Chapter 1

Elira

I stand at precipise of the world, or at least it feels that way. Dawn breaks over the mountains of Prazh in a blaze of gold and rose-colored light, igniting the jagged peaks until they glow like shards of amethyst. The wind tears at my hair—midnight black with a single silver streak running from my right temple down to my collarbone. That silver strand has been there for as long as I can remember, though no one can fully explain why.

The early morning air is cold enough that my breath puffs out before me in small white clouds. Below, a steep slope plunges into a sprawling valley, dotted with tall pines and thick brambles. I savor this chill, letting it nip at my cheeks and remind me that I am alive. Somewhere in the distance, birds caw—ravens or hawks, perhaps. Even from here, I can spot their silhouettes circling above the tree line.

A thick tension coils in my stomach, an undercurrent of disquiet that refuses to settle. My magic senses something—like an electric hum skittering across my skin. I shake out my arms, trying to dispel the goosebumps that erupt despite my warm cloak. Usually, a sunrise like this clears my mind and reaffirms why I love Prazh’s jagged beauty. But this morning, the familiar comfort of the mountains eludes me.

I inhale deeply, searching for calm. Our coven’s refuge lies higher up, hidden among jagged crags so steep and forbidding that few outsiders would ever risk the climb. We Purna have always lived in secrecy, especially here in the mountains where nature cloaks us. My Matriarch often reminds me that we must remain elusive: too many threats lurk outside our sanctuary, from Dark Elf raiders to monstrous beasts spawned by wild magic. The greatest danger, though, is the centuries-old hatred the Dark Elves harbor for our kind. They enslave human women without hesitation—and Purna are prized even more, though most have been hunted almost to extinction.

I rub my arms, the day’s first rays warming my face as I step away from the precipice. The craggy path back to the coven is narrow, lined with rough stone that demands careful footing. Over the years, I’ve learned to walk it with fluid grace, even when the wind tries to shove me off balance. Each rock, each curve in the trail, is etched into my memory. This place is my home, my fortress, and it comforts me in a way no lavish palace ever could.

A faint voice echoes from behind the large pines. “Elira!” It’s Olyssia, a fellow Purna from my coven. Her tone wavers between exasperation and amusement. “Stop daydreaming and get back here before the Matriarch has my head.”

I grin in spite of my unease. Olyssia is one of my closest friends—tall, with fiery curls and a penchant for setting things ablaze whenever she’s startled. Literal flames, conjured by her elemental magic. As children, we used to dare each other to sneak past the boundary wards that keep the coven hidden. I was better at illusions, while she excelled at raw firepower. We caused quite a ruckus back then.

“I’m coming!” I call out, tugging my cloak tighter around my shoulders. With a last glance at the fiery sunrise, I follow the narrow ledge toward the staircase of carved stone that leads us back inside our enclave.

The stairway delves into a hidden alcove in the mountainside, sheltered from casual view by thick shrubs and a strategically placed boulder. Despite my heavy boots, my steps are silent against the smooth rock. Years of training have taught me how to move without sound, and I relish the way I can slip through the world like a wraith.

Pushing aside a curtain of vine-like moss, I enter a small antechamber lit by glowing orbs of arcane energy. We craft these orbs ourselves—magic condensed into spheres that gently illuminate our halls. Their soft hum resonates in the back of my mind, a subtle reminder of the power that runs through our veins. We Purna draw magic from within, or so our Matriarch tells us. Unlike the Dark Elves, who claim their sorcery is granted by distant, malevolent gods, we believe we owe nothing to any deity. Our strength is our own.

I find Olyssia leaning against the damp stone wall, arms crossed. Her russet curls are bound in a loose braid, stray wisps framing her bronze face. She fixes me with a mock glare. “You know the Matriarch wants us to begin training at sunrise, right? She about bit my head off when she saw your spot empty.”

I offer a sheepish shrug. “She can’t have been that angry, or I would have heard her yelling from here.”

Olyssia snorts, stepping aside so I can pass. “I’d say she was more…perturbed. In that very quiet, terrifying way of hers. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I reply dryly. The Matriarch’s displeasure is the last thing I want. But there’s no sense avoiding what’s to come. My boots click against the stone floor as I move deeper into the cavern, Olyssia trailing behind me.

