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3

ELIRA

B y the time I glimpse the soaring crags of Prazh again, dusk is chasing away the last remnants of daylight.

My cloak, heavy with dirt and the scent of pine, flutters behind me in the thinning mountain wind.

I still feel the grit of the road on my skin, a reminder that just two days ago, I was guiding Jonas—an injured human—down the treacherous passes in search of safety.

We made it to a small outpost nestled at the base of these peaks, a place where humans huddle behind flimsy wooden palisades to avoid roving bandits.

It was there I left him in the care of a sympathetic herbalist, slipping away before anyone could question my identity too closely.

Now, upon returning home, I can’t help noticing the tension that radiates from the ancient stone pathways leading into our enclave.

The wards carved into the rocks should soothe my spirit, but tonight they pulse with an unsettling energy.

The typical hum of magic that saturates these halls has shifted.

It’s sharper, almost frantic, as though the very air anticipates a storm.

I tighten my grip on my pack strap, inhaling the chill breath of the mountains as I ascend toward the heart of the coven.

A lone Purna sentinel stands guard near the tunnel entrance—a woman named Mayten, known for her extraordinary hearing.

She’s older, wearing layered robes that blend with the rock’s grayish hue.

Her silver hair is gathered in a loose bun, and a staff topped with a glass orb rests against her hip.

Her eyes widen when she notices me striding up the trail.

“Elira!” She beckons me forward.

Her voice trembles. “The Matriarch’s been waiting for you.”

My pulse thrums with concern.

“She summoned me specifically?” I ask, stepping closer.

The wind ruffles the moss drapes near the tunnel mouth, creating a low hiss.

“I only just returned.”

“Yes, child. There was a…” Mayten lowers her voice.

“A vision. The entire coven felt a disturbance. The Matriarch insisted you be found immediately if you returned—and, well, here you are.” Her wrinkled features crease with worry, though she offers a quick pat on my arm.

“She’s in the main hall, with the entire coven.”

My stomach churns.

Visions aren’t unheard of, but rarely does the Matriarch gather every Purna at once.

Something must be terribly wrong.

“Thank you,” I manage, nodding at Mayten before slipping past her.

The corridor yawns ahead, lit by glowing orbs shaped like crystalline flowers.

They cast ghostly reflections on the smooth walls, causing phantom shapes to dance in my peripheral vision.

The deeper I go, the more I sense a palpable tension.

A cluster of younger Purnas brush by, their whispers too hushed to catch, but the dread in their eyes tells me plenty.

Others pass me with hurried steps, clutching talismans or magical staves.

One woman in a green tunic meets my gaze, then averts hers as though I might burn her with a glance.

Unease snags my throat.

I suspect these anxious looks mean they know or suspect something about me—and it’s not good.

My boots echo as I enter the broad chamber we call the Gathering Hall.

Smooth pillars carved with symbols of growth and unity line the perimeter.

At the far side, a dais sits beneath a large skylight, where the last rays of sunset filter in like molten gold.

That warm light clashes with the somber mood of the assembled Purnas.

They stand in tense clusters, voices hushed.

Olyssia is among them, her fiery curls impossible to miss, but she’s too distracted to notice my arrival.

At the dais, Matriarch Lumeria’s imposing figure commands attention.

She’s dressed in a flowing robe of midnight-blue, hair braided in a coronet around her head.

Several elders accompany her, each exuding an aura of power—women who have lived through wars and hunts and have the scars to prove it.

Though their expressions are calm, something about their stance suggests alarm.

Lumeria spots me. Her eyes, twin storms of gray, spark with urgency.

“Elira,” she calls, beckoning me closer.

“Come forward.”

The chatter in the hall dies abruptly.

A path opens as I move through the throng, my footsteps too loud in the silence.

My heart thunders. Everyone is staring—some with curiosity, others with suspicion.

There’s a subtle shift when I pass a group in red-trimmed robes: the Red Purnas.

They’ve always existed on the outskirts of our coven’s daily life, engaged but separate, pushing for more aggressive strategies against the Dark Elves.

I feel their eyes on my back, and a chill prickles on my nape.

