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VAELIN

T he wind clutches at my cloak, its chill cutting through the leather armor as I guide the zalkir across a rickety wooden bridge.

Below, a narrow ravine slices through the stone, echoing with the distant roar of rushing water.

Each hoof-like claw of my mount finds purchase on the uneven planks, the aged boards creaking beneath its weight.

I keep my gaze steady, scanning both ends of the steep canyon for any sign of threat—or opportunity.

A dull throb of tension resides at the back of my skull.

It’s been there for two days, ever since that night I heard the monstrous roar that could only belong to a gargoyle, yet never glimpsed its source.

Frustration twists in me like a coiled serpent.

My orders are clear: find Elira, bind her magic, deliver her to Orthani.

But the presence of possible gargoyles, awakened or half-awake, gnaws at my focus.

The Overlord will be furious if I allow any complication to undermine my task.

Once we’re safely across, I steer the zalkir onto a winding path that veers uphill.

Gnarly trees lean over the trail, their branches scraping across my shoulders.

Overhead, clouds gather in dismal clusters, threatening a midday storm.

The skies in these mountains are as fickle as the illusions cast by purnas.

I flex my gloved fingers on the reins, trying to ease the lingering ache in my temples.

Sleep has not come easily of late.

Every time I close my eyes, fleeting images skitter through my mind—stone claws scraping against an unseen barrier, howling winds in a cavernous chamber, and a voice.

Female, whispered. Urgent.

It’s not a memory I recall from my training or from any mission, yet it feels disturbingly familiar.

As if it belongs to a buried part of me, long suppressed.

I learned early on to dismiss such visions—symptoms of my “birth defect,” or so the Overlord’s physicians labeled it.

My capacity for empathy, the stray merciful impulse, the half-remembered dreams. They ensured I underwent harsher conditioning than other Dark Elf warriors.

The Overlord demanded absolute devotion, and he made sure to extinguish whatever softness lurked in my soul.

But something in these visions defies that conditioning.

“Hya,” I urge the zalkir quietly, pressing my heels into its flank.

It surges forward with a disgruntled snort, claws crunching through a patch of loose gravel.

The path broadens as we climb higher, revealing a sweeping view of the forested valley below.

Here, in the midst of Prazh’s rugged terrain, lies the realm of hidden covens—Elira’s domain, if rumors hold true.

I slow the mount when I spot a slender plume of smoke curling into the sky, barely visible behind a cluster of pines.

Could it be a campfire?

Curiosity piques my senses; I guide the zalkir off the main trail, taking care not to snap branches.

Movement in the undergrowth draws my attention—a pair of deer bounding away in alarm.

No sign of purnas or humans, at least not in plain sight.

After dismounting, I tie the zalkir to a low-hanging branch and proceed on foot.

Each step is deliberate, boots silent on the mossy ground.

The lingering tension in my head pulses, but I focus on the mission.

If someone is camped here, they might carry tales of a witch with unusual power.

Each snippet, each rumor draws me closer to my target.

As I slip through the pines, the smoke smell grows more distinct.

A small clearing opens before me, dotted with fallen logs and ringed by stones that form a rudimentary fire pit.

But the site is deserted—no tents or signs of recent habitation aside from still-warm embers.

I crouch, sifting a bit of ash through my gloved fingers.

Perhaps an hour old, at most.

Scanning the perimeter, I notice footprints pressed into the soft soil.

They’re narrow and fairly light—likely a woman or small-framed person.

My pulse quickens. Could it be Elira?

Or another Purna? I rise, unsheathing one of my swords with a whisper of steel.

The Overlord taught me not to place hope in coincidences.

Everything is either planned or a trap.

I follow the footprints to where they vanish into thicker vegetation.

Sunbeams pierce the canopy in golden shafts, illuminating swirling motes of pollen.

Birdsong weaves through the hush, making the world seem almost idyllic—until I sense a trace of magic in the air.

A subtle pressure, like a shift in atmospheric weight.

Purnas’ illusions often leave such a residue.

I concentrate, drawing on the flicker of Chaos magic the Overlord’s conditioning allows me to wield.

My senses sharpen, revealing faint ripples in the light.

Illusions have been cast here, though recently or with minimal force.

I exhale, unsettled.

She might be close, or it might be an entirely different Purna.

Either way, it’s progress.

