in her gaze, but she nods, illusions wrapping a protective swirl around me for just an instant.

Then I pull away, stepping toward Bladrik, the stone shards crunching beneath my boots.

The Warlord sneers, tail lashing.

“Fool. You couldn’t defeat me before. Your coven is spent.”

I meet his gaze, letting that dark part of me—my gargoyle heritage—unfurl.

Pain lances my ribs, but a savage heat flares in my chest. My illusions shift in hue, tinted with primal energy.

“You’re right,” I snarl, voice deepening with resonant power.

“But I’m not just an elf, am I?”

Bladrik laughs, a rumbling sound.

“Show me, then. Let me see your true nature.”

My breath hitches.

In my periphery, I sense purnas pulling back, fear emanating from them.

Even Elira stands transfixed, illusions flickering helplessly.

No one can intervene without risking the entire allied line.

This is my fight.

With a guttural roar of my own, I surge forward, channeling the Overlord’s twisted legacy—gargoyle strength conjoined with dark elf battle magic.

My muscles burn as a monstrous force pours through me, bright arcs of energy crackling around my arms. The ground cracks under my steps.

It’s excruciating and exhilarating.

Bladrik lunges, claws scything the air.

I parry with a slash of conjured blade energy—half illusions, half raw chaos.

The collision sparks a shockwave, sending dust and debris spiraling.

He snarls, reeled back, then slams a wing into my chest. Agony explodes, but I hold my ground, letting that gargoyle side rise.

My nails lengthen, turning black at the tips.

My teeth ache with feral intensity.

“How does it feel?” Bladrik taunts, circling me.

“Your blood calls. Embrace it fully, and stand at my side. You don’t have to die with these pitiful purnas.”

I snarl, ignoring the savage voice whispering that I could be unstoppable if I joined him.

Elira, I remind myself.

I’m hers.

“I fight for my own,” I rasp, unleashing a torrent of illusions shaped like obsidian shards.

They swirl around Bladrik, slicing at his stony flesh.

He roars, wings beating in a furious attempt to dispel them.

Lightning flashes overhead, illuminating the swirling illusions and the savage dance of our conflict.

Each time he swipes, I dodge, channeling unholy strength to dash in, slash with conjured blade arcs.

Sparks of power erupt where we clash—gargoyle might versus gargoyle might, fueling cosmic chaos.

My entire body feels like it’s ripping at the seams, the Overlord’s conditioning unraveling under the raw collision of energies.

Bladrik reels back momentarily, black ichor dripping from a wound in his flank.

He eyes me warily. “You dare wound me, half-breed? Then die!”

He hurls himself at me, talons outstretched.

I brace, illusions forging a barrier.

He smashes through with frightening ease.

The shock rattles my bones, pain lancing my skull.

Before I can recover, he slams me aside.

My body crashes into a fallen pillar, stone shards embedding in my shoulder.

White-hot agony streaks across my vision.

“Elira…” I whisper, seeing her across the battlefield, illusions flickering anxiously.

She tries to rush forward, but Olyssia and the elders hold her back, yelling something about letting me fight.

I must finish this.

Bladrik leaps, pressing the advantage.

I roll, just avoiding his claws.

My illusions waver, near collapse.

No choice. I tap deeper into the gargoyle side, pushing my body beyond mortal limits.

A savage roar tears from my throat as I stand, black veins pulsing along my forearms. My nails lengthen into claws.

I become half the monster they feared.

Bladrik’s eyes widen at the sight, but he recovers, lashing his tail with scorn.

“Yes, that’s the power. Give in!”

I fling illusions in a wide arc, shaping them into a blade of crackling darkness, every bit of dark elf battle magic I command fused with the gargoyle might.

My entire being vibrates, pain overshadowed by unstoppable force.

“Enough!” I bellow, driving forward.

We collide in a spray of dust and arcane sparks.

My conjured blade slashes into his stony torso.

He roars, wings beating a hurricane wind.

