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7

ELIRA

I crouch behind a sprawling bush of stunted juniper, heart pounding in my ears as I peer at the village just beyond.

Wooden fences encircle humble huts, each structure perched on uneven ground.

This settlement is small—perhaps only a dozen families.

From my vantage, I see a few meager gardens behind the huts and a scattering of animals penned under rickety lean-tos.

It’s the kind of place that clings to life beneath the ever-looming threat of Dark Elf patrols.

A pang clenches my chest. I’ve encountered villages like this before—wary humans who labor from dawn to dusk, never sure when the Overlord’s soldiers might appear demanding taxes or worse.

I know they have little reason to trust outsiders, especially purnas.

Yet, I can’t pass by without at least learning if they’ve heard rumors that could help me.

My path forward remains uncertain, and each day away from the coven heightens my sense of isolation.

If they’ve seen the Overlord’s forces, or that mysterious enforcer I keep hearing about, I need to know.

I take a calming breath, letting the crisp morning air fill my lungs.

The forest behind me rustles with a gentle breeze, carrying the tang of damp leaves.

The slopes of Prazh lie northward, hidden behind swathes of gray clouds.

I left them days ago, but the memory of pine-scented ridges and hidden wards still haunts me.

My journey thus far has been a lonely shuffle between caution and fatigue.

At least now, as I near these human dwellings, I have a chance to glean information—and maybe help, if they’ll let me.

Easing out of the juniper, I lift a hand and whisper a minor incantation.

The magic thrums within my chest, its familiar warmth a reassuring presence.

I shape an illusion around myself: a subtle shift of light, a tiny distortion that dulls my distinctive features and the silver streak in my hair.

I’m not rendering myself invisible, just…

unremarkable. If someone looks closely, they’ll see me.

But they won’t notice I’m anything special—just a traveler with a dusty cloak, perhaps.

The illusions flicker around me like heat haze.

Satisfied, I step onto the narrow dirt path that leads to the village’s gate—though calling the crude, half-collapsed fence a gate might be generous.

Two men in threadbare shirts stand guard with crude spears.

Their eyes widen at my approach, though I see no immediate malice.

If anything, they look more frightened than threatening.

“Hold on,” one calls, voice wavering.

“You from around here?”

My heart stutters, but I remind myself the illusions should make me appear harmless.

I force a friendly smile.

“Not exactly. I’m just passing through. I need food and maybe a roof for the night. I can pay.” I pat the small pouch of coins at my belt—human coin I scavenged along the way.

He narrows his gaze.

“It’s not safe, stranger. Overlord’s scouts have been sighted. Fewer travelers risk these parts.”

I tilt my head.

“I heard rumors of that. Still, I was hoping your village might trade supplies.”

His companion, older and wiry, mulls this over.

They exchange a reluctant glance.

“We don’t have much,” the older one admits, “but if you’re peaceful and can pay, we won’t turn you away.” He steps aside, gesturing for me to enter.

The younger man watches me closely, spear clutched tight.

I sense their desperation.

Likely they’ve fended off bandits or hungry wanderers before.

People on the edge of survival cannot afford generosity lightly.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, slipping through the gap in the fence.

A wave of relief courses through me as they let me pass without pressing further.

Inside, the village is a hodgepodge of low huts constructed from wattle and daub, most with thatched roofs patched by scraps of cloth.

A single muddy lane winds between them, dotted with puddles from the previous night’s rain.

Children peek from behind doors, their eyes dark with wariness.

One small boy darts across the lane, bare feet splashing in puddles, while a gaunt woman chases after him.

An old man sits on a stool near a chicken coop, whittling a piece of wood with a knife.

A subdued hush blankets everything, as though even normal chatter might draw unwanted attention.

My illusions remain in place, but I keep my demeanor subdued, projecting the image of a lone traveler who means no harm.

As I pass the stooped old man, he glances up from his whittling.

“You picking a bad time to visit,” he mutters, voice rough.

“Dark Elves sniffing around these hills, chasing some… witch, they say.”

My pulse jolts, but I carefully school my expression.

“A witch?” I feign ignorance, forcing a hesitant laugh.

“Surely you mean the usual slave raids?”

He shakes his head, expression grim.

“We all know about the raids, but this is different. The Overlord’s enforcer is out there. He’s not just gathering slaves—he’s after someone specific.” His fingers carve small curls of wood, each movement mechanical and tense.

