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VAELIN

A stiff wind combs through the crooked pines, carrying the tang of frost and old secrets.

I stand at a narrow precipice, peering down into the steep ravine below.

Mist coils over jagged rocks, swirling with each gust, as if the landscape itself is alive.

My zalkir—a formidable reptilian beast—shifts restlessly behind me, scraping its claws over loose gravel.

It senses my disquiet.

I’ve ridden deeper into these mountains than most Dark Elves dare to roam alone.

The path grows less distinct with each mile, vanishing into a tangle of dense conifers and towering crags.

Light struggles here, filtered by a canopy of twisted boughs.

It’s midday, yet the atmosphere feels like perpetual dusk.

I can’t shake the conviction that shadows lurk just beyond my vision, breathing down the back of my neck.

I try to bury that discomfort, focusing instead on the next steps of my mission.

After all, Overlord Rython gave me a single, unambiguous order: Find the rumored Purna called Elira, subdue her, bring her back.

Obeying is second nature.

Yet something inside my mind thrums with a low undercurrent of reluctance—a feeling I can’t fully name.

As if summoned by that thought, a faint moan echoes up from behind a clump of boulders.

My shoulders tense. Beyond the precarious ledge, we made camp last night in a sheltered hollow.

A bare minimum of supplies, no fire, to avoid drawing attention.

It’s there, hidden from the wind, that I’ve secured a prisoner: a bedraggled human who claims knowledge about the Purna’s movements.

He’s not the first I’ve interrogated, but something about his presence sets my teeth on edge.

Maybe it’s the timing.

Maybe it’s the haunted look in his eyes.

I step carefully, boots crunching on the gravel.

The zalkir follows at a short distance, chained to a jut of rock.

It hisses, steam curling from its nostrils, but it’s well-trained enough not to stray.

Around a bend in the path, a makeshift lean-to of branches slopes against a boulder.

Beside it, tied with rope, slumps the spy I captured late yesterday.

He is a scrawny, sallow-skinned man, wearing threadbare trousers and a vest that’s torn at the seams. His face is streaked with dirt, and one eye is swollen shut from a scuffle.

I hadn’t intended to break him so thoroughly—my style is swift, incisive—but he fought like a cornered rat when I cornered him near an abandoned watchtower.

If nothing else, I respect his attempt at resistance, even if it was doomed.

Approaching, I note how his breathing quickens.

He lifts his head, flinching at the sight of me.

“P-please,” he croaks, voice raspy.

“I’ve told you everything. Let me go.”

I crouch, resting an elbow on my knee so I can look him in the eye.

“You’ve told me enough, ” I correct, letting my tone slide from bored to threatening.

“But I sense you’re holding back. Spies always do.”

His gaze flits nervously to the zalkir, then back to me.

“I’m not a spy,” he insists, trembling.

“Just a courier—carrying messages between villages.” A half-truth at best; his clothing and the scars on his wrists suggest a history far more complicated than he admits.

I reach into my pouch, extracting a small vial of faintly glowing purple liquid.

It’s a mild truth-serum derivative, refined by the Overlord’s alchemists.

I rarely use such methods; intimidation alone usually suffices.

But this time, time itself feels too short.

The Overlord’s demands weigh heavily, and the whispers about gargoyles—combined with the rumored Purna—grow more urgent by the hour.

With deliberate slowness, I uncork the vial, holding it near the man’s face.

His eyes widen with panic.

“What is that?”

“Insurance,” I reply, pressing the vial’s rim to his chapped lips.

“Drink.”

He resists, jerking his head aside, but I clamp my free hand around his jaw, forcing it open.

The bitter liquid dribbles into his mouth.

He sputters, gagging.

I withdraw the vial and stand, capping it again with a steady hand.

The entire process takes seconds.

By the time I pocket the vial, the spy’s expression grows slack.

His pupils dilate, shining with an unnatural brightness.

He mutters incoherently for a moment, body trembling.

I wait in silence, arms folded.

The wind picks up, whining like a lost spirit over the boulders.

My mouth tastes of iron and regret—an odd reaction.

Usually, I feel nothing.

After a minute, the man slumps forward, tethered only by the rope around his torso.

“Ask… ask your questions,” he mumbles, voice dull.

I lower my tone. “You spoke of rumors. That the gargoyles are stirring?”

A twitch contorts his features.

He takes shallow breaths.

“Yes,” he finally says.