I backtrack to my mount, deciding to search along the ridge where the footprints seem to head.

Leading the zalkir, I circle eastward until the slope grows too steep, forcing me to take a winding descent.

The forest here stands silent, as if holding its breath.

At last, the trees thin, exposing a broader stretch of land.

My gaze snags on fresh signs of disturbance: broken branches, boot prints, and a deep slash of scorched earth near a thick oak.

Something—or someone—released a blast of intense fire magic recently.

I kneel beside the scorched groove, picking up a fragment of burnt pine needle.

It crumbles in my hand.

A day old? Maybe two.

My instincts tighten.

Elira , I think, though I have no proof.

The Overlord’s intel said she might be adept with illusions, but Purnas come in many skill sets.

Could be someone else.

Still, there’s no question a violent confrontation happened here.

I gaze up at the massive oak.

The trunk bears odd scars—ridges and indentations that resemble melted grooves.

My brow furrows. This does not look like damage from mere flames.

It’s as if the wood itself warped, then solidified again.

I run a hand over the grooves, feeling faint residual magic.

Transformative spells, perhaps?

That’s one of Elira’s rumored specialties.

A surge of anticipation flares in my chest.

Suddenly, my vision flickers, and I’m overwhelmed by an onslaught of images.

Stone wings scraping against a cavern ceiling, monstrous snarls echoing in the darkness, and a voice—hauntingly soft—calling my name.

Vaelin. The tone is gentle yet urgent.

My heart pounds as though I’ve been physically struck.

For an instant, I’m not here in the forest. Instead, I stand somewhere vast and echoing, my hands pressed against cool granite, my chest tight with unrecognizable longing.

It passes in a heartbeat.

I gasp, staggering back against the oak’s rough bark.

My stomach roils. “Get… out of my head,” I mutter.

But there’s no intruder, just my own mind betraying me.

Could it be a residual effect of dark magic, some side effect of the Overlord’s conditioning?

Or is it something else?

I clamp down on that thought quickly, forcing my breathing to steady.

I refocus on the path ahead.

The footprints continue downhill, crossing a stream where the water flows swift and icy.

My zalkir snorts at the bank, refusing to wade deeper, so I dismount and coax it across carefully.

The chill seeps into my boots, but I ignore the discomfort.

On the far side, the footprints are muddled, as if the individual tried to hide their trail.

A wise move, but my gaze picks out fresh indentations near a line of rocks.

Advancing, I catch the tang of fear in the air, or maybe it’s my own tension reflected back at me.

The trees stand closer now, limbs gnarled into eerie shapes.

Shadows swirl beneath the canopy.

Twilight must be approaching, though the thickening cloud cover provides no direct sun.

My muscles coil, ready for conflict.

I’m so intent on the tracks that I almost miss the figure lurking behind a pine trunk.

A flicker of motion draws my attention—a hooded person crouched low, eyes gleaming in the gloom.

My hand darts to my sword, and I pivot just as the stranger lets out a startled hiss and flees.

“Stop!” I shout, lunging forward.

But they vanish into the underbrush with uncanny speed.

“Dammit.” My frustration lashes out.

I leap over a fallen log, pursuit pounding in my veins.

The zalkir behind me rumbles in agitation.

I consider leaving it tethered, but I can’t risk losing my mount in this wilderness.

Instead, I snap the reins around a trunk, trusting the beast not to stray.

Then I sprint into the thicket.

Branches whip at my face.

Each footfall squelches in damp soil.

I hear the intruder crashing ahead—less stealthy than a practiced witch, perhaps.

My vision blurs again, but this time I fight it.

Stay in the moment, Vaelin.

The memory echoes—stone claws, a roaring wind, a whisper.

No. I force the images away, focusing on the chase.

The figure glances over their shoulder—a flash of pale skin beneath the hood.

They curse and shove a sapling aside, hoping to slow me.

I vault over it with ease, using a burst of Force magic to push the obstacle away.

The forest grows denser, leaves slapping my face, the ground sloping beneath us.

Finally, the stranger’s foot catches on a root, sending them sprawling with a yelp.

I close the distance in two swift strides, sword half drawn.

“Don’t move!” I bark, standing over them, chest heaving.

My heart rattles against my ribs from the sprint and the unsteady swirl in my mind.

