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5

ELIRA

I awake to a tremor in my chest, a prickle of magic needling my senses.

It’s still early—the first uncertain rays of dawn filter through the high windows of my chamber, illuminating motes of dust that swirl in the pale light.

The stone walls seem colder than usual, as if the entire coven is holding its breath.

I rub the grit from my eyes.

My dreams last night were restless—images of stone monsters coming to life, of dark elf armies at our gates, of the Red Purnas watching me with calculating eyes.

The taste of dread lingers on my tongue.

I can’t shake the feeling that time is running short, even though I’m supposed to be safe within these walls.

As I swing my legs over the side of the bed, a knock sounds at my door.

“Elira?” a voice calls softly.

It’s Olyssia. She never rises this early unless something urgent’s happened.

I drag on a fresh tunic and open the door to find her looking tense, her fiery curls pinned haphazardly behind her head.

Shadows smudge the skin beneath her eyes.

“The Matriarch wants you in the main cavern,” she says without preamble.

“Something about… leaving the coven.”

My heart stutters.

We’ve already debated me leaving.

After the prophecy reveal, the plan was for me to remain and train—hone my magic, stay under protection.

“Wait,” I say, confusion tumbling into my voice, “she changed her mind again?”

Olyssia’s lips thin with worry.

“It seems so. She’s calling it an ‘urgent measure for your safety.’ I don’t know the details, but she’s in that mood that suggests no one should argue. ”

I swallow my unease.

The halls are strangely empty as we make our way through twisting corridors lit by glowing orbs of arcane energy.

The usual hum of Purna activity—teachers instructing novices, discussions over breakfast—has died to a hush, replaced by an undercurrent of dread.

Where is everyone?

It’s only once we reach the Gathering Hall that we find them.

At least two dozen purnas cluster at the center of the vast space, talking in low, urgent voices.

The Matriarch stands on the dais, her posture rigid, staff in hand.

A handful of elders flank her, faces grave.

The scene reminds me of the day she announced her vision about the gargoyles.

That day changed everything.

A hush descends as Olyssia and I approach.

“Elira,” the Matriarch calls, her gray eyes fixed on me, “come here.”

I hesitate at the foot of the dais.

My gaze darts around, searching for clues.

The crowd includes a handful of Red Purnas—Nerissa’s faction.

Their expressions range from smug to restless.

I glimpse Nerissa herself off to one side, arms crossed, chin high.

A flicker of challenge lights her eyes.

Tension crackles in the air like a storm about to break.

The Matriarch raises her voice for all to hear.

“We have received new information. The Dark Elves are combing the foothills, searching for a powerful witch. They suspect she is tied to a prophecy that talks about sealing or freeing the gargoyles.” She pauses, scanning the crowd.

“Our wards remain strong, but we cannot risk confrontation if they pinpoint our location. This is a direct threat to the entire coven.”

Murmurs ripple through the purnas.

My heart races. So the Dark Elves know enough to be dangerous.

If I remain, I might endanger everyone.

But I thought we agreed that training me here was worth the risk.

The Matriarch shifts her gaze onto me, her expression torn between concern and resolve.

“Elira, I have decided to send you away—beyond the immediate range of our wards. You’ll travel east, through the lesser-known passes, and rendezvous with a small group of human allies who can shelter you. We must keep you out of the Dark Elves’ grasp until we learn more about how to control your role in this prophecy.”

My stomach churns.

“But…” I begin, my voice almost lost in the cavern’s hush.

“My training… we only just started harnessing my Transformative spells more safely. Isn’t that essential if the gargoyles are truly stirring? How am I supposed to learn if I’m out there alone?”

A flicker of sympathy crosses her face.

“I know it seems counterintuitive, child. But if you stay, you risk drawing a horde of Dark Elves upon us—and the Red Purnas might exploit your presence as well. Tensions run high, and this coven cannot withstand an open conflict on multiple fronts.” Her voice lowers, meant only for my ears.

“I will send an elder to you eventually, once it’s safe. You won’t be abandoned in your learning.”

I clench my fists, frustration mingling with fear.

A small part of me understood this day might come.

The prophecy’s gravity hangs over me like a guillotine blade.

Still, parting from my coven—a place that has always been my refuge—feels like stepping off a cliff blindfolded.

