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I stand atop the highest balcony of Orthani’s grand citadel, watching the pale morning sun attempt to burn through the gloom that clings to the spires.

The wind ruffles my midnight-black hair, which I keep tied at my nape with a slender leather cord.

My cloak flutters around my legs, a regal shade of obsidian embroidered with faint silver runes symbolizing loyalty to the Overlord.

From this vantage point, the entire city sprawls beneath me like a masterpiece of cruel splendor.

Sharp rooftops, arches of dark stone, and twisted spires dominate Orthani’s skyline.

The architecture seems grown from nightmares—jagged and imposing, each structure leaning in as though ready to strike.

Even the streets, wide enough to accommodate carriages pulled by hulking reptilian beasts, have an air of menace.

Black banners bearing the crest of House Vatoris snap in the breeze, reminding every inhabitant of who truly rules here.

Far below, I spot drab clusters of Lowtown, where humans are forced to eke out a living in cramped huts.

They move through the muddy alleys like shadows, their shoulders hunched beneath the unrelenting gaze of Dark Elf patrols.

Slavery is the norm, a tool to maintain power and order.

It’s a truth I’ve always known, one I’ve been taught never to question.

Compassion is not part of my training.

I place my gloved hands on the railing, the cold iron pressing into my palms. The Overlord summons me soon, and I wait because that is my function.

I exist to serve. A hush settles over my mind, a well-worn mantra that beats in time with my heart: Obey, accomplish, execute.

There is nothing else.

My skin is dark like obsidian characteristic of Dark Elves, though I’m broader in the shoulders than many of my kin.

I possess a warrior’s physique, sculpted by relentless drills and dark magic enhancements.

Beneath my cloak, my frame is wrapped in form-fitting black leather armor, embossed with runic symbols along the chest. Two short swords rest on my hips, their hilts shaped into the heads of snarling wolves—an emblem of my efficiency as the Overlord’s enforcer.

In the near distance, horns blare a dissonant melody, signaling that court is about to commence.

My breath hisses between my teeth.

Another day of orders, blood, and unflinching duty.

I pull away from the edge of the balcony and turn toward the tall archway that leads inside.

Two Miou guards—Dark Elf soldiers from the warrior caste—bow their heads in deference as I pass, stepping aside to grant me entry.

Their armor is less ornate than mine, and they keep their expressions neutral.

Everyone here knows my reputation.

I am Vaelin Duskbane, the Overlord’s blade.

The corridor stretches out before me in austere grandeur, lit by shimmering orbs of chaos magic.

Torches have no place in these halls—Dark Elves prefer the elegant luminosity of sorcery.

The black marble floor reflects the light in small, dancing patterns.

Every so often, I notice a faint flicker in the corners of my vision, as though the runes etched on the columns are more alive than they should be.

Magic pulses here, drawn from the power granted by our Thirteen Hungry Maws, or so the priests say.

It’s a theology that never fully interested me.

My only religion is servitude.

I pass through a set of ornate doors made of polished obsidian.

Within, the Overlord’s audience chamber spreads in a half circle, dominated by massive windows that reveal Orthani’s ominous skyline.

The floor is inlaid with a giant sigil—a serpentine shape said to represent the Overlord’s patron deity.

Slaves kneel along the walls, heads bowed, silent as the grave.

At the corner of the chamber stands Overlord Rython Vatoris himself, robed in deep indigo with black filigree.

He’s tall, with a commanding air that can only come from generations of Khuzuth nobility, the highest Dark Elf caste.

His features are sculpted and cold, and his platinum hair falls in straight locks down his back, meticulously braided near the temples.

Though I cannot see his eyes from here, I know them to be a sharp, merciless blue—the color of glacier ice.

At his right hand stands an older advisor, Charon Verthis, who adjusts the Overlord’s cloak and gestures to a scroll.

Some lesser nobles gather behind them, each eager to glean bits of power from Rython’s every decree.

None catch my eye, for I have no interest in their maneuvering.

My world exists solely of orders given and orders obeyed.

A hush falls over the room when I cross the threshold.

Overlord Rython dismisses his other attendants with a flick of his wrist. They scatter like crows, leaving me alone at the audience chamber.

My boots click on the polished floor.

Kneeling, I tilt my head in a show of respect.

“My Overlord,” I say in a voice devoid of emotion.

He regards me for a moment, seeming to weigh my presence like a gem in the palm of his hand.

“Rise, Vaelin,” he commands, his tone soft but brimming with an authority that brooks no opposition.

I stand, placing both fists over my chest in a formal salute.

His gaze sweeps over me.

Satisfaction tugs at his mouth.

“My loyal hound returns,” he says, ignoring any courtesy that might veil the insult.

It doesn’t bother me.

His scornful praise is more truth than slight.

I am his hound—trained, efficient, and dangerous.

“I remain at your service,” I reply simply.

“Good.” He shifts, adjusting the folds of his ornate robe.

“I have news. Rumors, to be precise, carried by merchant caravans out of the mountains. Something about a Purna coven stirring once again.” He pauses.

A whisper of tension creeps into his posture.