The corridor widens into a grand hall chiseled straight from the mountain’s core. Smooth pillars support an arched ceiling, and at the far end sits a broad dais where our Matriarch usually addresses the coven. Sunlight glances in through hidden slits in the rock, forming shifting patterns on the floor that resemble dancing leaves. The air smells faintly of incense—lavender and sage—burned to aid meditation.

Around a dozen other Purna mill about, some seated on low cushions, others chatting in small groups. All female, with varied appearances—some have hair the color of wheat, others as dark as mine. A few carry staves carved with runic symbols. I spot one older Purna chanting under her breath, practicing some new incantation. Our coven’s daily rhythms revolve around harnessing or honing magical skills, as well as caring for our hidden gardens and livestock. It’s a simple life, but a guarded one.

At the dais stands Matriarch Lumeria herself, tall and regal, with ash-blonde hair woven into a single thick braid that falls over her shoulder. Fine wrinkles crease the corners of her eyes, but there’s a fierce vitality in her gaze. She’s been Matriarch since long before I was born, and rumor says she’s mastered at least three types of magic. I’ve always looked up to her, though that admiration is edged with a healthy dose of fear.

She doesn’t glance my way immediately. Instead, she presses her hand over a kneeling Purna’s shoulder, murmuring instructions I can’t quite hear. Then her head lifts, and her storm-gray eyes find me with ease. My heart drums an unsteady beat.

“Elira,” she greets, her voice serene yet unyielding. “You greet the sunrise outside again?”

“I do,” I reply, clearing my throat. “Apologies if I missed the start of training.”

She waves a hand. “We’ve barely begun. Olyssia will show you to your station. Try not to let your mind wander.” Her lips press into a taut line. “There is…much to do.”

I dip my head in acknowledgment. The Matriarch’s expression is unusually somber, which does nothing to ease the anxiety that’s been plaguing me. Something stirs in the pit of my stomach again, that electric hum in my veins.

Before I can ask about her tone, she dismisses me with a small nod. I fall in step beside Olyssia as we walk toward a section of the hall reserved for advanced training. A series of shallow pools reflect shifting lights onto the ceiling, used for practicing water or elemental magic. Farther in, there’s a circle of runes drawn in white chalk, designed to contain illusions or transformations. That’s where Olyssia and I are headed.

As we arrive, I release a slow breath and square my shoulders. Training typically involves refining our techniques, pushing the limits of our inherent gifts. For me, that means wrestling with illusions, transformations, and the faint flicker of Space-Time magic that sets me apart. Others in the coven can manipulate illusions, yes, but my transformative skills are advanced enough that I once turned a predator wolf into a docile hare—by accident. And then there’s my Spatial Distortion trick, which I can barely control.

Olyssia folds her arms. “Ready?” she asks, her voice quieter now.

I glance at her. “As I’ll ever be.”

She steps back, and I focus on the circle of runes. My first exercise is simple—an illusion meant to mask my appearance for thirty seconds. The Matriarch wants me to refine the edges, making sure no flicker betrays the truth. I hold out my hands, concentrate on the swirl of energy in my chest, and exhale slowly.

The world around me fades into sharper focus as I draw on my magic. It feels like threads of shimmering power are woven through my veins, waiting for me to tug them. I direct those threads toward my skin, envisioning an opaque shell that changes my face, my body, even the color of my clothes. A mild tingle skates over my arms. In the reflection of the nearest pool, I see my features waver and shift—a trick of the mind as much as of the eyes.

For a moment, I look nothing like Elira Vex, the Purna with silver-streaked hair. Instead, a willowy, dark-haired woman wearing a cloak of shimmering emerald stands in my place. Olyssia arches an eyebrow, impressed.

“No flicker so far,” she notes. “Keep it steady.”

I concentrate. The reflection remains consistent. Half a minute passes, then I allow the illusion to dissipate gently, returning my reflection to normal. I grin at Olyssia, relief mingling with triumph. “I think it’s better than yesterday.”