Before I can reply, an acerbic voice cuts in from the throng: “Running away again?” My head whips around to see Nerissa emerging from the cluster of Red Purnas, her posture exuding sharp confidence.

“We’re letting our most promising weapon slip through our fingers. I say we stand and fight. Let the Dark Elves come. Let the gargoyles come. We have a means to break them.” She narrows her eyes at me, as if I’m a resource to be seized.

Heat flares in my cheeks.

“I’m not a weapon.”

A faint sneer twists her lips.

“Aren’t you? Your power can rewrite entire species, can it not? You turned creatures to stone once, eons ago, or so the legends say about our ancestors with your same gifts.” Her gaze flicks to the Matriarch.

“Sending Elira away only prolongs the inevitable confrontation.”

The Matriarch exhales sharply.

“We will not debate this again, Nerissa. We do what is best to protect Elira and the coven. Your ambition does not overshadow the rest of our safety.”

Nerissa’s eyes flash with hostility, but she holds her tongue for the moment.

I can practically feel the tension simmering between the Red Purnas and the rest of us.

If there weren’t so many watchers, I suspect Nerissa might try a more overt challenge.

With a shaky breath, I turn to the Matriarch.

“When do I leave?”

Her shoulders slump, as if she regrets forcing this on me.

“Now. We’ve prepared supplies—a cloak, provisions, a map. You’ll travel light and inconspicuous.” She motions to one of the elders, who steps forward with a small satchel slung over her shoulder.

My palms sweat. It’s all happening so fast. I glance around, taking in the familiar carvings on the pillars, the swirl of Purna robes, the hush of ancient magic saturating these halls.

This has been my entire world.

How can I simply walk away?

Before I can gather my thoughts into coherent words, something snaps.

I hear a sharp cry from somewhere behind me.

Then, in a flash, a flicker of fiery magic streaks across the chamber.

My instincts flare. I drop to a crouch as a bolt of burning energy slams into the pillar nearest me, sending shards of stone flying.

Gasps and shouts erupt, purnas scrambling aside.

I spin, eyes widening at the sight of a Red Purna acolyte standing near the shadows of the hall’s edge.

She looks young—brown hair in a single braid, cheeks flushed with anger—but her posture radiates raw aggression.

Smoke wisps from her fingertips.

“Stay where you are!” she snaps, voice trembling with adrenaline.

“Elira isn’t going anywhere. She belongs to us.”

My stomach drops.

This is no small spat; the Red Purnas have escalated.

I catch a look of Nerissa out of the corner of my eye—her expression is one of startled fury, as if she hadn’t sanctioned an outright attack.

Or perhaps she had and didn’t expect her acolyte to be so brazen.

The Matriarch raises her staff, eyes blazing.

“Stand down! We do not harm our own.” Energy crackles around her, potent and authoritative.

The acolyte scoffs, though a flicker of uncertainty ripples across her face.

“If we let her go, we lose our chance to dominate the Dark Elves once and for all.” She levels her palm toward me again, conjuring another orb of flame that pulses with chaotic force.

Fear clutches my chest. She’s pointing that at me—a Purna of the same coven, albeit a radical faction.

“I’m not your tool,” I manage, voice unsteady.

She sneers. “Then prove it! Use your magic. Show you’re not just a meek mouse scuttling away.” The flames in her hand intensify, scorching the air.

“If you’re truly as powerful as the prophecy claims, show me now.”

Time feels slow, each heartbeat a thunderclap in my ears.

The other purnas cry out warnings, the elders step forward to intervene—but they’re too far, the acolyte is too reckless.

I sense her launching the attack before my eyes register the motion.

Another torrent of flame hurtles toward me, so bright I can see the flicker of red behind my eyelids.

Instinct takes over.

I hurl myself sideways, my training from the last days surging to the forefront.

My lips shape a Transformative incantation in a rush of desperation.

I reach out, not toward the acolyte but toward the column of air between us.

Her flame cuts through it like a knife, but the intangible swirl of wind is something I can manipulate—if only partially.

Sparks fly. The raging fire arcs mere inches from my cheek, singing the ends of my black hair.

Heat scorches my skin, but I cling to the rapidly forming strings of magic.

My attempt is crude, half-formed.

Instead of turning her flame into an inert substance, I manage to fling it upward with a jolt of Force Magic I didn’t realize I could tap so quickly.