I pause at the dais, glancing up at the Matriarch.

“You summoned me, Matriarch?”

She exhales, placing a hand on a sculpted staff at her side.

“Yes, child. There has been… an awakening. A vision came to me last night, one I dared not interpret alone. It concerns our future—and yours.”

My pulse races.

“My future?”

The Matriarch’s mouth tightens.

“I have seen glimpses: a swirl of stone wings, magic dancing on the edge of ruin, and you, Elira, standing at the center of it.” Her voice resonates through the chamber, weaving a hush over the gathered Purnas.

“I fear the Gargoyles stir. Our wards sense an upsurge of energy near old battlegrounds—places once ravaged by their kind. And in my vision, your power is central to either sealing them away forever or… freeing them from their slumber.”

A collective gasp ripples across the hall.

My stomach drops as if I’ve just stepped off a cliff’s ledge.

The gargoyles—a race cursed by our ancestors, locked in stone for a century.

They’re monstrous, unrelenting in their hatred for the Purnas who warped them from Dark Elves.

Everyone believed them safely trapped, but rumors have been drifting in the wind.

This new revelation slams down with terrifying clarity.

“Me?” I hear my own voice, distant and unsteady.

My gaze sweeps the crowd.

Dozens of eyes stare back with a mix of awe, doubt, and fear.

“I’m just one Purna. How could I possibly…?” Words tangle in my throat.

Matriarch Lumeria’s expression softens.

“Your gifts are not ordinary, Elira. You know this. Space-Time magic is exceedingly rare, even among us, and your Transformative abilities exceed the typical illusions we teach novices. I have tried to guide you without feeding rumors, but it seems fate will not wait.”

I grasp for logic.

“What do you want me to do?”

Before she can answer, a sharp voice cuts in from the side.

“Yes, Matriarch, what do you propose? For us to sit idly by while one untested girl holds the fate of our entire coven in her grasp?” The speaker steps forward—a tall, striking woman with chestnut hair braided close to her scalp.

Her robe is accented in crimson thread, marking her as one of the Red Purnas.

A half-ring of her cohorts fans out behind her like a formation of hawks.

Tension rakes my nerves.

The woman is Nerissa, a known leader among the Red Purnas.

She’s championed more aggressive tactics for years, insisting that we should openly fight the Dark Elves instead of living in perpetual secrecy.

Her stance is combative, chin lifted in defiance.

Lumeria’s eyes narrow.

“We are not sitting idly by, Nerissa. We are deciding our next steps based on facts, not fear.”

Nerissa smirks, folding her arms. “Facts, you say? Like the fact that the gargoyles slaughtered entire covens before they were sealed away?” She sweeps her gaze around, voice dripping with challenge.

“Or the fact that the Dark Elves continue to enslave and butcher humans with no repercussions? Perhaps we can use Elira’s special abilities to deal with both threats at once. Turn the gargoyles on the Dark Elves, or vice versa, and seize control of Protheka.”

My breath catches at her brazen suggestion, but a ripple of uneasy agreement stirs in some corners of the hall.

The Red Purnas believe our isolation only emboldens the Dark Elves and leaves us vulnerable to old enemies.

Part of me understands their anger—but turning me into a weapon to wage open war?

That idea paralyzes my thoughts with dread.

Lumeria raises a hand for silence.

“We will not provoke widespread destruction to achieve safety. Our priority is protecting the Purna line, ensuring our survival. We cannot do so by fueling more conflict.” She glances at me.

“Elira, if you truly are key to the prophecy, we must tread carefully. One misstep could unleash horrors we are ill-prepared to face.”

The weight of their expectations crushes my lungs.

The entire coven stands in an arc around the dais, every gaze fixated on me, the supposed harbinger of salvation or doom.

My heart pounds so loudly I can barely hear.

My mouth opens, but no words emerge—panic seizes my tongue, an icy clamp on my throat.

At that moment, Olyssia appears at my side, her hand sliding around my elbow as if sensing I’m on the verge of collapsing.

She murmurs reassuringly, “Breathe, Elira. Just breathe.”

I manage a shallow inhale.

The presence of my friend grounds me a little.