I push with everything—my illusions flaring a blackish hue, swirling like living shadows around the luminous arcs of chaos.

Each heartbeat feels like it tears my insides.

But I can’t stop.

Finally, my blade finds purchase in the soft juncture beneath his wing.

Bladrik howls, thrashing as black ichor spurts.

His claws rake my chest, but I twist aside, ignoring the ripping pain.

Summoning my last ounce of strength, I drive the blade deeper.

With a bellow that rivals thunder, Bladrik staggers, his massive form buckling.

Lightning splits the sky again, revealing him sinking to one knee, stone-like hide cracking.

I realize I’ve mortally wounded him—my illusions severed vital arcs in his gargoyle essence.

He tries to rise, eyes blazing defiance, but black ichor flows from the wound, weakening him.

A wave of hollow triumph crashes over me.

I won. The gargoyle warlord is undone.

But at what cost?

Then my chest convulses, lightning-hot agony shredding my veins.

The conflicting energies—the gargoyle power, the dark elf illusions—clash inside me with cataclysmic fury.

I stagger, dropping to one knee.

My nails retract, illusions flaring wildly.

The Overlord’s breeding experiment pulls me in two directions at once, my mind fraying under the overload.

It’s too much.

Bladrik stares, eyes dimming.

“You—” he rasps, voice gargling in black ichor.

“This is not victory. It’s… your doom.”

With a final snarl, he collapses, stone-like flesh cracking away from monstrous wings.

I taste blood, realize it’s pouring from my mouth.

My illusions flicker, then vanish.

The ground tilts under me, and I pitch forward, gasping.

I can’t breathe.

Somewhere behind me, I sense Elira screaming my name, her voice raw with panic.

My heart hammers out of rhythm, each beat a fresh stab of pain.

I’m dying. The powers inside me tear me apart.

Elders rush in, purnas chanting frantically, but I only see Elira’s face, illusions swirling around her in frantic arcs.

She drops beside me, arms sliding under my shoulders.

My vision blurs, the world tinted red from the blood streaming down my chin.

“Vaelin, stay with me,” she pleads, illusions flickering around her trembling hands.

“I can fix this—just hold on.”

I want to speak, to reassure her, but my throat locks in a wet cough.

Darkness creeps at the boundaries of my sight, the gargoyle side thrashing like a wounded beast in my chest. My battered heart stutters.

The Overlord’s conditioning, the gargoyle blood, the illusions—I tried to contain them all, but they shred my soul in warring currents.

Elira’s tears drip onto my face.

She presses a trembling hand to my cheek, illusions weaving in a desperate attempt to hold me together.

I sense the swirl of space-time magic, as though she’d try the same technique that once severed the Overlord’s hold.

But it’s too late. My body’s unraveling from the inside.

All I can do is gaze at her, memorizing her face.

“N-no,” she chokes out, illusions sparking around her eyes.

“Don’t do this.”

The hush around us thickens.

I hear Olyssia’s muffled sob, the elders cursing in despair.

Allies gather, forming a ring of shock and grief.

I see orcs bowing their heads, humans kneeling, purnas trembling.

The petrified gargoyles overshadow the entire scene, silent witnesses to my final stand.

I try to speak, but all that emerges is a ragged wheeze.

Elira cradles me closer, illusions crumbling as she pours her last dregs of magic into me, searching for a spark that might keep me alive.

My chest aches with longing.

I want to tell her so many things—that she saved me from the Overlord, that I choose her over everything, that I’m sorry I’m leaving.

My mind spins, trapped between life and that monstrous realm the gargoyle side beckons.

Her hand trembles against my heart.

She sobs, leaning down so her brow presses to mine.

“Vaelin, please,” she whispers, voice thick with heartbreak.

“Don’t go. We can save you like before. Let me?—”

I sense her illusions forging a bubble of space-time again, but my battered body refuses.

The energies slip and sputter, slipping through her grasp.

Another cough wracks me, spatters of blood painting her cloak.