An explosion rocks the chamber.

The ceiling cracks from the redirected blast, raining down rubble.

Dust fills the air. I choke, stumbling back.

Through the haze, I see the acolyte coughing violently, disoriented by her own rebounded attack.

“Elira!” Olyssia’s voice cuts through the chaos.

She rushes to my side, wide-eyed.

“Are you hurt?”

I check my arms and face—minor burns on one forearm, nothing too severe.

My heart is pounding, my thoughts a jumbled mess.

“I’m— I’m alive.”

The Matriarch’s staff slams against the floor, sending a shockwave of magical authority rippling through the hall.

The dust swirls, then settles, revealing her furious silhouette.

“Enough!” she roars, her voice resonating in the cavernous space.

She turns a glare on the Red Purna acolyte.

“You have violated the sacred principle: never turn Purna magic against a coven sister. You will answer for this treachery.”

The acolyte pales, her bravado crumbling, but before the elders can restrain her, Nerissa steps in.

“Stand down, all of you,” she commands, placing a protective arm in front of the younger witch.

“No more spells. We don’t need a full-blown civil war in these halls.”

The tension is thick as the rest of the purnas form wary circles around us.

Some remain prepared to cast, while others cradle protective wards.

My own hands tremble, adrenaline surging.

The Matriarch straightens, her voice ice-cold.

“Nerissa, your faction grows dangerously reckless. This is your final warning. If you cannot abide by coven laws, you will be exiled.”

Nerissa’s jaw flexes.

“I don’t condone foolish attacks,” she says tightly, scowling at the acolyte.

Then her gaze snaps to me, unwavering.

“But I won’t apologize for wanting our coven to do more than cower. If Elira leaves, we lose the advantage. Remember that.”

Ignoring her, the Matriarch turns to me.

“Elira, you must depart now—this very moment. The corridors echo with discontent, and I will not risk another assault.” She gestures to the elders.

“Yvara, fetch the supplies.” The elder named Yvara hustles forward, placing a small satchel and cloak in my arms. Then she presses a piece of parchment in my hand.

“A map of the lesser passes,” she whispers.

My heart aches. Everything is spiraling too quickly.

I cling to Olyssia for one desperate moment, our eyes locked.

She grips my shoulders, her expression anguished.

“Promise you’ll be safe,” she says thickly, tears threatening.

“You better come back.”

Emotion constricts my throat.

“I promise. And I’ll be careful.” I want to say more—to thank her for always standing by me—but the words catch in my mouth.

We have no time.

The Matriarch’s staff glows faintly, and a swirl of energy rises around me like a protective shell, guiding me toward the exit.

She makes a show of strength for the Red Purnas, daring them to try anything else.

With the elders at her side, she addresses the entire coven: “Elira will return when the time is right. Until then, do not attempt to follow her. The coven’s security is paramount, and she must not be endangered further by your reckless ambitions.”

Nerissa’s lips thin.

Her acolyte stands sullenly, a bruise forming on her cheek where debris struck.

I sense their frustration like a tangible force.

I press past the groups of purnas, ignoring the hush that falls.

My footsteps ring on the stone floor, each step echoing with finality.

A swirl of conflicting emotions tears at me: sorrow at leaving, fear of what lies ahead, anger at the attack.

Yet, beneath it all, a thread of resolve pulses.

This is my life now—caught in the crossfire of prophecy and ambition.

When I emerge into the corridor, I find the Matriarch already there, staff in hand, face lined with regret.

She pivots, leading me through winding passages that slope downward, eventually opening onto the hidden mountain trail that leads away from the coven’s stronghold.

The morning light floods my vision.

The crisp air stings my skin, carrying the scent of pine and frost. Far below, the valleys stretch out like a rumpled tapestry of rock and forest.

The Matriarch stops at the threshold, turning to face me.

She lifts her hand and gently tucks the silver-streaked lock of hair behind my ear—an unexpectedly tender gesture.

“Forgive me, child,” she murmurs.

“I know this feels like abandonment, but we do it for the sake of all. Your potential is too great to risk falling into the wrong hands. And I fear the Red Purnas are bold enough to exploit you for their agenda.”

My eyes sting with tears I refuse to shed.

“I understand,” I whisper.

“But I’m scared.”

“Fear can be a teacher,” she says, voice gentle.