My vision, however, spins with the knowledge that gargoyles could soon rampage across Protheka—beings that harbor an ancient, visceral hatred for purnas like me.

And now, I’m told I might have the power to either seal them once more or free them entirely.

When I finally find my voice, it’s shaky.

“Matriarch, I— I don’t know if I can handle this. I barely understand my Space-Time magic. You’ve all seen how unpredictable my transformations can be. What if I… I make things worse?”

A hush follows.

Some watch me with pity, others with cold calculation.

Nerissa’s lips twist as if my fear confirms her suspicions that I’m unfit to wield such responsibility.

Lumeria’s brows knit in empathy.

“That is exactly why we must be cautious. You will not face this alone, Elira. The coven will guide you. But we can’t ignore the signs.”

Nerissa steps forward, her stare drilling into me.

“And if Elira’s presence proves more of a danger than a blessing? What then?”

Heat pricks my cheeks.

A flicker of defiance sparks in my chest. I might be terrified, but I’m no helpless child.

“I’m not out to doom anyone,” I say in a tight voice.

“I want to protect our people. But I won’t be your puppet. I will find a way to control my magic… or I’ll die trying.”

Murmurs spread through the onlookers at the quiet conviction in my tone.

I glimpse Olyssia’s approving nod.

Lumeria offers a kind smile.

“That is the resolve we need. For now, I will ask you to remain in the coven. Train with the elders. Learn to harness your abilities. We must be ready for what’s coming.”

A pang twists my stomach.

Just earlier, she encouraged me to leave, gather information, see the outside world.

Now she wants to keep me here, presumably for more direct supervision.

The abrupt shift unsettles me.

But I can’t deny the logic.

If I’m truly central to this prophecy, gallivanting around the countryside half-trained might be a recipe for disaster—especially if the Red Purnas are sniffing around for an opportunity to exploit my magic.

I nod stiffly. “Understood.”

Lumeria inclines her head, relief momentarily crossing her face.

But before she can dismiss everyone, a new figure pushes through the crowd—a younger Purna wearing a battered cloak.

Her hair is tangled, and she looks like she’s run the entire way.

She gasps, “Matriarch… there’s a messenger from the lowland villages. Something about… about Dark Elf sightings in the passes. They’ve begun scouring the foothills. Possibly for a Purna.”

A spear of alarm jolts through me.

My thoughts dart to Jonas, to the battered outpost. Did the Dark Elves show up after I left, hunting for purnas?

My breath accelerates.

I sense a collective ripple of fear among the Purnas.

Even the Red faction looks unsettled by the idea that Dark Elves might be actively searching the mountains.

Lumeria’s knuckles tighten on her staff.

“We cannot risk direct confrontation. Everyone, return to your quarters. Keep watch for any sign of infiltration. Let the wards stand at full strength.” She glances at me, her jaw set.

“Elira, stay. I need to speak with you privately.”

A murmur of acknowledgment spreads, and the assembled purnas begin dispersing.

Some file out in solemn quiet, others break into hushed huddles to debate the revelations.

Nerissa and her Red Purnas linger for a moment, exchanging meaningful looks, before sweeping out of the hall with swift footsteps.

Their tension lingers like static in the air.

Once most have departed, Olyssia gives my hand a supportive squeeze.

“I’ll be waiting, okay? Don’t let them scare you.” Then she’s gone, leaving me alone with the Matriarch and a few senior elders at the dais.

Lumeria gestures for me to come closer, the echoes of footsteps dying away.

Her gaze is troubled.

“I sense your turmoil, child. This prophecy… it’s a heavy burden.”

I swallow hard.

“I never wanted any of this, Matriarch. The gargoyles, the Dark Elves, the Red Purnas’ schemes—I just want to protect our people. But I barely trust my own power.”

Her expression softens.

“No one expects you to master it overnight. However, we must move swiftly. If the rumors are true, the gargoyles are stirring, and the Dark Elves are prowling our borders. If they realize your existence…” She lets that sentence hang, the implications stark.

A powerful Purna in their grasp could tip the balance for any faction that claims me.