She pats my shoulder. “Definitely. You’ll outdo the Red Purnas in illusions soon enough.”

Her mention of the Red Purnas makes my stomach tighten. They’re a faction of our own people, but from what I’ve gathered, they view our cautious way of life as weakness. Rumors persist that they want to seize power across Protheka—overthrowing the Dark Elves, or at least challenging them, rather than hiding. A bold, dangerous ambition. Matriarch Lumeria has never spoken about them openly, but there have been whispered stories of entire covens fracturing under Red Purna influence. We prefer to remain neutral, hidden. But tension simmers, even within these halls.

Before I can dwell on that too long, Lumeria’s voice echoes across the chamber. “Gather, my daughters. We have matters to discuss.”

A hush falls. The other Purna set aside their practice and converge near the dais. Olyssia and I exchange a curious look, then join the circle forming around the Matriarch. Her gray eyes pass over each of us in turn, measuring our expressions. Light from the enchanted orbs gilds the silver streaks in her hair, adding an ethereal quality to her stance.

“We sense a disturbance,” she begins calmly. “Our wards have been trembling at odd intervals. Something is shifting beyond our mountains.” Her gaze locks onto me, sending a quiver of apprehension down my spine.

A murmur stirs among the group. One Purna with short-cropped hair speaks up, her tone anxious. “Gargoyles?”

Lumeria shakes her head. “It is not certain. The Gargoyles have remained in stone sleep for nearly a century. Our magic saw to that, aided by the final battles of our ancestors.” She tilts her chin. “However, we must not become complacent. Dark Elf rumors reach even our hidden ears. Whispers of…” She pauses, as if the words themselves are sour. “Whispers of something awakening. Old powers. Old hatreds.”

A shiver crawls up my arms. I recall the crackling sense of disquiet I felt at dawn, how the sunrise seemed less like a promise and more like an omen. My thoughts flicker to the stories of the Gargoyles—beings once twisted from Dark Elves by misused Purna magic. Their hatred of our kind is said to be as deep as the roots of Protheka itself.

“Matriarch,” says another Purna, voice quaking, “do you think the Red Purnas might be stirring trouble again? Trying to break the old spells that keep the Gargoyles contained?”

Lumeria’s lips press into a firm line. “Perhaps. Or maybe the Dark Elves themselves. King Rython in Orthani, or King Throsh in Pyrthos. There are many who crave more power.” Her eyes trace the circle. “Regardless, we must be vigilant. And we must prepare.”

A collective unease ripples through us. Some Purna exchange worried looks. Olyssia shoots me a knowing glance—like she recognizes the tension brewing inside me. My chest tightens, and I realize I’m clenching my hands until my knuckles ache.

“The prophecy,” I blurt before I can stop myself. My voice echoes around the hall. Silence falls as everyone’s attention shifts in my direction. Heat flushes my cheeks, but I press on. “Is it true there’s a prophecy about a…a powerful Purna who might…?” I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence. I’ve heard rumors of a Purna destined to protect or doom us all, but I’ve never had the nerve to ask directly.

Lumeria studies me with those piercing eyes. Then she nods once, curt and solemn. “We do not discuss prophecies lightly. They are glimpses of possible futures, not certainties.” She inhales, her chest rising. “But we must acknowledge the possibility that events are moving quickly. The future of our coven—of all Purna—could hinge on the actions of one among us.” Her voice hardens. “We will not name her yet, for that knowledge could endanger everyone. Simply know that we must remain united. No matter what storms approach.”

My pulse pounds. I stare at the floor to avoid the sea of curious faces. A myriad of emotions churn within me: fear, excitement, confusion. Could I be that Purna they whisper about? The notion seems absurd; I’m no legendary savior. Yet the quiet way Lumeria’s gaze lingers on me suggests she suspects as much. Have I been singled out for more than just my unusual magic?

The Matriarch dismisses us with a gesture, and the coven disperses like dandelion seeds scattered by the wind. Olyssia tugs on my sleeve as we retreat from the dais. “Are you alright?” she asks softly.