They look up, hood slipping to reveal a young man, human by the look of him, with sweat-slick hair and haunted eyes.

Terror etches his features.

He scrambles back, hands raised.

“P-please… I didn’t mean to spy.”

I remain poised, blade glittering in the dim light.

“Why run, then?” My voice is deadly calm, a tone I’ve perfected through countless interrogations.

He gulps. “I—I thought you were a bandit or a slaver. I’ve seen Dark Elves… do terrible things.”

His words stir a flicker of guilt I shove down.

“You’re lucky I haven’t killed you yet.” I pause, scanning his tattered cloak and the scratched skin on his knuckles.

“What’s your business in these mountains?”

He trembles, swallowing.

“I… I was traveling with a merchant caravan that got attacked by—by something. Could’ve been a monstrous beast, maybe a gargoyle. We fled in all directions. I’ve been wandering, trying to find a safe route down.” His voice quivers, though he makes an effort to steady it.

The mention of gargoyles tugs at my memory.

The Overlord’s warnings ring in my head.

I keep my sword angled toward the man’s chest. “And you saw no sign of a Purna witch, a young woman traveling alone?”

He eyes me warily, realization dawning in his expression.

“You’re hunting one of those purnas, aren’t you?” The fear deepens.

“I… might’ve overheard a rumor. There was talk of a witch fleeing her coven. Some said she came down the mountain pass not more than a day ago.”

My pulse quickens.

Elira. Or at least one of her people.

“Where?”

His gaze flicks to the side.

“I can’t say exactly, but I saw footprints near a large oak that looked… wrong. Like it had been twisted by magic.” A faint shudder rolls through him.

“I followed the trail, hoping to find shelter or at least confirm it was safe. Then I saw you and ran.”

This aligns disturbingly well with what I found.

I press my advantage.

“If you help me locate her trail, I might let you live.”

He nods rapidly, sweat beading on his brow.

“Alright, yes, I’ll help. Just… please, don’t hurt me.”

I lower the blade a fraction, though my posture remains tense.

“Lead the way.”

He scrambles upright, favoring a twisted ankle.

Despite his limp, he moves quickly, as if terrified I’ll strike him down if he falters.

Maybe he’s not wrong.

I track him through the trees, emerging back near the scorched oak.

My zalkir still waits where I left it, pawing the ground in annoyance.

The man gestures nervously at the warped bark.

“I was here… followed footprints that led north, but I lost them when the ground got rocky.” He points to the distant slope, thick with brambles.

I consider my options.

I could force him to guide me, but he seems ignorant of any real specifics.

“Very well,” I say. “Get out of my sight.”

He hesitates, fear and relief warring on his face.

“Th-thank you.” He edges away, eyes darting as if he expects a killing blow.

When none comes, he half-runs, half-hobbles into the undergrowth, vanishing from view.

Exhaling, I return to the zalkir.

My eyes sweep the surroundings.

The man’s information confirms what I suspected: Elira likely came this way.

She may even be days ahead, but each clue tightens the circle.

Overlord Rython wants her brought back before she grows too confident or the gargoyles awaken.

I can’t fail him.

Yet as I mount up, another flicker of that haunting voice stirs in my mind.

A gentle whisper, almost sorrowful: Vaelin…

you can’t do this. My jaw clenches.

“You’re wrong,” I murmur into the quiet.

“I have no choice.”

I maneuver the zalkir toward the north.

The undergrowth here is formidable, brambles snagging my cloak, tangling around the beast’s legs.

Progress is slow, the path hardly worthy of the name.

My sword occasionally flashes to hack away vines.

After a quarter hour of labor, the terrain opens onto a narrow ledge, overlooking a precipitous drop into a river gorge below.

Beneath the cloudy sky, the water thrashes white against the rocks.

No easy crossing here.

The footprints—if they even persist—must hug the mountainside, though I see no obvious trail.

My gaze drifts uphill, where pine trees cling to the steep slope, and a series of jagged boulders create a natural barrier.

If Elira was fleeing, she might risk that route.

I dismount to investigate, planting each step carefully on the uneven ground.

My hands brush aside pine needles, searching for any sign of passage.

Most footprints are lost to erosion, but the occasional broken branch or scuffed rock hints at a single traveler forging up the slope.

My pulse picks up a beat.

She’s been here.