“He passed through a village south of here, so folk say. Terrible thing to see—an obsidian-skinned fiend with eyes like ice. Humans vanish behind him, never seen again.”

A chill snakes down my spine.

The Overlord’s enforcer.

The rumors have always circulated, but hearing it from these villagers is an unsettling confirmation.

The memory of the Red Purna’s words—about a lethal Dark Elf searching for me—clamps around my lungs.

He’s close, I think, though I keep my face neutral.

“Sounds… dangerous,” I say softly.

The old man snorts, flicking shavings from his lap.

“Only question is if he’ll find what he’s hunting. Doesn’t matter to us either way. Whoever he thinks might know something about this witch, or help her, might get burned out. We can’t fight him—none of us can.”

Sympathy twists my chest. I already dreaded attracting trouble to these vulnerable settlements, and now it appears the Overlord’s hound might terrorize them even without my presence.

I wish I could reassure them that I mean no harm, but revealing my identity would only put them in more jeopardy.

“I hope you stay safe,” I manage.

Then I dip my head and continue along the lane, ignoring the suspicious stares that follow.

My illusions should be enough to keep me from standing out, but the thought of a lethal Dark Elf so near sets my whole body on edge.

My entire body thrums with restless worry.

Passing the largest hut, which I guess might serve as a community storehouse, I catch sight of a middle-aged woman in patched skirts feeding a donkey from a basket of withered vegetables.

Her gaze flicks up as I approach.

She doesn’t look surprised to see me, more resigned.

I step closer, trying a gentle smile.

“Excuse me. I’d like to purchase some bread or dried goods if possible.”

She eyes me up and down.

“We have a little. What’s your trade?”

I hesitate.

“I—I’m just traveling. Had to leave my home… up in the mountains.” It’s true enough, though I don’t elaborate.

“I can pay.”

Her expression softens slightly at my admission.

“You’re not alone in fleeing. We’ve seen plenty of drifters with fear in their eyes. Some from other villages, some from battered caravans. War, or rumor of war, drives people from all corners. I’ll sell you what I can spare, but only at a fair price.” She names a sum that’s not cheap, but not cruelly inflated either.

I dig out the coins.

“I appreciate it,” I say, handing them over.

She disappears inside the hut for a moment, returning with a cloth-wrapped bundle.

The faint smell of stale bread and herbs makes my stomach grumble.

She also includes a small pouch of dried peas and a lump of hard cheese.

“Thank you,” I murmur, stowing the items in my satchel.

Before I move on, I add, “Do you know if the Overlord’s soldiers have come here?”

She grimaces, patting the donkey’s flank.

“Not yet, though I expect them eventually. The Overlord’s enforcer was rumored to be near. People say he’s unstoppable, that he wields magic as easily as we breathe.” Her voice drops, trembling on the edge of fear.

“They say he hunts for a witch named Elira. Some whisper she can control gargoyles. Or that she’s half demon. Or that she’s beautiful as a goddess. Who knows the truth?”

I swallow thickly.

The villagers are repeating legends about me—some bizarre, some eerily close to reality.

“Guess rumors have a way of growing wilder,” I reply.

She shrugs with a sad tilt to her lips.

“Wouldn’t matter to us if it didn’t risk bringing the Overlord’s wrath. If you’re smart, you won’t linger. Not unless you want to meet him.” Concern shadows her gaze, as if she regrets being so blunt.

I bow my head in thanks and step away, heart racing.

The thought of Vaelin, the Overlord’s enforcer, prowling these villages, sows fresh terror in my blood.

I can almost feel him out there—like a faint prickling at the boundaries of my senses.

My magic warns me of an approaching storm, though the sky remains deceptively calm.

Gripping the satchel tighter, I weave through the dirt lane.

A few more huts line the perimeter, but I sense I’ll learn little else of use by questioning more villagers.

They’re all afraid, each with the same cautionary tale: a lethal Dark Elf, unstoppable, unstoppable, unstoppable.

The word repeats in my head like a mantra of doom.

That’s when a shout rings out: “No, please, let him go! He’s just a child!” The desperate cry jolts my attention toward the far side of the village.

A small crowd clusters near a pen of goats, raising anxious voices.

Through the throng, I glimpse a burly man in a shabby cloak gripping a boy by the arm.

The child yelps, tears streaming down his face.

My chest constricts.

Another petty scuffle over stolen food, perhaps?

