Page 23

I’m kneeling on the makeshift funeral pyre when I realize I can’t let him go.

Dawn struggles to lift over the bruised sky, casting half-hearted rays through the ragged clouds.

All around, the plateau lies devastated, dotted with the remains of the final battle.

The towering pillars that once marked the ancient gargoyle ring stand cracked and silent, their magic spent.

Broken illusions drift like fading fireflies, illuminating the jagged silhouettes of petrified gargoyles sealed once again.

My coven sisters and brothers shuffle quietly across the battlefield, tending to the wounded or gathering the fallen.

I can feel the pulse of grief running through every living soul on this plateau—witch, human, orc, even the occasional Dark Elf defector who turned on the Overlord.

They’re all exhausted, hearts bruised by the sacrifices demanded here.

Yet none of their sorrow resonates as fiercely as mine.

Because laid upon a wooden bier, half-sheltered from the icy wind, lies Vaelin.

His cheeks pale with death, his once-fierce eyes closed forever.

My breath shakes as I brush strands of midnight hair from his brow, remembering the way he’d gaze at me with unwavering devotion, even in the midst of turmoil.

Tears sting my eyes.

He’s gone. The words gnaw my soul.

He bled out in my arms scarcely hours ago, torn apart by the monstrous energies the Overlord forced into his body.

He gave his final breath to destroy the Gargoyle Warlord, saving us all from Bladrik’s fury—only to be stolen from me at the moment of victory.

I press my forehead to his cold chest, illusions sputtering around me in grief-laced sparks.

My magic reflects my heartbreak in jagged pulses of color, though I can’t quell this wave of despair.

The hush of the plateau wraps us both, disturbed only by the occasional moan of survivors and the shuffle of worn boots on broken stone.

From behind, I sense Olyssia approach—her fiery curls dulled with ash, eyes rimmed red from tears.

She lays a comforting hand on my shoulder.

“Elira,” she murmurs, her voice cracking.

“The Matriarch’s preparing a farewell. He died a hero.” Her sorrow thrums beneath her words.

Anger and heartbreak twist my stomach.

“I don’t… want him remembered as just a hero,” I rasp, voice trembling.

“I want him here. With me.”

She kneels beside me, illusions swirling at her fingertips, subdued by her grief.

“I know,” she whispers, eyes glistening.

“But death is final, Elira. You can’t change?—”

“I can,” I interrupt, suddenly certain.

The words erupt from my lips, hammered by raw conviction I can’t deny.

“I won’t accept this.”

Confusion knits her brow.

“What do you mean?”

Hot tears spill from my lashes, and I lift my gaze to the stormy dawn sky.

The faint memory of centuries-old tomes flickers through my mind—scrolls referencing the darkest corners of Purna lore.

“There’s a ritual,” I whisper, illusions rippling in agitation.

“A forbidden rite that warps space-time magic to resurrect the dead, bridging soul and body. The texts called it abominable, a defiance of natural law.”

Olyssia’s breath catches.

“Elira, that’s madness. The Matriarch has forbidden such attempts. The cost?—”

“I know the cost,” I snap, voice shaking.

“But I won’t let him slip away, not after all we survived. If the Overlord can twist life, if the Red Purnas can break taboos for power—why must we hold back when love hangs in the balance?” My illusions flare a savage pinkish hue, reflecting my desperate fury.

Her hand trembles on my shoulder.

“The Matriarch will never condone it. If you fail, it might destroy you. Or worse, twist Vaelin into something monstrous.”

I gaze down at Vaelin’s still form, a pang of longing lancing my heart.

“He was already part monster,” I whisper, tears dripping onto his tunic.

“But I loved him anyway. And he loved me. That’s enough to risk anything.” My illusions glow, spiking the air with tension.

I will defy every law if it brings him back.

Olyssia shakes her head, half in awe, half in fear.

“Then let me help. You’ll need a circle, a conduit. You can’t do it alone.”

I press my palm to Vaelin’s chest, breath ragged.

“We can’t involve the entire coven. This is… forbidden, Olyssia.”

She meets my gaze, eyes fierce despite her grief.

“I won’t tell the Matriarch. But you need me—my illusions, my flames, whatever synergy I can provide. The ritual demands at least two, right? An anchor and a conduit. You’re the anchor. Let me be your channel, at least.”

My chest loosens with the faintest relief.

“Thank you,” I whisper, tears renewing.

“I won’t forget this.”

She stands, illusions swirling in determined arcs.

“Then let’s move fast, before the elders finalize the funeral rites.”

We slip away from the main camp, carrying Vaelin’s body on a cloth stretcher.

Each step crushes my heart—his limp hand dangling from the side, his face colorless in the pale light.