As I climb, the wind grows fiercer, carrying a faint smell of approaching rain.

The forest canopy shudders overhead, and I see flashes of dull gray sky through the branches.

My zalkir snorts, clearly displeased by the altitude and the cramped footing.

This is no place for a heavy reptilian mount.

Still, we press on, drawn by the trail’s meager clues.

In a hollow between two large boulders, I find a piece of torn cloth snagged on a jagged edge.

Soft fabric, dark in color, possibly part of a cloak.

My chest constricts with excitement.

This might confirm I’m closing in.

Tucking the scrap into my belt, I push forward, guiding the zalkir around the obstacles.

That’s when thunder growls overhead.

A sharp wind blasts down the slope, nearly knocking me sideways.

My mount rears, spooked.

“Easy,” I hiss, wrestling the reins.

The ground here is treacherous—one misstep and the zalkir could topple us both into the ravine below.

This is madness, a small voice in me says.

But the Overlord’s command drowns it out: No matter the cost.

Lightning forks in the sky, illuminating the mountainside.

Rain begins to pelt in fat droplets, turning the path slippery.

Each step becomes a test of balance.

Adrenaline courses through me.

If Elira climbed this in a hurry, she must be desperate.

Or perhaps she’s adept at illusions that stabilize the footing.

Either way, I can’t abandon the chase now.

Suddenly, the slope collapses under the zalkir’s hind legs.

A patch of loose scree gives way, cascading down the drop with terrifying speed.

My mount thrashes, tail lashing.

I dig my heels in, bracing with one hand on the saddle, the other gripping a boulder.

Fear surges. I will not plunge to my death here.

Gritting my teeth, I call on the faint Chaos magic that flows through my veins, funneling it into a burst of kinetic force beneath the zalkir.

The air shimmers with violet sparks as I steady the beast, halting its descent.

Pebbles scatter into the depths, but we remain on the ledge.

My heart hammers as the creature snorts, muscles trembling.

“We go on,” I command, though my voice shakes.

The storm intensifies, rain slanting in sheets that pummel my face.

My cloak whips around me, soaked through.

Each breath tastes like electricity.

Memories nudge at the deepest part of my mind: stone wings, roaring wind, a deep hunger that’s not fully mine.

Focus.

At last, the ledge widens into a plateau where a massive pine stands bent by the weather.

Nearby is a shallow cave, half-concealed by trailing vines.

The perfect spot for a traveler to wait out a storm.

I guide the zalkir closer, every sense straining for movement.

Lightning reveals a scattering of footprints in the mud, leading to the cave entrance.

My pulse jumps. She could be inside—Elira, or another Purna.

It’s definitely someone clever enough to shelter in a storm.

I dismount quietly, sword in hand, ignoring the thunderclap overhead.

Water streams down my face, stinging my eyes.

I cling to the side of the rock wall, inching toward the opening.

If she’s inside, illusions might hide her, or she might sense me first. My mind flickers with conflicting impulses: Capture her.

Confront her. Spare her?

A swirl of confusion grips me, but I press on.

The cave mouth gapes, revealing darkness.

I step inside, silent as a shadow.

My sword tip glints in a flash of lightning.

The smell of damp earth and faint smoke drifts past my nose.

This place was inhabited recently—someone built a small fire near the entrance.

Embers glow, half-doused by rain dripping from the ceiling.

My heart skitters with anticipation.

She’s close. I can practically feel it.

Yet as I ease deeper, sword raised, I see no figure huddled by the fading fire.

The cave extends farther back, twisting into blackness.

I set a foot on a rocky outcrop, preparing to move deeper, when a sudden wave of dizziness hits.

My vision doubles. The flicker of illusions?

Or my cursed memories?

I blink hard, trying to dispel the blur.

Instead, images flood my mind: taloned hands reaching for me, stone muscles bunching with impossible strength.

A keening wail echoes through some underground chamber.

Then a woman’s voice, achingly gentle, like a lullaby: You don’t have to obey…

I stumble, sword scraping the cave floor.

My breath ragged, I brace a hand against the cold wall.

“Stop it,” I rasp, cursing the empty air.

A hammering pulse throbs in my temples, and the cave spins.

“Not… real.” I need clarity, need to remember my mission.

The Overlord’s conditioning taught me a lot of things, including how to dismiss illusions, to override them with logic.