“Trust your instincts. The map will guide you to an outpost we maintain with a sympathetic human tribe. Stay hidden. If the Dark Elves grow too close, move farther east. We’ll send someone to find you when the time is right.”

A flutter of panic seizes me.

Once I step onto that mountain trail, I relinquish the familiar safety of the coven’s wards, the comfort of daily training, the warmth of Olyssia’s friendship.

Ahead lies uncertainty—and the possibility that the prophecy might find me before I’m ready.

Still, I straighten my spine.

“I will. Thank you, Matriarch.”

She inclines her head, sadness etched in the lines around her eyes.

“Go, now, Elira. And may your magic protect you.”

I adjust the cloak’s hood over my dark hair, clutching the satchel.

Without another word, I step onto the narrow path that clings to the mountainside, each footfall echoing in the stillness.

The Matriarch watches until the bend in the trail hides me from sight.

Then I’m alone with the vast expanse of Protheka before me.

The first hour of descent is almost mechanical.

I follow the well-worn steps carved into the rock, trying to push aside the swirl of emotions in my mind.

My boots skid on patches of loose gravel.

The sun climbs higher, warming the air.

Memories of this same route come unbidden—those brief trips I made to gather supplies or help refugees, always returning swiftly to the coven.

Now, there’s no quick return.

The finality hits me like a punch to the gut.

I pause at a scenic overlook where the trail widens.

The vista is breathtaking: rolling slopes draped in evergreen forests, a winding river gleaming like silver far below.

My heart clenches with longing for the safety behind me.

Then I shake myself and press on, recalling the instructions to remain inconspicuous.

The outpost is at least two days’ travel.

If I move quickly, I can reach it before the Dark Elves get too close.

I keep my senses sharp, scanning the ridges and switchbacks for any sign of watchers.

The slope descends gradually, soon merging with a narrower path flanked by thick pines.

The trees’ boughs form a green canopy overhead, letting dappled sunlight filter through.

The hush envelops me, broken only by birdsong and the distant rush of a waterfall.

For a moment, I allow myself to believe this journey might be peaceful.

That hope shatters a few miles on.

I sense it first—an abrupt prickling of the hairs on my neck, the intangible pressure of a hostile presence.

My footsteps slow, eyes flicking between the trunks.

Something shifts in the undergrowth, too quiet to be an ordinary animal.

I grip the strap of my satchel, heart pounding.

Then, from behind a gnarled pine, a figure lunges.

I catch a flash of crimson-stitched robes.

My breath hitches—another Red Purna?

She moves quickly, electricity arcing from her fingertips.

“Elira, wait!” she calls, though her tone is anything but friendly.

I pivot, adrenaline kicking in.

My mind races: Why would a Red Purna follow me?

Did Nerissa order this?

She’s alone, from what I can see, but dangerously determined.

The crackle of her lightning magic sets the pine needles quivering, filling the air with static.

“I’m not going back,” I shout, taking a step away.

Her lips twist in a snarl.

“We don’t intend to drag you back, you fool. We want to make a deal. Join us—use your power, help us overthrow the Dark Elves, and we’ll support you.” The arcs of lightning in her hand spit sparks across the damp ground.

My pulse thrums. “I don’t want to start a war. The Matriarch said?—”

She laughs, the sound hollow.

“The Matriarch lives in fear. You’ve seen how the Dark Elves treat humans. We can stop it, if only we had the nerve.” She edges closer, the aura of her magic unsettling the forest around us.

“Come willingly, or I’ll force you.”

Panic surges.

This is exactly why I left—the Red Purnas’ hunger for conflict.

I have no desire to kill her, but I won’t let her drag me off to fulfill their violent agenda.

“Stay back,” I warn, my voice trembling slightly.

“I’m not above defending myself.”

She sneers, raising her hand.

A bolt of lightning crackles toward me.

I fling up an illusion in desperation, a shimmering distortion that warps the air.

The bolt collides with the twisting light, scattering into sizzling sparks that scorch the ground instead of my body.

My illusions flicker with fragile brilliance, but I won’t be able to sustain them under heavy assault.

The Red Purna narrows her eyes and prepares another strike, arcs dancing along her arm.

I have seconds before she unleashes a more devastating attack.

I need to escape.

In a flash, I recall the Matriarch’s training on Transformative magic.

Use your environment.