“Some say… cracks are appearing in their stone prisons… especially in the high peaks near the old battlefields. Whispers spread across the lowland villages… everyone’s afraid.” His words come haltingly, as if each one costs him.

I stiffen. I have heard hints of such talk—vague, unsubstantiated—but hearing it confirmed again shakes me more than I’d like.

My heart quickens. If the gargoyles truly awaken, all Protheka stands on the brink of catastrophe.

The Overlord’s concerns, it seems, are well-founded.

“What else?” I press, stepping closer.

“You mentioned a prophecy. Something about a Purna who can either seal or free gargoyles?”

His eyes gloss over.

“The humans whisper of it in hushed corners. They say a witch in the mountains, with a power beyond measure. A special… something… that ties her to the curse on the gargoyles.” His breathing rattles.

“They think she’ll either become our salvation… or our doom.”

A faint pang lances my gut.

My suspicions sharpen.

This must be the woman Overlord Rython wants me to capture.

Elira Vex, if the rumors hold.

Another piece of evidence that my mission is no mere errand.

I keep my face impassive.

“These rumors—did you witness anything yourself?”

He groans, gripping the rope with numb fingers.

“No. I just carried letters—messages for certain… parties. Some from humans who want to side with the gargoyles if it means overthrowing the Dark Elves, others from purnas who think they can harness the gargoyle’s power. They all mention her. ” A shudder runs through him.

“Elira, they called her. The one who manipulates time and shape with ease.”

So it’s certain now.

The Overlord’s intelligence matches this wretch’s testimony.

I swallow a rush of conflicting emotions.

On one hand, relief that I have confirmation.

On the other, an inexplicable anxiety simmering beneath my ribs.

If this Purna truly wields power over gargoyles, capturing her might be more dangerous than I anticipated.

I drag in a slow breath.

“Where do these purnas hide?”

His head lolls.

“High in the Prazh range. Some say you can find them if you follow the black pines to a hidden valley. But none of us… none of us common folk… actually saw them. We just pass along what we’re told.”

I arch an eyebrow, tension coiled in my muscles.

“Which is?”

He grimaces, swallowing convulsively.

“That she’s… there. That the purnas gather around her. They fear the Dark Elves. They fear each other. The… Red Purnas, they call them, want to start a war. I only know scraps.”

A quiet hush settles between us.

The wind rattles a loose piece of rope.

I weigh the man’s words.

A renegade faction of purnas who seek open conflict…

that complicates things further.

Could they harness the gargoyles if they awaken?

Could the Overlord do so first if he controls Elira?

I clench my fists, forcing composure.

My entire life has been shaped by duty.

Now, that duty leads me into a vortex of old hatreds and unstoppable magic.

For a flicker of time, I sense a question stirring in my mind: Is all of this right?

The Overlord’s ambitions, the forced compliance of countless slaves, the vow that we—Dark Elves—deserve to rule?

I strangle the doubt before it can bloom.

My gaze sharpens on the prisoner.

“You’ve provided valuable insights,” I say flatly, though my voice lacks the typical venom I show to captives.

In truth, I’m unsettled by the swirling threats.

The gargoyles. The prophecy.

The possibility that everything I know stands on the brink of upheaval.

He coughs, flecks of spit dotting his lips.

“So… you’ll let me go? You promised.”

I lift my chin, recalling no such promise.

My standard protocol is to leave no loose ends that might compromise the Overlord’s mission.

Yet… I hesitate. This man is half-dead already, drained of everything he knows.

Usually, that’s reason enough to end him swiftly.

But a faint memory stirs—of the traveling messenger I encountered days ago, the one who gave me scraps of information before I let him live.

Mercy is not my way, and yet I spare that man.

Am I repeating the same choice now?

Shaking my head, I grip the hilt of one sword.

The steel hums with a low ring.

The prisoner’s eyes bulge with terror.

Adrenaline spikes in my veins.

My conditioning screams, Eliminate him.

He’s a liability. My body tenses, primed for the lethal strike I’ve executed countless times.

Still, my hand does not draw the blade.

Why? The question rings in my skull.

Why do I feel this creeping reluctance?

It’s as though something cracks inside me—an unseen chain rattling.

Once, I would have killed without a second thought.

Now, an inner voice warns that every life I extinguish drags me deeper into the Overlord’s black pit of cruelty.

That is my purpose, I remind myself, yet the words taste hollow.

The prisoner senses my hesitation, tears pooling in his eyes.