Or a debt being enforced?

The man’s expression is pinched with cruelty.

“Your brat took my coin purse,” he spits at a woman who’s wringing her hands in terror.

“You pay me back, or I snap his thieving wrist.”

The mother—clearly the one who chased the boy earlier—falls to her knees, eyes brimming.

“I have nothing! Please, I’ll repay you if you give me time…”

I wince.

This is none of my business; I can’t risk exposing myself.

But the sight of the child’s terrified face pierces my resolve.

I can’t simply stand by.

Cautiously, I edge closer, illusions still wrapped around me like a second skin.

The onlookers do nothing but watch, some whispering for the boy’s safety, others looking resigned.

My heart clenches. I inch behind the aggressor, pressing a hand to the swirling magic within.

A minor trick—just enough to startle him.

I gather the threads of Force magic, inhaling slowly.

In a swift motion, I send a subtle pulse of kinetic energy at his wrist. He gasps, grip loosening.

The boy twists free, stumbling into his sobbing mother’s arms. Confusion crosses the man’s face as he looks at his own hand like it just acted on its own.

He glances around. “What in the?—?”

Spreading an illusion with my free hand, I create the faint outline of a looming shape behind him—a monstrous silhouette with glowing eyes.

It’s ephemeral, mere trickery of light, but the effect is immediate.

He spins, eyes wide, stumbles back into a muddy puddle, and lets out a strangled shout.

The crowd gasps in unison, edging away.

The illusory figure vanishes in a swirl of shimmering air the moment he tries to focus on it.

He pants, bewildered, the crowd whispering about ghosts or curses.

Before anyone can scrutinize the situation, I slip deeper into the throng, letting the illusions dissolve around me.

The boy is safe, at least. Guilt pricks me at the risk I’ve taken—someone might suspect a witch’s hand in this.

But I couldn’t watch a child suffer.

Shaking off the adrenaline, I turn and make a brisk walk for the village’s gate.

The two guards exchange glances but don’t stop me this time, probably more preoccupied with the ruckus behind me.

Once outside, I hurry down the main track, casting the occasional glance over my shoulder to ensure no one follows.

After about half a mile, I veer off the beaten lane, cutting into a patchwork of meadows and wooded copses.

Wildflowers sway in a gentle breeze, the fragrance mingling with the distant scent of tilled soil.

My heart remains in my throat.

That scene could have gone much worse.

If a more observant villager had noticed my illusions…

I try to calm my nerves, inhaling the sweet air.

My illusions remain a necessary shield.

Without them, I’m far too conspicuous.

The silver in my hair and the potent aura of magic radiating from me are like beacons.

If the Overlord’s enforcer is truly close, I must do everything to stay unseen.

Yet, some part of me feels satisfied for helping, even in a small way.

Those people have enough burdens.

If I can lighten their load—discreetly, of course—I will.

But I can’t linger in any settlement for too long.

Each passing hour draws the net tighter around me.

The Red Purnas might still be lurking.

The enforcer might be one step behind.

Or the gargoyles themselves could awaken soon, unleashing chaos.

There’s too much at stake.

Beyond the meadows, I find a hedgerow leading to another path that winds between rolling hills.

The land slopes gently downward, dotted with occasional farms. I spot a larger settlement on the horizon—its rooftops just visible above a stand of willows by a winding river.

My stomach rumbles, reminding me I’ve walked for hours without rest. Perhaps I can circle around that town, glean a bit more news if it’s safe.

Quietly, I approach the outskirts.

A pair of farmsteads flank the road, neat rows of cabbages and onions stretching across the fields.

A weathered scarecrow stands sentinel, arms outstretched in a silent vigil.

A lone farmer in threadbare clothes weeds between the rows.

He wipes sweat from his brow, pausing to eye me warily.

I muster a polite wave, illusions ensuring I appear as an unassuming traveler.

He grunts a greeting, returning to his chore.

No sign of panic or alarm, which I take as a good sign.

I continue on, scanning for vantage points.

My senses pick up faint traces of magical tension in the air, though it might be my own paranoia.

The sun climbs higher, washing the rolling farmland in a golden hue.

It’s oddly beautiful—so different from the jagged, mist-wreathed mountains I called home.

Despite the tension coursing through me, I pause to admire the wide fields, the sway of grain, the distant bleating of goats.

These are everyday comforts humans rely on, ones denied to them whenever the Dark Elves tighten their grasp.