One of the elders, a tall woman with silver hair named Yvara, steps forward.

“The wards we maintain protect the coven’s location from common scrying spells. But if the Dark Elves learn precisely who they’re looking for, they may bypass those barriers. We risk losing the entire coven if they breach these walls.”

A cold weight settles in my chest. My presence could lead the Dark Elves right here.

I think of Jonas again, how I used illusions to help him just a couple days prior.

I wonder if he’s safe or if his survival story has already traveled.

Perhaps it’s only a matter of time before a cunning enforcer tracks the rumors to me.

“I should never have left the mountains,” I whisper, guilt gnawing.

“I might have drawn attention.”

“You were following my instructions,” Lumeria says firmly.

“We had to learn if the rumors of gargoyle movements were true. You did what was necessary.”

Yvara’s gaze flicks between us.

“Regardless, we must prepare. Elira, you will undergo intense training with the coven’s best mentors. Focus on controlling your Transformative spells first—that art can be… volatile, especially under stress. Then, we’ll see if we can refine your Space-Time magic.”

My palms grow clammy at the thought of unleashing that intangible, terrifying power.

“Yes, Elder,” I manage, voice wavering.

Lumeria nods. “We have no choice. Darkness stirs, and if we do not stand ready, we will be devoured by these warring forces.” She breathes out, the flicker of a frown between her brows.

“But rest now, child. You’ve just returned from a harrowing trip. Tomorrow, your training begins at dawn.”

I incline my head, throat too tight to speak further.

The elders dismiss me with understanding looks, though their eyes hold a flicker of caution.

They trust me, but the specter of prophecy looms large.

Stepping away from the dais, I exit the Gathering Hall.

The corridors seem darker than usual, despite the floating orbs of arcane light.

My footsteps ring hollow, my thoughts tangled in the magnitude of what I’ve heard.

My magic could seal or free an entire race of monsters.

I try to swallow the lump of fear choking me, but it remains lodged in place.

Halfway to my chamber, I nearly bump into Olyssia, who is leaning against a pillar, arms folded tight across her chest. “You okay?” she asks, searching my face.

I release a shaky laugh.

“Not really. But I’m still breathing.”

She nods solemnly.

Then, taking my arm, she guides me to a small alcove where a mosaic of colored glass filters the last bit of twilight.

The mosaic shows stylized scenes of early Purna history: women chanting beneath a moonlit sky, energy swirling from their hands, forging a protective shield.

“I overheard enough to guess how intense things got,” Olyssia mutters, glancing around to ensure privacy.

“So… you really might be able to seal or free our archenemies? The gargoyles?”

I wrap my arms around myself.

“That’s what the Matriarch’s vision suggests. It’s all so unreal.”

She exhales, scuffing a toe against the mosaic’s edge.

“You’re not alone, though, Elira. People like me will stand by you. The Red Purnas might have big mouths, but not all of us want to jump into war.”

Relief flickers in my chest. “Thank you.” I hesitate, then add, “I saw Nerissa eyeing me like she was deciding whether I was an asset or a liability. She practically wants me to storm Orthani and enslave the Dark Elves right back.”

Olyssia grimaces.

“They’re obsessed with revenge. Maybe they have a point about the Dark Elves’ atrocities, but using you as a weapon?” She shakes her head.

“That’s dangerous talk. If you do hold the key to controlling the gargoyles, imagine what havoc the Red Purnas might stir if they manipulate you.”

Her words add another layer of dread to the swirling mass of worries in my mind.

“I don’t want to hurt innocent people,” I whisper.

“But the lines of innocence in Protheka are so blurred. The Dark Elves treat humans like cattle, but we Purna have our own sins, too.”

She places a hand on my shoulder.

“Come on, let’s at least get some food in you. Then rest. Tomorrow’s a new day, and the Matriarch will want you fresh for training.”

I nod, letting her steer me through the winding corridors until we reach a smaller chamber where the coven stores provisions: dried fruits, grains, cheese, and occasionally fresh game or fish from mountain streams. My appetite is practically nonexistent, but I force myself to nibble on a wedge of cheese and drink some water from a copper cup.