“Please…” he croaks, voice quivering.

I exhale slowly. This man’s life means nothing in the grand scheme.

My directive is to remain undetected, collect intelligence, and deliver the Purna to Orthani.

Exterminating him might serve no real point.

I reach out instead, slicing the rope that binds him with a single flick of my dagger.

He collapses, gaping at me in shock.

“Go,” I say curtly, sheathing the weapon.

“Run. If the Overlord’s soldiers find you again, you won’t be so lucky.”

He doesn’t need further encouragement.

Scrambling to his feet, he limps down the mountainside.

Within seconds, he vanishes between the gnarled pines, leaving me alone in the silence of my own conflicted thoughts.

The truth serum’s effect will wear off soon.

Perhaps he’ll vanish into the wilderness, or perhaps fate will devour him in some other manner.

Either way, I’ve stayed my blade…

again.

I grit my teeth, turning toward my zalkir.

My heart thuds with an emotion too close to regret or confusion.

I’m supposed to be the Overlord’s perfect enforcer: cold, unflinching, unstoppable.

I’m dangerously close to failing that standard.

If Rython discovers these moments of mercy, I doubt he’ll be pleased.

He might strip me of rank, or subject me to harsher forms of magical conditioning.

A chill slithers across my spine at the thought.

Tugging on the reins, I mount the zalkir in one smooth motion.

The creature hisses, turning its angular head to regard me with luminous yellow eyes.

I sense its hunger—zalkirs are always ready for flesh.

But I have no desire to feed it a wretched captive.

“We depart,” I say, voice hushed.

The zalkir leaps forward, claws clattering over stones.

I angle us back toward the higher passes, following the spy’s mention of a hidden valley near black pines.

The path rises steeply, forcing the zalkir to pick its way with caution.

Clouds drift overhead, their undersides tinged with steel-gray.

There might be a storm tonight.

The swirling wind grows colder, biting at my cheeks.

My senses remain alert for anything out of place—movement in the foliage, the presence of wards, illusions cast by purnas.

So far, I notice only the wilderness’s quiet menace.

Yet the dread in my gut doesn’t fade.

It feels like a bruise deep inside, throbbing whenever I consider the gargoyles or the prophecy.

Elira, the Purna. The name circles in my mind.

She apparently wields not just illusions but the dreaded Space-Time magic, capable of manipulating reality in ways few can fathom.

On top of that, she’s rumored to hold the key to controlling or releasing ancient monstrosities.

My chest tightens with a sensation akin to awe, yet also revulsion.

The Overlord demands her subjugation, but how does one subjugate the force that might shape the fate of entire species?

I press on. By late afternoon, the trail veers alongside a narrow ridge.

A slip here would drop me hundreds of feet into a rocky gorge.

The zalkir’s tail swishes, balancing us as we inch forward.

My gaze darts to a shape in the distance: the silhouette of a twisted pine, its trunk blackened by some past fire.

A few stunted cousins cluster around it, forming a small copse.

This must be the route the spy mentioned.

Reaching a broader plateau, I dismount.

The wind intensifies, tugging at my cloak.

Below, a canyon stretches in a labyrinth of sharp outcroppings.

Glancing around, I spot faint signs of recent passage—footprints in the thin soil, likely from a small group.

They’re not fresh, but they suggest people have traveled this path.

Possibly purnas. Possibly humans seeking refuge or trade.

Kneeling, I brush my fingertips over the prints.

My magic sense is limited—Dark Elves rely on the power granted by the Thirteen, though I possess more inherent skill than most, courtesy of experimental breeding.

Even so, I can’t glean details from footprints alone like a Purna might.

Sighing, I straighten.

The day grows short; finding shelter is prudent.

I spot a shallow cave in the cliff face to my left, half-hidden by brambles.

I lead the zalkir to it carefully.

Inside, the space is cramped but free of dangerous wildlife.

I tether the beast near a stone outcropping, letting it settle on its haunches.

My gaze strays to the cave mouth, where the fading light outlines the swirling mists.

Another wave of disquiet washes over me, making my skin prickle.

I sense no immediate threat, yet the silence presses in too heavily.

The Overlord’s voice echoes in my memory: Failure is not an option.

Time presses on, and if the gargoyles truly stir, our window for capturing this Purna might be closing.

The Overlord likely expects a swift resolution.

But do I? The question flickers unbidden in my mind again, stirring the fragile sense of self I’ve kept suppressed for years.