“Our sources claim there is a particularly powerful Purna among them. One with unusual abilities that, if harnessed, could tip the balance of power.”

I offer no reaction, though curiosity stirs deep in my core.

Purna. Some called them witches.

Human women with dangerous powers, hidden away in the crags of Prazh.

They’re the only humans who might rival the Dark Elves in magical might, if the tales hold any truth.

“You wish me to confirm these rumors?” I ask.

A faint smile curves his lips.

“I wish you to capture her. The rumors mention a young woman named Elira Vex—though that might be an alias. She’s rumored to possess rare Space-Time sorcery in addition to Transformative skills. If I can harness her gifts, we may finally assert total dominion over this continent. Even… challenge the other Dark Elf kingdoms if we choose.”

He glances at the advisor, who steps forward with a small, gilded box.

Charon opens it, revealing a palm-sized sphere of red crystal.

Magic pulses within, swirling like a living flame.

It pricks at my senses, reminiscent of chaos energy but tinged with something darker.

“Take this,” the Overlord instructs, beckoning me closer.

“It is a binding focus. If you manage to subdue the girl, use the sphere on her. That should suppress her magic enough to bring her here alive.”

I approach and lift the crystal from its velvet cushion.

The surface feels warm, almost feverish.

A subtle hum resonates in my fingertips, coiling through my nerves like the promise of unleashed fury.

I close my hand around it, careful not to break the delicate surface.

“Understood,” I say.

Overlord Rython’s face hardens.

“Failure is not an option, Vaelin. We’ve heard unsettling rumors that the gargoyles are stirring, which can only mean trouble for all of Protheka. If they awaken fully, we must be prepared. Taking this Purna under our control could be our most potent weapon—against gargoyles, against rival Dark Elves, even the newly rebellious humans. Do I make myself clear?”

He doesn’t raise his voice.

He doesn’t need to. The quiet intensity in his eyes underscores the weight of his words.

Orthani stands on the brink of war, or so it seems. “Crystal clear, my Overlord.”

A pause falls, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Then he nods, dismissing Charon with a curt gesture.

The advisor bows and retreats to a respectful distance.

Rython steps closer, voice lowered.

“There is something else. My personal informants suggest that this Purna—Elira—might be tied to a prophecy of sorts. A nonsense riddle about uniting or destroying entire races. I don’t care for stories, but if there’s even a sliver of truth, I want her under my thumb.” His eyes narrow.

“Let us ensure she becomes an asset, not a threat.”

The flicker of doubt arises unbidden in my mind: What if this prophecy is significant?

I force that questioning voice into submission.

Questioning has no place in my existence.

Obey, accomplish, execute.

That is the mantra. That is the law.

“Yes, Overlord,” I say.

“I will depart immediately.”

He allows himself a small nod of approval.

“Report to me through the usual channels. If you encounter any… complications, handle them discretely. Purna have a knack for cunning illusions. Do not underestimate her.”

I bow again.

“I will not.”

He gestures for me to leave.

I pivot on my heel, the sphere warm in my palm as I exit the audience chamber.

My heartbeat remains steady; my breathing calm.

In the corridor, hushed conversations between lesser nobles hush even further when they notice me passing, as though my presence alone strangles their petty schemes.

I can’t bring myself to care about court politics.

My path leads beyond Orthani’s gates, into the wilds where I will find this Purna and fulfill the Overlord’s commands.

I descend a wide staircase that spirals down toward the citadel’s lower levels.

The sconces on the walls glow with a faint purple light—arcane flame fed by whatever minor enchanter the Overlord keeps at his beck and call.

Occasionally, I catch sight of a human slave in plain rags, scurrying to avoid crossing my path.

They flatten themselves against the walls, eyes averted.

I feel no pity, only the distant memory of pity.

Long ago, I might have known compassion.

Now, it’s a hollow echo buried beneath years of magical conditioning.

My boots strike the final landing.

I exit onto a courtyard enclosed by towering walls of black stone.

Training dummies made from straw and bound with wire line one side, and pairs of Miou soldiers spar with wooden swords on the other.

They pause to salute me, their eyes reflecting a mix of respect and unease.

I’ve served as their superior in countless raids, each victory forging my reputation as lethal and utterly obedient.

Skirting the courtyard’s perimeter, I reach the stables.

Not typical stables with hay and docile horses, but a cavernous structure where large reptilian beasts snort and pace behind iron bars.

These creatures, known as zalkirs, serve as Dark Elf mounts—scaled, cold-eyed, and vicious.

I approach the beast assigned to me, a mottled gray zalkir with a ridge of black spines along its neck.

“Steady,” I murmur, pressing a hand to its scaled flank.

It eyes me warily, steam curling from its nostrils.

Zalkirs rarely trust anyone besides their primary handler, but they know better than to refuse me.

The Overlord’s brand, etched on the underside of my forearm, exudes a faint magical aura that compels obedience in lesser creatures.

I sense the moment the zalkir’s will falters; it relaxes, letting me swing a leg over its broad back.

I tuck the crystal sphere carefully into my pouch.

Then I grip the reins, spurring the beast to move.

With a swish of its thick tail, the zalkir lurches forward, claws scraping the stone floor.