I exhale, my breath shaky. “I’m not sure. Something feels…off. It’s like my magic’s humming in my bones.”

She nods in understanding. “My own power’s been prickly lately too.” Her gaze flickers around to ensure no one else overhears. “Elira, if you ever need to talk, I’m here. No matter what.”

I grip her hand in thanks, grateful for her unwavering friendship. We part ways, and I wander the cavern aimlessly, hoping the echoes of footsteps and the hush of stalactites overhead might calm me. The halls of our home have always been my sanctuary. I grew up listening to the drip of mineral-rich water into crystal pools, practicing illusions in corridors lit by enchanted orbs. But now the echoes feel less soothing and more foreboding, like something lurks beneath the surface.

Eventually, I emerge into a smaller side chamber used for private meditation. The walls are lined with carved depictions of the Purna’s storied past—the arrival of human women from Earth, the war with the Gargoyles, and the centuries spent in hiding. My heart catches on the carved image of a monstrous stone creature with massive wings, tearing through a line of cloaked figures. Even in the muted carving, the gargoyle’s fury is palpable.

I kneel on a woven mat, close my eyes, and attempt to steady my breathing. My thoughts swirl like autumn leaves in a gale: gargoyles, prophecies, the hush in Lumeria’s voice. There’s also the flicker of guilt I feel for being late to training this morning—childish, perhaps, but I know the Matriarch expects better of me, especially if I’m truly the one from the visions.

Dark Elves also crowd into my thoughts, though I’ve never encountered one face-to-face. The stories I’ve heard are enough to send a chill through my core. They rule Protheka with magic and cruelty. They enslave humans—my ancestors—and treat them worse than beasts. I once witnessed a few ragged human fugitives limp through our mountain passes, searching for rumored Purna help. All I could do was offer them small illusions to cloak their escape. Even that nearly cost me punishment for risking the coven’s secrecy.

I press a hand over my eyes, as if blocking out the memory. My existence is so removed from those horrors; up here, the Purna coven is shielded. But if the prophecy is real, if the gargoyles are truly stirring…my safe mountain stronghold might shatter sooner than I ever imagined.

Footsteps approach, soft but unmistakable. I sense the faint signature of Life Magic emanating from the person—it’s warm, restorative energy that has a distinct taste in the air. Opening my eyes, I find Matriarch Lumeria standing in the doorway, her expression gentle.

“Child,” she says quietly. “May I join you?”

I nod, shifting to make room on the mat. She sinks down gracefully, the ends of her robes pooling around her. For a few long moments, neither of us speaks. The ambient magic in the chamber flickers, as though responding to our combined presence.

Finally, she looks at me. “I know you have questions,” she says. “I also know the rumors have weighed heavily on you.”

My throat feels tight. “I don’t want to assume anything,” I begin softly, “but…do you believe I’m the one from the prophecy?”

Lumeria’s gaze flickers with empathy. “Prophecies are complex threads, each strand representing a possible future. We do not know for certain which path fate will choose. However, your abilities—Space-Time and Transformative Magic combined—are exceptionally rare. The last Purna we know of with such gifts shaped our history. For better or worse.”

Her words send a chill through my heart. I recall the legends of the Purna who fought the Dark Elves long ago, inadvertently creating the first gargoyles. That single misguided spell changed the course of Protheka. Could I wield magic so powerful? The possibility terrifies me more than anything.

“I don’t want to bring doom to our people,” I whisper.

Lumeria’s expression softens. “I know, child. That is why I believe in you. Your heart is kind, your intentions earnest. We just must ensure that fear does not drive you to rash actions.”

A trembling breath escapes me. The memory of the mountain sunrise returns—its fierce beauty overshadowed by the gnawing sense that something is about to change. I confide, “This morning, I could feel it in the air. As if the mountains themselves were tense. Does that make sense?”

She inclines her head. “It does. There have been signs for weeks—a subtle tremor in the wards, strange sightings near old gargoyle strongholds.” Her lips press together. “I think it might be wise for you to leave the coven for a short while. Travel to the lower passes, gather information. We have allies among the human villages. They may share news about gargoyle rumors or Dark Elf movements.”