Disgusted with my own introspection, I remove my black leather armor piece by piece, leaving only a fitted tunic that clings to my skin.

My arms feel stiff from hours of riding.

Usually, I ignore physical discomfort easily, but the tension roiling inside me is worse than any muscle ache.

I prepare a minimal camp—no fire, just a small lamp fueled by bottled witchlight, enough to cast a pale glow on the cave walls.

Shadows flicker and distort across the uneven rock, forming shapes that almost resemble wings or bestial faces.

The illusions toy with my mind.

Gargoyles. They’re out there, maybe still encased in stone, maybe half-awake.

If even half the rumors hold true, they possess monstrous strength and a driving hatred for purnas—and a simmering enmity for Dark Elves, too, if the old tales are accurate.

I slump against the wall, resting my swords within easy reach.

I hold the smaller blade in my lap, tapping the hilt with a restless finger.

My thoughts drift back to the Overlord’s fortress in Orthani: the sweeping black arches, the polished floors, the hush that fell whenever I strode through a corridor.

That hush was respect—and fear.

The Overlord shaped me into a precision instrument.

Lately, though, I question if there’s more to my existence than blindly serving his thirst for power.

If that notion is treason, then so be it.

A quiet pang of memory tugs at me—hazy recollections from years ago, when I was still a boy.

A voice telling me I wasn’t just a soldier, that I had my own will.

That memory is blurred, drowned by the Overlord’s conditioning.

I can’t recall the speaker’s face or name.

But the echo returns now, persistent.

The lamp flickers. A rattle of loose rocks outside the cave jolts me.

In one fluid motion, I spring to my feet, sword in hand.

The zalkir raises its horned head, sniffing the air.

There’s a rustle—perhaps just an animal, or a bit of debris knocked down by the wind.

I step outside, scanning the ledge, but nothing stirs in the half-light.

My senses strain. No footprints.

No glint of eyes in the undergrowth.

Gradually, the tension in my shoulders eases.

Just the wind. That doesn’t stop my heart from hammering, or the swirl of dread that reminds me trouble is imminent.

Returning inside, I slide down to the cave floor and press my back to the rock, exhaling.

Sleep might be wise, but I’m too taut with anxiety.

Instead, I stare at the lamp’s wavering glow, chasing phantoms in its dancing shape.

Elira. The name repeats like a drumbeat in my mind, accompanied by the hush of a prophecy that claims she can alter the destiny of the entire planet.

Yet she’s just a rumor, a ghost among the mountains.

I consider how she must look—no doubt human, slender, perhaps unassuming.

I wonder if she’s naive or cunning.

If she’s kindhearted, haughty, or burdened by the knowledge of her own destructive potential.

Why do I even care about such details?

My mission doesn’t require empathy.

I only need to seize her.

And yet I do care—enough that I feel a subtle twist of guilt.

For what reason? I can’t explain.

My conditioning says none of these thoughts matter.

Capture her, quell her power, deliver her to Orthani.

End of story. Everything else is extraneous.

As the night deepens, the wind howls through the ravine.

It’s a mournful sound.

After a while, my eyes grow heavy, lulled by the relentless drone.

My body yearns for rest, though my mind remains unsettled.

Eventually, exhaustion wins.

I drift into a restless sleep, sword cradled against my chest, lamp sputtering out.

I wake to pale dawn light slanting through the cave mouth.

My neck throbs from sleeping upright.

I shift, grimacing at the stiffness in my spine.

The zalkir regards me with bored disinterest. Outside, the mist has cleared somewhat, revealing a desolate landscape of rocky ledges and stunted evergreens.

The horizon glows with delicate pink and gold, a fleeting beauty in these harsh peaks.

After a brief moment gathering my bearings, I secure my armor back in place, piece by piece.

The leather’s snug fit lends a veneer of comfort, a reminder of my identity as the Overlord’s unstoppable blade—though that reassurance feels shakier each day.

I eat a few bites of dried meat, swig water from a flask, and prepare to move on.

Leading the zalkir from the cave, I take one last glance at the battered ground, searching for any clue that someone might’ve come near in the night.

Nothing stands out. My wards—small black stones etched with sigils—lie undisturbed at the perimeter.

No illusions. No approach.

Reluctantly satisfied, I mount and urge my beast forward.

By mid-morning, the trail weaves up and around a series of switchbacks.

The sun climbs higher, burning away the last tatters of cloud.