I crest a small rise, bringing the larger town into clearer view.

It’s bigger than the last village, with a modest palisade of logs around its perimeter and a few stone buildings near the center—a sign of better trade or resources.

My illusions should suffice again, but the risk of encountering soldiers is greater in a place like this.

Still, the Overlord’s enforcer can’t be everywhere at once, can he?

My heart stutters at the thought.

The villagers’ warnings echo in my head: unstoppable, obsidian-skinned, eyes like ice.

A hush of dread pulses through me.

For a moment, I swear I feel a prickle of foreign magic brushing against mine, like a gust of wind that slips under a closed door.

My arms erupt in gooseflesh, and the hair on my nape stands on end.

He’s close. The notion slams into me with startling clarity.

I glance around, half expecting to see him cresting the hill behind me, sword in hand.

Nothing. Just farmland and a mild breeze.

My illusions still swirl, and I see no sign of danger.

Yet the sense of being watched lingers.

I clench my hands, forcing an even breath.

Maybe it’s the phantom of fear.

Or maybe I sense his presence—some intangible link that tugs at my senses, whispering that our paths will cross sooner rather than later.

My next steps are clear.

If he’s truly near, striding into a bustling town might be suicidal.

I need to slip around the settlement’s outskirts, gather only what’s necessary, then continue traveling.

The outpost the Matriarch mentioned lies far beyond, near a wider river crossing.

Once I cross that boundary, I’ll be out of immediate Dark Elf territory.

Safer, at least for a time.

Finding a vantage point behind a half-fallen tree, I watch the town from a safe distance.

I spot a group of men hauling crates near the gates—likely merchants or laborers.

A few older women chat by a well in the central square.

Children chase each other around a donkey cart.

It almost looks peaceful.

Then a trio of leather-armored men on horseback rides past, their posture stiff, swords at their belts.

Are they local guards or something else?

My pulse spikes. I crouch lower, narrowing my eyes.

Those men appear human, not Dark Elf, which is a small relief.

Still, I must remain cautious.

Humans can betray me just as quickly if they think turning in a witch might spare them from the Overlord’s wrath.

After a few minutes, the horsemen vanish deeper into town.

No immediate sign of uniformed Dark Elves, but that doesn’t guarantee safety.

Resolute, I skirt the perimeter, clinging to the treeline.

At one point, I pass an old orchard, the branches heavy with budding fruit.

My stomach rumbles, so I pause to snatch a half-ripe apple from a low branch.

Its tartness stings my tongue, but it’s nourishment.

I nibble quietly, scanning for anyone who might take offense.

The orchard appears abandoned, though well-kept.

Possibly communal farmland?

The day stretches on, and fatigue weighs on me.

My illusions require mental effort, a constant, subtle adjustment to keep my presence unremarkable.

When I finally loop around to the western side of town, I stumble upon a rickety shack pressed against the outer fence—a storage shed of some kind, with rotting walls and a door that barely hangs by its hinges.

A broken cart leans beside it, wheels missing.

I sense no immediate watchers, so I slip inside, rummaging through the dusty interior.

Cobwebs drape the corners, and the faint smell of mildew makes my nose wrinkle.

But to my relief, I find a discarded cloak slung over a crate—a patchy brown garment that might serve as a decent disguise if I ditch the illusions momentarily.

I test it over my shoulders; it’s a bit large, but workable.

With a flick of magic, I reinforce the illusion’s subtlety, layering the worn cloak over my existing garments.

The more ordinary I appear, the better.

Stepping out, I spy a small girl—maybe ten years old—watching me from across the lane, half-hidden behind the fence.

My heart lurches. She must have seen me rummaging.

For a moment, she stares with big, curious eyes, hugging a ragged doll.

My illusions blur the details of my face, but she senses something off, perhaps.

She blinks once, then scampers away without a word.

Relief surges. At least she didn’t run screaming for the guards.

A hush lingers. Now what?

My intention was to gather more information about potential Dark Elf patrols, but so far I’ve heard only rumors.

The Overlord’s enforcer is near, though no one can confirm his exact location.

I can’t spend the night in this shack or orchard.

Being cornered by soldiers at dusk would be disastrous.

Pressing a palm against my throbbing temple, I weigh my next move.

The outpost the Matriarch mentioned still lies miles ahead—two days’ travel at least. The path will be dangerous, especially if the enforcer roams these areas.