The stable doors open at my silent gesture, and I guide my mount outside onto the main boulevard.

Orthani’s architecture looms overhead like sinister guardians.

Torch-lined streets bustle with merchants of the K’sheng caste, hawking exotic wares from other continents, and artisans of the Chivdouyu caste weaving illusions in corners to entertain bored nobles.

Zagfer laborers bend their backs hauling crates, while occasional slaves scurry with messages or lead heavily burdened pack beasts.

Over all this, the city’s watchtowers keep an unblinking vigil, ready to quell any spark of rebellion.

I pass a group of robed priests preaching about one of the Thirteen Maws—perhaps the Mother or the Hunter, I can’t be certain.

Their chanting is a background drone that fails to register beyond a mild irritation.

My entire focus remains on one goal: leaving Orthani and finding the Purna who is rumored to hold such unusual power.

Despite the city’s broad avenues, pedestrians scatter out of my path, wary of the zalkir’s sharp teeth and my stern visage.

My cloak flutters in the slipstream, the hilts of my twin swords catching the grayish daylight.

The Overlord’s words echo in my head: Take her alive.

Harness her magic. Use the crystal if necessary.

A straightforward mission, by all accounts.

And yet… that flicker of doubt gnaws at my consciousness once more.

I clench the reins tighter, forcing my thoughts into alignment.

That sliver of rebellious questioning has haunted me a handful of times in the past—unbidden reflections on my identity, the purpose behind my unwavering loyalty.

Each time, I bury it deeper.

I am not broken. I am not uncertain.

I am Vaelin Duskbane, the Overlord’s sword.

That is enough.

We reach Orthani’s massive iron gates, flanked by towering statues of Dark Elf warriors from ages past. Their stone faces glare down like silent judges.

Guards hurry to unbar the gates and wave me through, saluting as the zalkir’s claws clack against the causeway.

Beyond is the endless stretch of Protheka’s landscape: rugged plains rolling off into the horizon, dotted with clusters of stunted trees and boulders.

The wind out here smells different—less of ash and more of open air, tinged with an undercurrent of wildness.

I urge the zalkir into a brisk canter, each stride carrying me farther from Orthani’s fortress walls.

The city recedes behind me, reduced to jagged silhouettes of black towers against a drab sky.

Ahead, faint ribbons of clouds promise that the day will remain gray but clear.

Travel along the main roads is typically safe for Dark Elves—bandits and rogue creatures know better than to attack an enforcer.

Still, in these lawless outskirts, humans or orcish marauders sometimes stage ambushes.

I keep my swords close, just in case.

The plains soon meld into gently rolling hills, each one sparser than the last, until the vegetation thins altogether near the horizon.

Farther north rise the formidable outlines of Prazh’s mountains, dominating the distance with their snow-capped peaks.

That is my destination.

The place rumored to harbor elusive purnas, hidden covens of Purna.

The Overlord wants Elira.

I will comply.

I recall fleeting tales of those mountains.

Once, as a child, I overheard a soldier boast about witnessing Purna illusions so convincing that entire battalions marched off cliffs, believing them to be safe roads.

Another time, I read of how the Purna once turned half a company of Dark Elves into gargoyles—though official accounts call it a curse from the Thirteen, not the direct work of purnas.

Either way, caution is necessary.

My mission is not to slay Elira but to seize her power, which requires precision.

I steel myself. The zalkir’s gait is smooth as we follow a well-worn trail deeper into the frontier.

Dry grass scrapes against my mount’s legs.

Insects buzz in the midday warmth, thickening the air with an odd hush, as though the land itself senses the approach of violence.

Now and again, I spy scattered homesteads inhabited by humans.

Most of these dwellings are meager—a few wooden huts fenced with rotting beams. Some have tilled fields, though the soil appears half-dead.

Dark Elf taxes ensure that any bountiful harvest is whisked away to the city, leaving scraps for the humans themselves.

Seeing them is a reminder of the strict hierarchy that shapes our world.

Here, at least, no patrols roam.

My black armor and obsidian skin are enough to deter a peasant from asking for trouble.

Yet, I notice sallow faces peering through cracked shutters, curiosity mingled with dread.

My presence is an omen of punishment or enforcement.

They know that nothing good typically follows a Dark Elf on a mission.

By late afternoon, I stop at a shallow stream winding through a rocky ravine.

The zalkir drinks noisily while I scout the area.

Dry reeds line the water’s edge, and gulls circle overhead, squealing in the otherwise still air.

My reflection in the stream catches my eye: pallid obsidian skin, angled cheekbones, eyes the color of frozen lakes.

A slight scowl tugs at my brow, etched there by a lifetime of unwavering discipline.

Sometimes, I wonder what I’d look like if I had the free will to smile.

The thought flits away like a startled bird.

I kneel, cupping water in my hands to rinse away the dust. The coldness shocks my system, waking me from the lull of travel.

My mind drifts, unbidden, to the Overlord’s mention of gargoyles stirring.

If they truly wake, they’ll wreak havoc across Protheka.

Ancient hatred smolders in those beasts—hatred for the Purna especially.