The crisp air stings my lungs.

The pines here are a shade darker, their branches twisted into strange shapes.

Glancing around, I note an eerie quiet, save for the crunch of the zalkir’s claws.

Even the birds seem scarce.

In the distance, I spy a ruined structure perched on a rocky promontory—a watchtower from some earlier era.

Possibly built by the first wave of Dark Elf conquest, or maybe by desperate humans seeking refuge.

Time has stripped it to a roofless shell.

Caution prods me to check it out.

Ruins often serve as meeting points for outlaws and couriers.

I dismount a short distance away, letting the zalkir rest in a patch of scrub brush.

Slowly, I approach the tower, sword at the ready.

The stones are blackened by moss, the mortar crumbling.

A rectangular doorway gapes, leading into a circular interior littered with debris.

I slip inside, boots crunching on scattered pebbles.

Dim light seeps through cracks.

My gaze sweeps the corners, half-expecting to find a vagrant or a band of brigands huddled in the shadows.

Instead, I find only silence—until I step around a collapsed pillar.

A figure lies sprawled against the wall, wearing a ragged cloak.

His body is limp. My pulse jumps.

Another corpse? Or simply unconscious?

I move closer, sword angled low.

His face is turned away, but from the build, he seems like a thin human, older.

No movement. I nudge his shoulder with my boot.

Nothing.

I crouch, pressing two fingers to the side of his neck.

No pulse. The flesh is ice-cold.

My gaze flicks to his chest, noticing a deep slash across his tunic.

A wide bloodstain discolors the floor.

The wound looks days old.

Rigor has come and gone.

Hissing under my breath, I scan for any sign of who might’ve killed him.

Hard to tell. The slash suggests a blade, not a beast’s claws.

Possibly bandits, or some passing soldier.

Perhaps even a rift among the humans themselves.

But something else draws my eye: a small scrap of parchment clenched in his stiff hand.

Carefully, I pry it free, wincing at the brittle feel of his fingers.

The parchment’s edges are singed, as if by magical flame, and the writing is smudged.

Squinting in the dimness, I decipher a partial message:

…

the gargoyles… stirring in the old fortress…

Purna named…

…Elira Vex…

prophecy… must… either harness or…

The rest is unintelligible, soaked in dried blood.

My heart pounds faster.

More confirmation. It’s like the entire realm echoes with warnings about the gargoyles’ imminent awakening and a prophecy tied to this elusive Purna.

A fresh wave of apprehension surges in me.

Everything points to a cataclysm if I fail to secure her.

I tuck the parchment into my belt pouch, eyes lingering on the corpse.

Another hapless soul tangled in the swirling currents of fear and rumor.

Shaking my head, I stand.

There’s nothing more to glean here.

The Overlord’s mission demands I press on.

Outside, the sun now warms the stony path.

It fails to melt the chill that’s lodged itself under my skin.

My mind churns with the same question: Why do I hesitate when it comes to my duties?

I can sense an invisible barrier inside me, an unspoken longing.

Something about the prophecy and the purna tugs at me like a half-remembered dream.

Brushing aside the brooding thoughts, I climb onto the zalkir once more, spurring it away from the ruins.

Time is short. If the gargoyles truly rouse, entire villages may burn.

The Overlord wants to harness Elira’s power before such chaos unfolds.

And I am his chosen instrument—trained, conditioned, lethal.

I repeat those facts to myself until they settle like stones in my gut.

Late afternoon shadows stretch across the path as I forge onward.

Occasionally, I glimpse the silhouette of a bird overhead, or the scuttle of a mountain hare darting through brush.

The trail tilts upward, leading to a series of jagged slopes.

My senses remain on high alert.

Any moment, I expect to encounter an ambush or a ward set by cunning purnas.

Yet the landscape remains eerily vacant.

Only as the sun dips behind the highest peak do I spot signs of life.

A thin wisp of smoke rises from a rocky dell, partially hidden by the ridge.

I halt, scanning the area.

The glow of a weak campfire flickers behind some boulders.

Someone’s out there—maybe more travelers, maybe purnas, maybe humans fleeing Dark Elf patrols.

Urging the zalkir to remain silent, I dismount and tie it to a stunted tree trunk.

Then I move on foot, careful to keep low.

The slope provides natural cover.

My feet tread lightly, a skill honed through countless missions of infiltration.

Edging around a rock, I peer into the dell.

A small campsite, indeed.

Two figures sit near the embers of a dying fire.