But I have no choice.

If I linger, fear might paralyze me.

Better to keep moving, to outrun the shadow on my trail.

I slip through a gap in the fence, returning to the open fields.

A streak of afternoon sun warms my face, momentarily soothing the chill in my bones.

I recall the old man’s fearful warning, how unstoppable the Overlord’s blade is rumored to be.

I can practically taste the tension in the atmosphere, or maybe it’s my own anxiety.

A prickle at the back of my neck intensifies, as though a silent alarm warns me of an approaching predator.

He’s near. I can’t see him, but I feel him.

The notion haunts me, making me glance back every few steps.

To steady myself, I practice small illusions while walking—small transformations, too.

I gather a handful of pebbles from the path, turning them into what looks like acorns or dried berries, only to shift them back again.

The exercise calms my racing heart, reminding me that I’m not defenseless.

My power, though not fully honed, is still formidable enough to confound many foes.

The memory of warping that oak tree to escape the Red Purnas returns—a reminder that I survived worse.

A trembling sense of pride mingles with my fear.

I will not be easy prey.

By late afternoon, I’ve put a decent distance between myself and the town.

The farmland grows sparse, replaced by rough terrain dotted with brambles.

Clouds gather in the sky, painted shades of lavender and gray as the sun dips low.

I find a narrow stream winding across gravelly soil, and I follow its banks for a time, scooping handfuls of cool water to drink.

The ache in my legs and the strain on my mind weigh heavily, but I push on.

I must.

Finally, as evening shadows stretch across the land, I spot a small grove of willow trees nestled around a shallow pond.

It’s remote, shielded from main roads and prying eyes.

I decide to make camp here for the night, a compromise between caution and exhaustion.

The willows’ drooping branches create a natural curtain, offering a semblance of privacy.

Kneeling by the pond, I use a minor illusion to dim the glow of any flame I might conjure—just enough to keep me hidden from distant watchers.

Then I summon a faint spark in my palm, employing an elemental trick Olyssia taught me.

The flicker of flame dances on my fingertips, bright enough to illuminate a circle of grass.

Gathering dried twigs, I coax them into a tiny fire, using illusions to cloak the glow so it won’t betray me in the fading light.

With quiet efficiency, I nibble on some stale bread and the small wedge of cheese I bought earlier.

The food is bland, but it fills the hollow in my stomach.

My gaze drifts across the pond, where the reflection of tree branches sways gently in the water.

The hush of dusk envelops me, broken only by the croak of frogs and the rustle of wind through willow fronds.

I let out a slow exhale, wrestling with the sense of Vaelin’s looming presence.

It’s less about hearing footsteps or seeing shapes.

Instead, it’s a dull tug in my magic, a feeling that something hunts me across these fields and towns.

Maybe it’s foolish, an offshoot of fear, but I trust my instincts enough to heed the warning.

One step at a time, I remind myself.

Tomorrow, I’ll continue east, avoiding major roads.

If luck is on my side, I can slip past any Dark Elf patrols and reach the outpost the Matriarch mentioned.

I try not to imagine the Overlord’s enforcer intercepting me, or the possibility that the Red Purnas might pop up again.

My illusions remain my lifeline, my transforming spells a last resort.

My eyelids grow heavy, the day’s tensions draining my energy.

Gently, I douse my little fire with a sprinkling of water and a minor manipulation of air to disperse the heat.

Darkness creeps in, but I keep my illusions wrapped around me, forming a faint shimmer across the grove’s entrance—enough to deter casual eyes.

Curling up in the grass, I pull my cloak around my shoulders, ignoring the subtle ache of regrets.

Behind closed lids, I picture the worried faces of villagers, the frightened child, the old man whittling.

They all fear the same shadow that I fear.

If I fail to stay hidden, they might become collateral damage in the Overlord’s relentless hunt.

The thought sinks like a stone in my gut.

Eventually, the night’s hush soothes me into a light doze.

My thoughts wander to the coven I left behind—the safe halls, the wise elders, Olyssia’s concerned eyes.

A wave of longing sweeps through me, tinged with homesickness I can’t suppress.

As sleep claims me, a final question echoes in my mind: How long can I outrun a fate that hunts me so relentlessly?

No answer arrives, save for the gentle rustle of willow leaves in the darkness, and the steady hum of my own magic, coiled tight against the world’s looming threats.