Surprise jolts through me. “Leave? But my training—”

“Will continue, in a different form,” she interjects gently. “Sometimes the greatest lessons are learned outside these walls. You’re not being exiled, Elira. I merely want you to see the bigger picture—to understand the fragile balance in Protheka beyond our sanctuary.”

The idea of venturing beyond Prazh’s hidden ridges fills me with a mixture of excitement and dread. I’ve rarely strayed far from the coven. But a part of me has always yearned for more. To help the humans suffering under Dark Elf rule. To see the world that my people left behind. Still, the notion of stepping into potential danger stirs the fear I try so hard to bury.

“I’ll go,” I say quietly, steadying my voice. “But I’ll come back. I’m not abandoning our coven.”

Lumeria smiles faintly. “I expect nothing less.”

She stands, extending a hand to me. I rise, and she places a comforting palm against my cheek. “Trust your instincts, child. They will guide you well.”

Her presence lingers like a fading warmth even after she departs. I remain in that chamber for a few more breaths, collecting my scattered emotions. If I am truly meant to be a pivotal piece in whatever is coming, then I have to act. Hiding in these halls won’t stop the gargoyles or the Dark Elves.

I leave the side chamber to gather my things, half-expecting Olyssia to leap out from a corner with questions. But she’s nowhere in sight. Perhaps the Matriarch has assigned her another task. Instead, I pass a few younger Purna practicing illusions in an alcove. Their ephemeral illusions shimmer like rippling water. One of them, a girl with freckles dusting her cheeks, glances at me with wide eyes. I force a reassuring smile, though I suspect rumors about me and the prophecy are spreading fast.

My quarters are sparse—a single bed, a low table, and a trunk for my few possessions. I shrug off my cloak and fold it neatly, then begin packing essentials for the journey: a few changes of clothes, a small satchel of herbs for healing or spell components, and a silver dagger. We’re not warriors by trade, but the Purna aren’t defenseless. Magic can fail under stress, and steel is sometimes the difference between life and death.

My fingertips drift over a small pendant shaped like a crescent moon lying atop my trunk. It was my mother’s, or so I’ve been told. She vanished when I was very young. Some say she died battling a wandering monster near Prazh; others whisper darker theories. I keep this pendant to remind me of her. Clutching it briefly, I slide it around my neck, letting it rest over my heart.

The air is cool in here, but my mind runs hot with a thousand warring thoughts. The day began with a simple sunrise watch, and now everything is shifting. Gargoyles…prophecies…leaving the coven. It all feels too sudden, yet part of me wonders if this was inevitable. The silver streak in my hair has always hinted that I’m not like the others—maybe my destiny was sealed from the start.

I sling my pack across my shoulder, gather my courage, and step out into the corridor. The hustle and bustle of the coven continues: chanting, practicing, hushed conversations about possible threats. Someone calls my name, but when I turn, there’s no one there. I suspect the tension in my magic has me on edge.

As I navigate toward the main exit, the rocky path that winds its way down to the lower slopes, I can’t help but scan the shadows. An odd paranoia prickles at the back of my neck, as though I’m being watched. The sensation reminds me of the stories about Gargoyles half-awake, observing the world through stone eyes. I shake off the eerie feeling. If there were a Gargoyle in our halls, we’d know—or be dead.

A final figure blocks my path near the exit. It’s Mistress Kiva, one of the coven’s older members. She doesn’t hold a position as high as the Matriarch, but she’s respected for her deep knowledge of curses and wards. Her expression is drawn.

“You’re leaving,” she says. It’s not a question, more of a statement tinged with worry.

“Matriarch’s orders,” I reply. “To gather information, maybe to confirm some of the rumors.” My voice comes out steadier than I expect.

Kiva’s eyes soften. “Be cautious, child. If anything stirs in the ancient places—especially the stone prisons—stay far away. We’ve lost too many good Purna to old feuds.”

I swallow hard, nodding. “I will.”