I make out no distinctive race from this distance, but they appear lightly armed—no immediate sign of advanced magic.

One rummages through a pack, the other stares into the flames.

They speak in hushed voices, though the wind prevents me from catching their words.

Part of me urges caution.

Another part sees a potential resource for information.

Time is too precious to waste skulking around.

I shift my grip on the sword’s hilt, preparing to confront them, when a sudden roar shatters the quiet.

My pulse leaps. That wasn’t human.

It wasn’t any normal beast either.

It’s a guttural, resonant bellow that echoes off the cliffs, rending the air.

The two figures at the fire jump to their feet, panic etched in their posture.

I press myself flat behind a boulder, scanning the horizon.

The roar came from somewhere near the eastern ridge—a place I can’t see from my vantage point.

A second roar follows, thunderous in its intensity.

It resonates through my bones.

Could it be a gargoyle?

My mouth goes dry. The spy’s warnings resurface, along with my own nightmares of stone wings and ancient fury.

If one is truly awake, it might be hunting.

My instinct screams to remain hidden, but I can’t ignore the possibility that this is exactly the threat I was sent to curb.

The two campers scramble in frenzied terror, flinging their packs over their shoulders.

They vanish up a slope opposite me, presumably fleeing the monstrous sound.

My heart hammers, uncertain whether to give chase or investigate the source of that roar.

A swirl of dust drifts across the dell, stirred by the vibrations.

I grip the hilt of my blade.

The Overlord wants the Purna captured before the gargoyles pose a threat, but if one is already mobile…

If it rampages, everything changes.

If I can glean more about it—perhaps even ensure it remains bound—then I serve Orthani’s interests.

Steeling myself, I retrace my steps, jogging back to the zalkir.

The beast yanks at its tether, eyes wild.

It heard the roar too, and every predatory instinct is on edge.

“Easy,” I mutter, stroking its scaly flank.

“We’ll see what this is.”

I untie the reins and mount, nudging the zalkir uphill toward the direction of the sound.

Another roar trembles through the air, a fraction softer.

My guess is that it echoes from a ravine cutting into the mountainside.

The path is rough, but the zalkir’s claws make short work of the ascent.

Adrenaline prickles under my skin.

My training says approach with caution; my curiosity propels me forward.

At the crest of the slope, I spot an outcropping that overlooks a series of dark gullies.

The final rays of daylight cast long shadows.

I peer down but see no sign of movement—just craggy rock, scattered pines, and deep, yawning chasms. The roars have stopped.

My spine tingles, tension thrumming.

Silence envelops the mountains.

Even the wind seems to hold its breath.

My heart races as I lean forward in the saddle, scanning every crevice.

I glimpse a collapsed section of cliff, as though a tremor once split the rock.

Loose rubble litters the floor of the gorge.

No monstrous shape reveals itself.

Minutes pass, stretched taut.

The golden light fades to dusk.

No more roars. No gargoyle emerges from the gloom.

Perhaps it retreated into the depths.

Or perhaps it was something else entirely—an echo or phenomenon I’m not familiar with.

Still, the dread in my core worsens, telling me the threat is very real.

I breathe a ragged exhale, urging the zalkir away from the edge.

The Overlord must know about this.

My mission to capture Elira stands, but the gargoyles no longer feel like a distant possibility.

They might be here, half-risen.

If so, the entire timeline is accelerated.

I grit my teeth, spurring the zalkir onward, descending the ridge before night fully swallows the land.

As I ride, the last pale glow of twilight clings to the peaks.

A swirl of thoughts assaults me: the spy’s revelations, the dead man with the prophecy note, the roars echoing in the gorge.

And beneath it all, the slow unraveling of my unwavering obedience.

Something within me cracks, a voice that wonders if capturing Elira might lead to solutions or disasters.

I can’t tell.

But I do know that once I find her, everything will change— for me, for Orthani, for Protheka.

The Overlord demands compliance, the prophecy hints at cataclysm, and some part of my soul stirs with an unnameable longing.

That thought coils tight in my chest, leaving me raw and uneasy.

I glance at the bruise-colored sky one last time before darkness overtakes the mountains.

My course is set, yet the path forward feels anything but certain.

Shadows flicker at the periphery of my vision, whispering that fate moves swiftly.

Whether that fate belongs to Orthani or a lone Purna in the hills remains to be seen.

With no better compass than my grim purpose, I ride on into the deepening night.