My soul feels half-torn from my flesh, drifting in a dark tide.

“Elira,” I manage, forcing air through dying lungs.

“You… freed me. From… all of it. You gave me hope.” My voice is no more than a whisper.

“T-thank… you.”

Her illusions swirl, tears streaming down her cheeks.

She tries again to channel space-time magic, her staff glowing in a last-ditch attempt at resurrection or transformation.

But the essence within me rages, unstoppable.

The Overlord’s monstrous design sees to that.

My heart lurches in one final spasm, raw agony stealing my breath.

My gaze locks on Elira’s tear-filled eyes, illusions shimmering with frantic color.

I lift a shaking hand, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek.

She holds my hand there, lips parted in silent devastation.

I’m sorry, I want to say.

I love you.

Then everything blurs.

The battlefield’s roar muffles, replaced by a rushing sound like a distant ocean in my ears.

My chest stills, and warmth drains from my limbs.

Elira’s mouth forms my name in a voiceless cry.

My senses fade in and out, glimpses of purnas kneeling, the glow of illusions flickering around us.

In the final flicker of consciousness, I see her face, heartbreak etched in every line.

My soul hovers, caught between realms—half expecting to see a gargoyle realm or the Overlord’s orb.

Instead, I find only the memory of Elira’s touch, her illusions, her unwavering faith in me.

Darkness sweeps in. My last thought is a fragile hope that my sacrifice grants her a future unbound by monstrous curses.

Elira… live for both of us…

And then I’m gone, swallowed by a silence that no illusions can penetrate.

I catch a fleeting impression of her sobbing, clinging to my lifeless body, illusions blossoming and dying around her in sorrowful sparks.

She tries to whisper spells of resurrection or begs the elders for help, but my spirit drifts beyond their reach.

The Overlord’s twisted design achieved its final cruelty, ripping me away at the very moment we tasted freedom.

If there is an afterlife, I sense only a drifting void.

No roars, no illusions, no Overlord or gargoyle call.

Just emptiness, and a faint echo of Elira’s name, reverberating in the darkness.

I pray she’ll find peace.

Far below, on that scarred plateau, the allied forces hush in mourning.

Elira clutches my limp form, tears carving tracks through the dust on her cheeks.

Olyssia stands behind her, trembling, an outstretched hand that can’t bridge the chasm of grief.

The Matriarch lowers her head, staff trembling in her grasp.

Even orcs bow in silent respect.

The petrified gargoyles stand as looming statues, their once-warring presence stilled by illusions and ancient wards.

The Overlord’s armies, battered and leaderless, retreat into the distance.

The Red Purnas scatter.

Victory of a kind rests with the battered alliance, but at a terrible cost. And at the heart of it, Elira weeps, illusions flickering erratically, her sobs echoing through the silent ruin.

No illusions can mask the raw heartbreak searing her spirit.

In her arms, I lie unmoving, my dark elf features softened by death, the monstrous gargoyle essence gone silent.

She presses her forehead to mine, breath hitching in choked pleas for me to return.

But the violent energies that sustained me have torn me apart from within.

Time stretches. Allies gather in a loose circle, forming a protective ring around the pair.

Some place hands over hearts, others chant prayers for the departed.

The purnas’ illusions shift to muted tones, reflecting their sorrow.

Overhead, the clouds part, letting a single shaft of sunlight illuminate Elira cradling me, as though the universe itself acknowledges our last moment.

In that timeless hush, Elira presses a final kiss to my brow, tears falling onto my slack features.

“You stubborn fool,” she whispers, voice fractured.

“You said you’d come back to me.” Her illusions flicker out, leaving her powerless in grief’s embrace.

Gently, Olyssia kneels beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder.

“Elira,” she murmurs, tears glistening in her own eyes, “he saved us all.”

Elira trembles, burying her face against my chest. “I— I can’t—” She can’t finish, the words strangled by sobs.