Olyssia picks at a piece of bread, glancing at me from time to time with worry.

Afterward, we say our subdued goodnights.

She heads to her chamber, promising to meet me early for a quick warm-up routine.

I manage to stumble into my own modest room.

The single torch set into the wall flickers, casting shadows that crawl across the stone floor.

My bed looks simultaneously inviting and terrifying, because I know sleep will bring nightmares.

I toss my cloak aside, letting it slump over a wooden chair.

My bag slides to the floor in a heap of dusty leather.

Weariness weighs down my limbs as I collapse onto the mattress, the straw-filled padding creaking beneath me.

The events of the day reel through my mind: Jonas’s rescue, the climb home, the Matriarch’s vision, the confrontation with Nerissa, and the horrifying possibility that the gargoyles might soon awaken.

Eventually, I drift into fitful slumber.

My dreams are fragmented, filled with stone wings flaring against a crimson sky, monstrous roars echoing through ravaged halls.

I see myself standing in the midst of a swirling vortex—light and dark, mixing into a storm of raw magic.

Gargoyles circle overhead like vultures.

Their eyes burn with hatred.

I try to force them back, but my spells crackle out of control, warping the ground beneath my feet.

Something snaps, and the entire dream collapses into formless gray.

When I bolt awake, my heart is pounding like a war drum.

Dawn’s earliest light seeps through a narrow window high in the chamber wall.

I press a trembling hand to my forehead, sweat beading there.

My mouth is cotton-dry.

A sense of impending doom lingers, so thick it nearly chokes me.

I rise unsteadily and splash water from a clay pitcher onto my face.

The coolness jolts me into sharper awareness.

It was just a dream, I tell myself, though that does little to calm the residual terror.

The line between dream and prophecy feels thinner in these mountains.

Remembering Lumeria’s order, I dress in a fresh tunic and leggings—simple garments that allow free movement.

I secure my silver-streaked hair into a low braid.

My reflection in the polished metal mirror reveals haunted eyes.

Last year, I might have been mistaken for just another young Purna with modest abilities.

Now, the entire coven regards me as a living weapon or potential savior.

The weight of that responsibility nearly buckles my knees.

A soft knock at my door interrupts my brooding.

I open it to find a young messenger, her face shy and uncertain.

“Matriarch requests your presence in the training arena,” she reports, voice cracking.

“She said you’d know what that means.”

I swallow, offering a quick nod.

“Thank you.”

She scurries off, relief evident as if standing too close to me is nerve-wracking.

Is that what I am now, a creature to be feared?

The thought stings. Still, there’s no time to wallow in self-pity.

I shrug on a lightweight cloak and head out.

The training arena is carved into a large cavern on the southern side of our enclave, where sunlight can filter through an opening in the rocky ceiling.

Stone pillars and neatly etched runic circles line the floor, providing safe zones for practicing illusions or channeling elemental forces.

When I arrive, I find Lumeria and Yvara waiting, along with two other elders named Sarene and Quelina.

All three wear simple robes, and each holds a staff or wand.

Their postures are calm but purposeful.

Olyssia is here too, standing off to the side, arms crossed.

She catches my eye and offers a supportive half-smile.

“Good morning,” Lumeria greets me.

“I trust you slept… well enough.”

I nod, though we both know my sleep was probably anything but restful.

My throat is too tight to speak, so I settle for a polite incline of my head.

I sense the wards buzzing around us, a subtle thrumming of magical energy that helps contain any explosive spells.

Sarene gestures for me to step into the nearest rune circle.

“Let’s begin with your Transformative skill. We need to ensure you can alter form accurately and dismiss the changes on command.” Her tone is firm but not unkind.

Nerves twist my stomach.

Transformative magic has always come more naturally to me than illusions, but it’s also the most prone to surging out of control if my emotions spike.

The memory of that predator wolf I accidentally turned into a hare surfaces, reminding me how potent—and unpredictable—my power can be.

Stepping into the circle, I inhale deeply.

The chalk lines shimmer faintly, reacting to the presence of my magic.

“What form should I try first?” I ask.

Lumeria exchanges a glance with Yvara.