But this feels deeper than any trick.

Tremors wrack my frame, and I nearly collapse to one knee.

My chest feels tight, as though a storm rages within me, more ferocious than the one outside.

My free hand claws at my tunic.

Something about this place…

or about her. Could Elira’s presence resonate with the suppressed gargoyle blood, stirring these hallucinations?

My mind reels at the possibility.

Forcing the breath into my lungs, I gather what remains of my will.

“I… am Vaelin Duskbane,” I whisper, words slurring with strain.

“The Overlord’s enforcer.” As if reciting a mantra, I repeat it until the pounding in my head diminishes.

My vision steadies, though a clammy sweat pools on my brow.

When I finally manage to look around, the cave remains empty.

If Elira was here, she’s gone.

The realization tears at me, part rage, part relief.

At least I have proof I’m on her track—her footprints, the faint smell of a recently extinguished fire, the swirl of energy that lingers in the air.

She must be close. Maybe she sensed me and fled, or perhaps she left hours ago, the storm forcing her to press on.

I sheath my sword, cursing under my breath.

Thunder rattles the cave, and droplets continue to drip from the ceiling.

My stamina feels shot, as though I waged a brief but intense magical duel.

I need rest. The Overlord might demand I chase her immediately, but I can’t hunt effectively in this state.

I’ll end up careening off a cliff if the illusions strike again.

Better to wait out the storm and pick up her trail at first light.

She can’t get far with the terrain this unforgiving.

Unrolling a simple bedroll from my saddlebag, I place it on a dry patch of the cave floor.

The embers in the fire pit flicker, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

I sense no wards or hidden illusions here—only the faint echo of her presence.

Sitting with my back against cool stone, I swallow a mouthful of water from my flask.

My throat burns with each gulp, as if those visions left a tangible residue.

My gaze drifts to the cave entrance, where rain sheets the world beyond in a constant roar.

The zalkir stands just outside, taking what shelter it can beneath an overhang, glaring at me with reptilian impatience.

Lightning illuminates its scaled hide, revealing its scarred flank—a testament to past battles.

Like me, it’s a creation and a tool.

We both exist to serve a single master.

Or so we’ve been told.

As exhaustion seeps into my muscles, my thoughts drift again to the half-remembered visions.

The presence of gargoyles, the possibility that my blood carries a twisted echo of their lineage.

I recall overhearing whispers among the Overlord’s retinue—dark rumors about experiments that blended Gargoyle essence with Dark Elf stock to create unstoppable warriors.

Am I one of them? The Overlord always deflected those questions, assured me my prowess came from the Thirteen’s blessing and rigorous training.

But my body betrays me with these glimpses of stone and claws, stirring an inescapable suspicion.

And that voice. Soothing, yet urging me to resist. Resist what?

The Overlord’s command?

The insatiable violence that lurks within me?

I run a hand through my sodden hair, closing my eyes briefly.

The Overlord’s hold remains strong, but each day, the cracks widen.

Meeting Elira might shatter me.

Or it might provide answers I’ve never had the courage to seek.

Gritting my teeth, I remind myself of my purpose.

I can’t succumb to doubts or illusions.

The Overlord demanded Elira’s capture, and I am Vaelin Duskbane, trained for perfect obedience.

For a moment, though, the steady mantra fails to quell the uneasy longing that twists in my chest. It’s as if I want to find her not just for duty, but for something else—an intangible thread that tugs at my soul.

I press a palm to my sternum, feeling the rapid thud of my heartbeat.

This ache, this pull, baffles me.

Perhaps it’s the Overlord’s magical conditioning malfunctioning under the strain of the gargoyle side.

Or perhaps it’s nothing more than a feverish delusion caused by exhaustion.

Either way, I can’t let it distract me.

Tomorrow, I’ll track her again.

No illusions. No second thoughts.

I lean back against the rock, letting my eyes close.

Rain drums steadily outside, lulling me.

The ember’s glow flickers across my lids, warm and fragile.

Thoughts swirl, but fatigue claims me at last, dragging me into a fitful slumber.

Even then, in the dark currents of my dreams, I sense the distant echo of stone wings beating and a woman’s voice calling my name.

Vaelin.

It’s both promise and warning—and somehow, it feels like destiny is closing around me with each breath.