Yet, somehow, the allied forces find a somber unity in that heartbreak.

Orc warriors bow, muttering respects for a fallen hero.

Humans kneel in prayer.

The purnas, from novices to elders, hold staves aloft, their illusions swirling in a gentle, melancholic tribute.

A hush drapes the plateau, broken only by the wind rustling across stone and the distant moan of petrified gargoyles locked in endless slumber.

In that suspended moment, I am gone, soul adrift.

Elira’s heartbreak pulses across the bond we forged, a final echo that might linger somewhere in the cosmic tapestry.

She holds me with trembling arms, refusing to release.

The battlefield victory feels hollow in her anguished hold.

The Matriarch approaches with slow steps, tears shining in her storm-gray eyes.

She kneels, resting a hand on Elira’s back.

“Child,” she whispers, voice cracked, “Vaelin’s sacrifice saved us. Let us honor him. Let us carry him from this cursed place.”

Elira can only nod, illusions sparking feebly around her fingertips, too grief-stricken to maintain any shape.

Carefully, with Olyssia’s help, she relinquishes my body, though her fingers cling until the last possible moment.

The purnas gather me on a makeshift stretcher conjured from illusions and boards.

A hush echoes through the crowd as they bear me away, each soul recognizing a hero fallen.

Elira remains on her knees, face wet with tears, illusions guttering.

Olyssia kneels beside her, arms around her shoulders, murmuring broken words of comfort.

All across the plateau, the watchers bow heads.

The once-thundering battlefield is silent but for the faint keening of the wounded and the hush of the wind.

Slowly, the allied forces begin to move.

Some remain to tend to the injured, others gather the fallen.

The orcs prepare a pyre for their own lost. The humans do likewise.

For me—Elira has not decided, her grief too raw.

She stands abruptly, illusions flaring, staggering after the stretcher.

Olyssia steadies her, whispering that they must tend the living, yet Elira’s eyes remain locked on my still form.

In the days that follow, they’ll build a cairn or pyre or some form of remembrance.

They’ll speak of how Vaelin, the Overlord’s creation, turned gargoyle strength upon the Warlord to save them all.

They’ll tell stories of the final blow, how illusions and monstrous might collided in a flash that ended Bladrik’s terror.

But in this first moment, it is only heartbreak—raw, relentless heartbreak for Elira, who sees me carried away, her illusions powerless to bring me back.

And so ends the final confrontation on these ancient stones, beneath the gaze of petrified gargoyles.

The Overlord flees, the Red Purnas scattered, and the greatest threat contained by a hero’s ultimate sacrifice.

In the hush that follows, Elira stands in the swirl of dust and tears, illusions shimmering in her sorrow.

She has won a future for them all, but lost the man who claimed her heart in the process.

The wind sighs across the silent pillars.

No illusions can mask the emptiness left in my wake, no wards can conjure me back.

Elira’s sobs fade into the twilight, and my body, cold and still, is borne from the battlefield by those who loved me or at least recognized my final deed.

Far beyond mortal sight, my soul hovers briefly, yearning for Elira’s warmth.

But the threads of life are severed, and I drift into whatever realm awaits, carrying the memory of her illusions, her tears, and her love.

And in that final release, I pray that she finds the strength to rebuild the world we saved, forging a new dawn upon the ashes of war—even if my place in it has ended.

No illusions can rewrite the heartbreak.

Yet the allied forces, mourning a hero, vow to honor that sacrifice by preserving the fragile unity blossomed on a battlefield of stone.

And Elira, though shattered, stands to lead them—her illusions flickering with grief, her soul carrying the echo of my final breath.

That is how this cataclysmic chapter closes: with gargoyles resealed, an Overlord in retreat, the Red Purnas scattered, and my lifeless body cradled by the woman I loved in the last fleeting moments of life.

The prophecy is written.

My death seals it. Elira’s tears christen a new era, one shaped by love’s unwavering devotion, even in the face of monstrous blood and unstoppable fate.