Her gaze shifts to the silver strands in my hair. She says nothing about it, but I see curiosity and concern in her furrowed brow. Then she steps aside, letting me pass with a parting nod. Beyond her, the path slopes downward through a tunnel wide enough for two people to walk abreast. Torches flicker along the walls, but the final few yards rely on daylight filtering in.

I emerge onto a narrow landing that overlooks a steep ravine. The sun has risen higher now, painting the rock faces in pale gold. My heart leaps into my throat as I realize this is it—the first step away from my sheltered world, the first real test of whether I can face whatever is out there.

A breeze tugs at my cloak, and I take a moment to close my eyes, inhaling the crisp mountain air. The bracing scent of pine and fresh snow stings my nose. I sense the hum of my magic again, that persistent, electric thrum. It’s as if the mountains themselves urge me onward, telling me destiny is waiting beyond these ridges. Or perhaps warning me to turn back. It’s impossible to decipher.

“Here goes,” I murmur. Gathering my courage, I begin the descent. Each step loosens the tension in my shoulders, but it also tightens the knot in my gut. I’m leaving behind the only home I’ve ever known, though I tell myself it’s temporary. I wonder if, by the time I return, everything will have changed.

Snowdrifts cling stubbornly to the path in shaded areas, so I move carefully, occasionally slipping on slick patches of ice. The route cuts along the cliff, offering breathtaking views of green treetops far below. I spot a waterfall cascading down the opposite ridge, glistening like a silk ribbon in the sunlight. A flock of birds bursts from the pines, swirling overhead in a chaotic dance before vanishing among the clouds.

One day, I might find such sights purely beautiful again, but right now, unease tarnishes the wonder. I can’t stop picturing gargoyles crouched in hidden lairs, slowly chipping away at their stone prisons. Are they truly stirring? Or is that just fear taking root in my mind? The Red Purnas, the Dark Elves, the unknown Overlords… I grit my teeth. If I’m to face any of them, I need more than illusions and half-mastered transformations. I need knowledge.

The path curves around a bend, revealing a small plateau that transitions into dense forest. The air grows warmer as I descend, the smell of moss and pine thickening. My pack bounces against my hip, the dagger’s hilt reassuring against my thigh. I scan the trail ahead, looking for any sign of travelers.

I manage another half mile before the rustle of leaves alerts me to a presence. My heart lurches, and I slip quietly behind a boulder, instincts from years of training kicking in. Pressing against the cold stone, I peek around to see a figure standing in the clearing. A man, by the build—tall, cloaked, and scanning the area like he’s searching for something.

He shifts, and a faint glimmer of sunlight catches metal. A weapon? I can’t see his face beneath the hood, but dread clamps my lungs. Could he be a Dark Elf scout? Unlikely this far up in the mountains, but not impossible. If so, I can’t risk direct confrontation. Another option crosses my mind: a human traveler, maybe, or a mercenary. This pass is dangerous, though, so I can’t trust appearances.

I steady my breathing, chanting a silent incantation under my breath. My illusions are subtle enough that if he’s not looking for me, he might overlook me entirely. A gentle distortion of light around my body makes me blend into the rocky terrain. I move carefully, step by step, trying not to dislodge any pebbles. My pulse rages in my ears.

Just then, the figure steps forward, revealing a glimpse of his face. Human, I think. He looks haggard, with stubble across his jaw and a bandage wrapped around one forearm. His stance is tense, scanning the path like someone fleeing or hunting. A battered sword hangs at his side.

Suddenly, he curses under his breath and limps toward a nearby rock. He collapses against it, clutching his arm. A pang of sympathy cuts through my caution—he seems injured, definitely not a graceful Dark Elf or a monstrous gargoyle. Beneath that hood, I catch sight of eyes that are wide with pain.

Gritting my teeth, I weigh my options. The Matriarch always taught us to help humans where we can, though exposing ourselves is risky. But this man might have information. He might also need urgent care. If he’s being pursued by Dark Elves, I can’t in good conscience leave him to die. My illusions are strong enough to keep me safe for a few moments, at least.

Quiet as a breeze, I approach. My heart hammers. Closer now, I see his wound is a mess of dried blood. He’s trembling, face pale.