“Something small and manageable. Perhaps a sparrow or a kitten. We need to measure how swiftly you can shift living matter without causing harm.”

Right.

My palms dampen. Controlling a living creature’s shape is delicate work; too much or too little focus can lead to partial transformations or permanent damage.

I wipe my clammy hands on my leggings and nod.

“All right.”

They produce a small crate from the side, where a meek rabbit sits trembling, its nose twitching.

I feel a pang of guilt—it’s likely from our own gardens, used for magical practice.

Approaching slowly, I extend my palms and close my eyes.

My senses tune into the rabbit’s heartbeat, the warmth of its body, the delicate structure of bones beneath soft fur.

Feel the essence, I remind myself.

Direct the flow of energy carefully.

Tendrils of power stir inside me, that intangible current I’ve known since childhood.

I direct it outward, imagining the rabbit shrinking further, feathers sprouting, its ears changing shape…

The fur under my fingertips ripples, the magical energy thrumming in response.

I can sense the shift happening.

My breath comes in short bursts as I refine each detail: a beak forming, tiny talons instead of paws, hollow bones for flight.

There’s a moment of resistance—a quiver where the rabbit’s instincts and my will clash.

I grit my teeth, pushing the transformation a fraction further while trying not to overshoot.

A flash of blinding white surges across my vision.

Then the energy levels out.

When I blink, a tiny sparrow stands where the rabbit once crouched, trembling with confusion.

Sarene exhales slowly.

“Well done, Elira. That was precise.”

I stare at the sparrow, my pulse racing.

The bird flutters its wings, balancing unsteadily on the crate’s edge.

“Now… change it back,” Yvara instructs gently.

Nodding, I let the magic settle, then reverse the flow.

Another ripple of power, a hiss of shimmering energy, and the sparrow’s form elongates.

Feathers recede, ears stretch, bones solidify.

The rabbit reappears, looking frazzled but unharmed.

My entire body sags with relief.

I glance at the elders.

Quelina gives me an approving nod, while Lumeria’s mouth curves in a faint, proud smile.

“Your control is improving,” Lumeria says quietly.

“And that’s crucial.”

A brief swirl of pride stirs in my chest, but it’s overshadowed by the heavier concerns looming over us.

I gently set the rabbit aside, feeling sorry for the poor creature.

Then Olyssia steps up, volunteering a grin.

“Maybe I can conjure a small flame target for Elira to transform? Practice turning fire into… something else?”

I arch an eyebrow at her.

“Turning fire into something else is about as tricky as conjuring wings on a fish. But I’ll try if the elders think it’s wise.” A year ago, I would’ve laughed at the idea, but at this point, I figure any practice that pushes my boundaries might help me refine my chaotic gifts.

Sarene and Yvara exchange a thoughtful glance, then motion for us to proceed.

Olyssia steps into a neighboring rune circle, her hands outstretched.

I watch her gather the threads of elemental energy, coaxing a flicker of flame into life between her palms. The fire crackles orange, flaring with each breath.

She lifts it, shaping it into a small orb that floats in front of her.

I focus on that orb, letting my awareness attune to its shimmering heat.

Transforming fire isn’t the same as altering an animal; it has no heartbeat or sinew.

It’s raw energy, chaotic and ephemeral.

Biting my lip, I gesture gently, attempting to wrap my power around the flame.

My mind pictures it becoming a glowing crystal sphere—something tangible yet radiant.

A wave of dizziness washes over me.

The orb shudders in midair, flickering rapidly between sparks and molten energy.

My breath tightens as the lines of reality blur.

In a split second, the orb explodes outward, lashing the air with scorching tongues of heat.

I yelp, throwing my arms up.

“Shield!” Lumeria snaps.

A shimmering barrier snaps into place, conjured by the elders.

The blast collides with the ward, scattering harmlessly.

When the smoke clears, the orb is gone, replaced by a faint glow of scattered embers on the arena floor.

My cheeks burn with embarrassment.

Olyssia stares at me with wide eyes, arms lifted in her own partial attempt to shield.

“Are you okay?” she gasps.

I nod, coughing at the sulfurous tang in the air.