But I cling to the conviction fueling me: He won’t remain dead.

We find a secluded hollow beneath the plateau’s edge, half-concealed by a tumble of ancient boulders.

The air here feels charged, perhaps a lingering echo of the battle’s magic.

The stench of smoke and blood still clings to the wind, but at least we’re far enough from prying eyes.

I set Vaelin gently on the stony ground, illusions fluttering around his still form.

Olyssia stands behind me, staff in hand, eyes darting nervously.

“All right,” she says, voice taut.

“How do we begin?”

I inhale, recalling the scattered references from the restricted scrolls.

“We need a circle of illusions and space-time conjurations to anchor his soul to a remade body. We’ll need raw life essence—some from me, some from you—to fuel it. The risk is if the soul resists or is trapped halfway.” My voice trembles on that last note, imagining Vaelin’s spirit torn between realms.

She nods, swallowing hard.

“I’m with you. Show me the pattern.”

My illusions surge, weaving a faint circle around us.

Despite my exhaustion, I shape the lines carefully, forging arcs of light and swirling runes gleaned from half-remembered texts.

Olyssia exhales flame-tinged illusions, reinforcing the perimeter with flickers of elemental fire.

The circle glows faintly, crackling with potential.

Vaelin’s body lies at the center, motionless.

My heart clenches with dread and hope in equal measure.

“Okay,” I say, shaking from head to toe.

“Let’s join hands and channel. I’ll focus on bridging space-time, seeking Vaelin’s soul beyond. You feed me your illusions so I don’t collapse from the strain.”

Her lips tighten, but she sets her staff aside, stepping into place.

We kneel on either side of Vaelin, our hands clasped across his chest. The circle brightens, illusions swirling in mirrored arcs.

Sparks of flame dance around Olyssia’s fingertips, merging with the ribbons of space-time I conjure.

I draw a shaking breath, letting my eyes drift shut.

“Vaelin,” I murmur, voice quivering with love and desperation.

“If you hear me, come back. Follow my call.” My illusions spiral outward, sensing the boundary between life and death—a dark, echoing void that chills my blood.

Olyssia inhales sharply, channeling her illusions into me.

I feel the pulse of her flame illusions bolstering my magic, giving me the power to pierce the veil.

My chest aches as if an invisible hand squeezes my lungs.

This is unnatural. The boundary between realms resists, but I push, imagining Vaelin’s face, the brush of his lips, the fierce devotion in his eyes.

Come back, come back…

A swirl of cold rushes through my illusions.

My heart jolts as I sense a flicker of Vaelin’s presence—a faint echo of his essence, drifting in the void.

My illusions strain, forging a thread of connection.

There he is. The weight of grief threatens to drag me under, but I grit my teeth, pulling that fragment toward me with every shred of will.

“Anchor him!” Olyssia hisses, illusions stuttering as she pours more energy into me.

I shape space-time magic like a net, casting it into the darkness.

Something snags—a trembling bit of Vaelin’s soul.

He’s battered, reluctant, as if the void clings to him.

I sob, illusions flaring from my chest in bright streaks.

“Vaelin, let me in,” I whisper, tears hot on my cheeks.

“We can’t do this without you.”

A spasm rocks me—his soul writhes, torn between realms. My illusions crackle.

Olyssia shouts in alarm, her illusions surging to keep the circle intact.

The air thickens with pressure, so intense my ears pop.

A low moan escapes Vaelin’s lips, though his eyes remain closed.

Is that him or just my illusions?

No time for doubt. I channel raw life force from my core, funneling it through the circle.

My veins burn as though set aflame.

A dull roar fills my ears—thousands of ghosts protesting the breach of death’s domain.

My illusions tremble, on the brink of collapse.

I have to do this.

In a final burst of reckless love, I anchor Vaelin’s soul to the battered shell of his body, forcibly stitching them together with space-time ribbons.

The agony scalds me from inside out.

My illusions and Olyssia’s flames swirl in a storm of radiant energy, colliding with the gloom of death.

Vaelin’s chest arches, eyes flying open.

He gasps, a wretched sound that tears through the hush.

My illusions intensify, tethering him, forging a living vessel from broken flesh.

It’s working… or is it killing us both?

Screams shred my throat as the magic rages, unstoppable.

Olyssia cries out, illusions flickering.

The ground beneath us cracks, stones levitating as we warp reality.

The circle glows, a maelstrom of swirling light and darkness.

My entire being feels close to rupturing, overshadowed by the cosmic forces I’ve unleashed.

And then, in one cataclysmic instant, the ritual ends.

The illusions die away, the circle’s glow fading to embers.

I collapse onto my back, chest heaving.

Olyssia sprawls beside me, staff rolling from her grip.