My eyes dart to the thick oak near me, its trunk gnarled with centuries of growth.

A plan forms—a reckless one.

I pivot, channeling my power.

Instead of aiming at the Red Purna or the air, I direct the transformation at the massive tree itself.

My vision blurs with the surge of energy.

The incantation spills from my lips, weaving a net of shimmering force that envelops the trunk.

I’m not trying to turn it into an animal or object—this is a partial shift, aimed at making the tree malleable enough for me to pass through it.

The oak’s bark ripples like liquid, branches twisting.

My skin crawls as I push my hand against the living wood.

At first, it resists, but my magic intensifies, compelling the fibers to soften and meld.

For a brief instant, I feel the pulse of the tree’s life force.

Then, with a gasp, I plunge my arm through the bark as though it’s thick mud.

The Red Purna hurls her second lightning bolt.

It sizzles past my shoulder, grazing my cloak and leaving a scorched patch.

Pain lances the skin beneath, but adrenaline keeps me moving.

Gritting my teeth, I push my entire body through the warped trunk.

My breath catches at the claustrophobic sensation—sap and wood pressing in on every side—before I emerge on the opposite side of the tree.

I stumble out, half expecting to be pinned by wood.

But the trunk snaps back to solidity behind me, instantly sealing my passage.

My stomach lurches at the exertion, vision swimming.

I used more magic than I intended.

I try to stay upright, ignoring the faint taste of iron in my mouth.

The Red Purna’s startled curse drifts from the other side of the oak.

She can’t see me, and I doubt she can pass the same way unless she has mastery of Transformative spells.

My heart hammers. This is my chance.

Without pausing, I bolt down the slope, arms pumping.

The forest whips by in a blur of green and brown.

Angry shouts echo behind me, muffled by dense foliage.

I run as though demons chase me, feet pounding on the path.

My mind whirls with shock at what I just accomplished.

Transforming living matter so drastically is advanced, borderline dangerous for a novice.

Yet it worked—for a moment, anyway—and that feat might have saved my life.

Branches scratch at my arms and cheeks.

My lungs burn, but I refuse to slow.

I don’t know if the Red Purna might find another route around that tree.

She could be close behind.

The only goal now is to put as much distance between us as possible.

Eventually, my dash falters.

I stumble to a halt near a small clearing where sunlight pools on soft ferns.

Panting, I brace my hands on my knees, head swimming.

My entire body shakes from adrenaline and magical exertion.

The cloak’s singed patch still smolders, so I yank it off and bat at the smoking edge.

Beneath, my tunic sports a blackened patch on the shoulder.

The skin underneath stings, but not severely.

Another inch to the right and that bolt would have fried me.

Gritting my teeth, I scan the area for further threats.

No sign of pursuit, not yet.

A hush drapes the clearing, broken only by birdsong.

My pulse is still a drumbeat in my ears.

Slowly, I sink to my knees, pressing a hand against the bark of a nearby tree—this one untransformed—and try to steady my breathing.

I close my eyes, letting the minutes stretch.

The forest’s cool air steadies my racing heart.

My ears strain for the faintest sound of footsteps, but I hear nothing except the breeze stirring leaves.

Maybe I lost her for good.

But reality sets in: if the Red Purnas had one acolyte tailing me, they might send others.

The Dark Elves are out here too, searching for me.

Everything the Matriarch feared is happening.

My presence stirs conflict like a torch tossed into dry tinder.

I can’t risk traveling the main trails—my best hope is to rely on lesser-known routes, just as the elders planned.

So I gather myself, ignoring the trembling in my legs.

I retrieve the map from my satchel.

It details a winding path that skirts the base of the mountains, passing through thick forest and eventually meeting a river crossing.

The outpost supposedly lies on the far bank.

Setting my jaw, I memorize the route.

No more dithering—if I linger, someone might catch up.

Struggling upright, I slip my cloak back on, adjusting the scorched fabric so it doesn’t impede movement.

Then I trudge onward, deeper into the forest, away from the Purna stronghold and everything I’ve known.

As I walk, a swirl of emotions tangles inside me.

Relief at escaping the Red Purna’s assault.

Fear of what might come next.

Amazement that I managed to warp an entire oak trunk in the heat of battle.

And underlying it all, a pang of loss.

The coven was my home, for better or worse, and I left so abruptly.