“I’m fine. Just… not ready for that, apparently.”

Quelina sighs, resting on her staff.

“Transforming inanimate energy is significantly more complicated. Let’s not push you too far, too fast.”

Lumeria’s gaze softens.

“No harm done, at least.” Her tone shifts, turning introspective.

“In the days to come, we’ll need you to harness both your Transformative gift and your budding Space-Time magic. But we’ll do it in stages, carefully.”

Something in her voice—the unwavering conviction that I’ll succeed—fills me with an odd mixture of gratitude and panic.

I want to do right by my coven.

I want to ensure the gargoyles don’t ravage us.

Still, the magnitude of it all sets me on edge.

Over the next few hours, we continue with smaller exercises: refining illusions to mask a single object’s shape, turning pebbles into lumps of clay and back again, even testing small pulses of time-slow spells—though I can only sustain them for a heartbeat or two.

Each attempt chips away at my energy reserves, leaving me shaky.

Yet every success, however minor, bolsters a fragile hope that I can learn control.

By the time we finish, my clothes cling to me with sweat.

The illusions swirl in my head, and my limbs ache with the strain of channeling so much magic.

Olyssia hands me a waterskin, and I drink greedily, wiping my brow.

Lumeria surveys me with an approving nod.

“You did well. It’s a start, Elira. I know it feels like an uphill climb, but persistence will serve you better than raw power.”

I manage a weak grin.

“I appreciate your guidance, Matriarch.”

“Go rest, eat something,” she says, smiling.

Then her gaze slips into seriousness.

“But remain vigilant. There are dangers from without and within.” Her eyes flick to the chamber’s entrance as if referencing the Red Purnas who linger in the coven, seeking any opening to twist the prophecy to their ends.

“I’ll keep my guard up,” I reply, not entirely certain how.

The day is far from over, and the threat of an approaching storm—be it gargoyles, Dark Elves, or rebellious purnas—feels almost tangible, pressing in on my mind like a dark cloud.

I gather my things, exhaustion weighing down every step as I leave the training arena.

Olyssia walks beside me, one hand on my shoulder in a show of silent support.

As we cross into the main corridor, the hum of warded power intensifies, signifying new protective spells reinforcing the coven’s boundaries.

Each pulse is a reminder that we’re barricading ourselves against the unstoppable forces brewing outside these walls.

Conflicting emotions churns in my chest. If the gargoyles truly awaken, can these wards hold them at bay?

If the Overlord’s armies come marching, can illusions and protective circles shield us forever?

And if Nerissa gets her way, how many Purnas might be lured by the promise of vengeance, igniting a war we can’t hope to win alone?

I can’t shake the final question: Where do I fit into all of this?

The prophecy named me as a hinge on which entire fates may turn.

That knowledge presses down like an avalanche.

I’ve always been a dreamer, eager to see the wider world and help those in need, but never did I imagine stepping into a role that could tip Protheka’s future into chaos or salvation.

When Olyssia and I reach a fork in the corridor, we pause.

She opens her mouth as if to say something reassuring, but only a faint exhalation escapes.

I sense she doesn’t have the words to soothe the looming dread in my heart.

Instead, she pats my arm gently and heads toward the dormitory area, leaving me with my swirling doubts.

I linger for a moment, pressing a hand against the cold stone wall, feeling the rhythmic pulse of magic beneath my palm.

It’s almost like a heartbeat—our coven’s collective lifeblood.

I must protect this place.

If that means embracing the weight of a prophecy I never asked for, so be it.

But inside, I remain terrified of what might happen if I fail—or if I succeed in ways that unleash something far worse.

Gathering my frayed courage, I turn down the opposite corridor that leads to my chamber.

Step by step, I vow to keep pushing forward.

Fear can paralyze or spur one to action.

I refuse to let it paralyze me now.

Yes, I think. This is the burden I carry.

And I will bear it, no matter how heavy.

Yet as I reach my room and close the door behind me, I can’t help wondering if fate has already begun tightening a noose around my neck.

If so, my only hope is to break free before the prophecy’s chains drag me—and the entire coven—into an abyss from which there may be no return.