My vision flickers with spots, ears ringing.

For a heartbeat, I dread we failed.

He’s gone. But then a soft cough pierces the hush.

Slowly, I force my head to turn, seeing Vaelin’s body stir.

My breath catches.

He shifts, limbs curling inward, drawing a ragged inhale as though it’s his first. The flesh along his arms is different—no longer the silver hue of a Dark Elf, nor the stony texture of a gargoyle.

Something new, pale as moonlight, faintly veined with silver runes.

My illusions quake at the sight, sensing a new aura enveloping him.

“Elira?” he rasps, voice frayed.

Tears flood my eyes.

He’s alive. Somehow, we did the impossible.

My limbs tremble as I drag myself to him, ignoring the ache in my soul.

“Vaelin,” I whisper, cupping his cheek.

His eyes flick open, no longer that icy hue, but a deeper swirl of color I can’t name—like a horizon at twilight, tinged with faint gold.

“Elira,” he repeats, breath hitching.

“What… happened?”

I collapse forward, burying my face against his chest, relief sobbing through me.

“You died,” I murmur, voice cracking.

“And I… refused to let you go.”

His arms, newly formed yet trembling with lingering weakness, circle around my shoulders.

The warmth of his body is real.

I can feel his pulse, faint but steady.

A broken laugh escapes me.

He’s truly back.

Olyssia groans, rising to her knees.

Her illusions sputter in relief.

“You reckless fools,” she breathes, tears shining in her eyes.

“It actually worked.”

Vaelin tries to sit up, confusion marking his features.

He glances at his skin, noticing the shift in hue.

Horror and awe flicker across his face.

“I… this body… it’s not what it was.”

I swallow, illusions shimmering in empathy.

“You’re… new. The space-time power reshaped you—neither Dark Elf nor gargoyle, but something else.”

He flexes a hand, staring at the faint runic patterns swirling just under the skin.

Then his gaze snaps to me, realization dawning.

“Am I alive? Or bound to your magic?”

My heart clenches.

“Yes… and yes. The scrolls said you’d be anchored to me, drawing from my illusions to remain stable.” My voice wavers with guilt.

“I’m sorry. I’ve condemned you to this.”

He lifts a trembling hand to my chin, illusions crackling between our touch.

“Elira,” he says, quiet but unwavering.

“You saved me. You gave me another chance. I… choose this, whatever it entails.”

A fresh wave of tears streaks my cheeks.

I fold into him, illusions swirling around our entwined forms in gentle sparks, no longer savage or desperate but softly luminous.

Olyssia exhales, wiping tears from her own eyes.

“Then it’s done,” she murmurs.

“He’s back.”

But the hush is short-lived.

A sudden tumult rises from the plateau above—shouts, stamping boots, and illusions clashing.

We stiffen, realizing the world beyond hasn’t paused for our miracle.

Of course. The Overlord might attempt a final gambit, or the Red Purnas might still linger.

“How do you feel?” I ask Vaelin, brushing his hair back.

He grimaces, testing his limbs.

“Weak, but alive. My powers… they flicker at the edge of my awareness, like I can’t control them yet.”

Olyssia nods.

“Lean on us if needed. But we must see what’s happening.”

We scramble from the hollow, Vaelin leaning heavily on me, illusions weaving a stabilizing swirl around him.

Rejoining the plateau, we find the allied forces on high alert.

The Matriarch stands with a group of purnas, illusions at the ready, facing a cluster of defeated Red Purnas.

A hush echoes across the ravaged stone field.

The Overlord is nowhere in sight, though I spot some of his officers bound in arcane shackles, or fleeing in disorganized clusters.

The moment the purnas see Vaelin walk—alive—they gasp, illusions flickering in shock.

The Matriarch’s eyes widen.

She glimpses the runic patterns across Vaelin’s arms, then flicks her gaze to me with a troubled mix of awe and dread.

“Elira,” she says, voice taut.

“What have you done?”

I swallow, illusions dancing around me in trembling shapes.

“He died,” I reply, forcing calm.

“I couldn’t let him go. I used a forbidden ritual… a resurrection that bound him to me.”

Gasps ripple through the onlookers.

I sense Olyssia stepping forward, illusions flicking defensively.

“Don’t blame her,” she says.

“We owe Vaelin a debt. This was the only way to save him.”

The Matriarch’s gaze wavers between condemnation and compassion.

Ultimately, she exhales slowly, illusions dimming around her staff.

“You’ve defied the natural order,” she murmurs, “but perhaps we owe him that debt, indeed.” She shifts her attention to the ring of statues beyond.

“The gargoyles remain sealed. The Overlord’s forces are broken, many captured or fled. The Red Purnas are scattering. We hold the field… but at great cost.”