Who knows how long it’ll be before I see Olyssia or the Matriarch again?

I press on, the day passing in a haze of caution and footsore progress.

The path descends into a darker valley where moss clings to every rock, and the sunlight dims to a faint glow through the canopy.

My ears remain trained on any sign of pursuit.

Occasionally, I glimpse wildlife: a startled doe bounding away, a pair of foxes scurrying behind a dead log.

Their presence reassures me that no large predator prowls nearby—at least for now.

By late afternoon, the trees thin out, revealing a rocky outcrop that overlooks a vast sweep of plains far below.

I pause to catch my breath, leaning against a mossy boulder.

Clouds drift overhead, tinted with gold.

In the distance, I see the faint glitter of a winding river.

My destination. If I can just reach those waters by nightfall, I’ll be one step closer to the outpost.

A memory flares—my first real out-of-coven trip, guided by older Purnas to help a human family hide from Dark Elf slavers.

I recall the swirling illusions we cast to cloak them, how proud I felt to protect them.

Now, I’m the one who needs protection.

Life twists in unexpected ways.

I run my fingers over the silver strands, a nervous habit.

The prophecy, the gargoyles, the Overlord’s rumored search for me—it all looms large, but I refuse to cower in a corner.

If the Matriarch trusts me to handle myself, then I must. That spark of determination steels my resolve.

I survived an attack by a fellow Purna and performed a transformation that still makes my head spin.

I will keep going, no matter the challenges.

With renewed focus, I descend the rocky slope.

Each careful step stirs dust in the waning light.

Pine needles crunch underfoot, and the crisp scent of mountain air gradually gives way to the earthy aroma of lower altitudes.

A sense of finality lingers in my thoughts—this trek isn’t just a physical journey; it’s a step deeper into the unknown world the prophecy thrust upon me.

As dusk settles, I find a small hollow framed by thick bushes.

It’s not ideal shelter, but it’ll have to do for the night.

With practiced caution, I set a minimal ward—just enough to alert me if someone or something draws near.

My illusions are shaky after the day’s exertions, so I keep them subtle, weaving the faintest shimmer across the entrance to the hollow.

Hunger gnaws at me. I rummage through the satchel for the food Yvara packed: dried berries, flatbread, some strips of salted meat.

Chewing slowly, I let the events of the day unravel in my mind—the forced departure, the Red Purna’s ambush, the terrifying rush of my own power.

My body still hums with residual energy, a reminder that my magic can surge unexpectedly under stress.

The hush of evening settles in, insects chirping a lullaby.

It might almost be peaceful if not for the knowledge of danger.

Wrapping the cloak around myself, I try to relax against the trunk of a twisted pine.

Uncertainty gnaws at me.

Did I make the right decision to run when attacked?

Should I have tried to reason with the acolyte?

Probably not—she was too intent on claiming me for her cause.

I sigh, exhaustion tugging at my eyelids.

The forest dims, starlight piercing the canopy in pinpricks of silver.

My thoughts drift to Olyssia, the elders, and the Matriarch’s sad face as I left.

And then my mind conjures an unbidden image: a shadowy figure somewhere in these mountains—a Dark Elf enforcer, rumored to be searching for me.

I’ve never seen him, but the idea of a cold-eyed killer at my heels brings goosebumps to my skin.

Eventually, weariness wins out.

My eyes close, lulled by the steady thrum of my own heartbeat and the distant whisper of the wind through the trees.

Tomorrow, I’ll resume my journey to the outpost, forging a new path in a world that feels both exhilarating and terrifying.

Yet one thing is certain: I’m no longer the cloistered witch who woke in her safe bed yesterday morning.

I have harnessed powerful magic under dire circumstances, defied an attacker’s lethal strike, and walked away from the only home I’ve known.

The very air around me seems charged, as if my destiny is shifting.

If the prophecy truly rests on my shoulders—if my power can seal or free the gargoyles—then each step I take might shape Protheka’s fate.

It’s a terrifying weight.

But for now, in this dark forest with the moon peeking through branches, all I can is cling to what I’ve learned, trust my instincts, and keep moving forward.

Sleep eventually claims me, but my final waking thought is that even though I’ve left the coven, I’ve gained something crucial: a hint of my own strength, a glimmer of self-reliance that I never realized I possessed.

And that might make all the difference in the battles yet to come.