Vaelin stands tall, though I feel him trembling.

My illusions twine around his waist like supportive tendrils, helping him remain upright.

He addresses the gathered coven and allies, voice rasping.

“If the Overlord survived, he’ll regroup. The Red Purnas might lurk in the shadows. But we can stand united—Dark Elves who reject tyranny, purnas who embrace freedom, humans, orcs… all forging a new balance. This time, we do it without the Overlord’s leash or the gargoyle threat overshadowing us.”

A subdued ripple of agreement passes among them.

The orcs nod, some murmuring that they’ll negotiate further cooperation with the coven.

Humans glance at each other, hope easing their tension.

The purnas, though wary, seem reassured by Vaelin’s calm presence, despite the unnatural magic pulsing in his flesh.

The Matriarch lifts her staff, illusions shimmering in quiet acknowledgment.

“Then let us rebuild. We will rest, heal, and see what the future holds.”

I step forward, illusions shimmering gold, mindful that I too bear the weight of this new era.

“We’ve driven back the Overlord and sealed the gargoyles once more,” I say softly, voice echoing in the hush.

“We must remain vigilant, for old enemies may return. But together, we can shape a safer Protheka, free from monstrous curses and cruel overlords. That’s what Vaelin sacrificed everything for.”

A hush settles, then cautious applause, or the equivalent among orcs pounding weapons on stone.

Purnas bow their heads in relief.

The battered plateau—once a scene of slaughter—feels charged with the possibility of renewal.

The petrified gargoyles, locked in slumber, stand as a warning of the cost.

Finally, the Matriarch lowers her staff.

“We will gather the wounded, bury the dead. After that, we convene in the coven halls to discuss the next steps. Elira, you and Vaelin rest. The entire coven owes you both a great debt.”

I nod, illusions reflecting a subtle glow of gratitude, though grief still weighs in my chest. “Thank you, Matriarch,” I whisper.

“We’ll help however we can.”

That evening, under a bruised sunset, we make camp on the plateau’s edge.

The allied forces claim the terrain as a temporary base, forging rudimentary shelters among the shattered pillars.

Makeshift pyres burn for the fallen, their smoke spiraling into the twilight.

Though sorrow lingers, the tension of war has eased, replaced by cautious hope.

I stand beside Vaelin in a secluded corner, near a solitary pillar that remained unbroken.

A gentle breeze carries the scent of ash and healing salves.

He leans against the stone, chest heaving, illusions shifting softly around him as I support him.

His new body glows faintly in the dusk, the runic lines beneath his skin catching the firelight.

My throat tightens with emotion.

“How do you feel?” I ask, voice hushed.

He lifts his gaze, eyes shimmering with an uncanny brilliance.

“Alive,” he says softly, “but different. My gargoyle side doesn’t rage like before. It’s… tempered, entwined with your magic.”

I nod, brushing my fingertips over the faint runes on his arm.

A surge of warmth passes between us, illusions entwining.

“The resurrection changed you. You’re not fully Dark Elf or gargoyle. You’re a new balance.” My lips curve in a trembling smile.

“Bound to me, but free from the Overlord’s chains.”

His hand covers mine, pressing it gently to his chest. A heartbeat thuds beneath.

“I can’t quite put it into words,” he murmurs.

“But I feel more at peace than ever. Like my soul found an anchor instead of tearing me apart.”

Tears well in my eyes again, but this time they’re tears of relief.

“It’s all I wanted,” I whisper.

“To free you. To bring you back.”

He draws me closer, illusions swirling around us in a soft dance of color.

“I’m sorry for the cost,” he murmurs, voice heavy with concern.

“That forbidden ritual could’ve killed you.”

I exhale, resting my forehead against his.

“I’d risk anything for you. I think you know that.”

He smiles faintly, stealing a gentle kiss that burns with quiet devotion.

My heart swells, illusions brightening around us in a hush of reverent color.

The battered plateau fades from my immediate awareness, leaving only the warmth of his presence, the assurance of our bond, the knowledge that tomorrow we face a new era together.

Later, we gather near a central fire with Olyssia, the Matriarch, a few orc chieftains, and a handful of human representatives.

The conversation revolves around the next steps: how to secure the sealed gargoyles, how to push back against any Overlord resurgence, how to unify orcs, humans, and purnas to maintain peace.

Vaelin sits beside me, occasionally gripping my hand beneath the table.

His presence reassures me when doubts threaten to cloud my mind.

Though the meeting is somber, I notice sparks of camaraderie: orcs exchanging respectful nods with purnas, humans offering bandages to wounded dark elves who defected from the Overlord’s legion.

A fragile unity, forged in shared struggle.