I let the illusion fade, stepping into the clearing. He jerks upright, eyes widening with alarm. His hand fumbles for the sword hilt, but it slips from his weak grasp.

“Stay back!” he croaks.

I hold my hands up, palms forward. “I won’t hurt you,” I say calmly. “You’re injured. Let me help.”

He blinks, confusion warring with suspicion. His gaze darts around, as if expecting hidden allies. I keep my voice gentle. “I’m alone. My name is Elira.”

He hesitates. “I… I’m Jonas,” he manages, labored breath shaking his chest. “Caught my arm on a beast’s claws. Lost my friends. I’ve been stumbling through this forest for two days.”

A sharp pang of sympathy lances me. “Let me see your wound,” I urge.

He lifts his arm slowly. The bandage is soaked, the edges crusted with dark blood. Biting back a grimace, I kneel beside him and gingerly unwrap the bandage. The gash is deep, possibly infected. My mind races through the small collection of healing spells I’ve practiced. I’m no master of Life Magic, but I know enough to cleanse and seal minor wounds.

“Hold still,” I murmur, placing a hand just above the torn flesh. Jonas flinches, but doesn’t pull away. “This will sting a bit.”

I summon a thread of healing energy, the incantation forming in my mind. A soft glow emanates from my palm, sinking into his arm. He hisses, sweat beading on his brow. As gently as I can, I weave the magic, coaxing new flesh to grow, forcing out infection. It’s not perfect—my healing abilities are limited—but I at least manage to close the worst of the tear and reduce the risk of further contamination.

When I finish, he exhales a ragged breath, awe flickering in his eyes. “You… You’re a witch?”

The term stings, but I swallow my annoyance. “Purna,” I correct quietly. “I live in the mountains.”

“Purna,” he echoes, recognition dawning. “I’ve heard rumors… They say your kind can do impossible things.” His voice cracks. “Thank you.”

I offer a small nod. “Do you know if any Dark Elves are nearby? Or… anything else?”

He shakes his head, slowly flexing his healed arm. “I saw some Dark Elf soldiers days ago, patrolling near the base of the range. They’re always about, rounding up humans they catch outside the villages. But I kept my distance.” A haunted look crosses his face. “As for other things… I heard rumors in the last town of gargoyles stirring, but that’s madness. Everyone knows they’ve been asleep for an age.”

My heart clenches. So it’s not just our coven hearing these rumors. “Sometimes rumors carry a grain of truth,” I say softly.

He grimaces. “Then Protheka’s about to get a lot deadlier.” He glances at me, a glimmer of hope in his gaze. “Are you… Are you going to a human village? I might find help there.”

I hesitate. If he accompanies me, I’ll have to be extra cautious using magic. But leaving him alone could spell disaster for him. “I can guide you part of the way,” I decide. “But first, we have to get down this mountain safely. And we must avoid the Dark Elf patrols.”

He nods, swallowing thickly. “Thank you.”

Standing, I shoulder my pack. The morning sun is well past its peak, meaning we’ve lost hours. My plan to slip through unnoticed just got more complicated, but perhaps Jonas can tell me more about the rumors once he’s rested.

I hold out a hand to help him up. He grips it, unsteady but determined. Beneath my stoic exterior, nerves flutter in my stomach. Everything the Matriarch warned us about might already be unfolding. Gargoyles, Dark Elves, possibly even the Red Purnas. And here I am, standing on a lonely trail in the wilderness, fulfilling a destiny I never asked for.

Clutching my cloak against a sudden brisk wind, I guide Jonas toward the winding path that continues downward. My thoughts swirl with questions about the gargoyles, about who I might be in the grand scheme of Purna prophecy. But for now, I place one foot in front of the other, determined to uncover the truth—and protect the innocent from whatever dark forces prowl these lands.

As we descend the mountainside, a final glance over my shoulder reveals a fleeting glimpse of the Purna stronghold. The morning light glimmers on the rocky slopes, and for an instant, I imagine I see the silhouette of Matriarch Lumeria watching from high above. Perhaps it’s only in my mind. Still, I can almost feel her gentle reassurance urging me onward.

I breathe in, letting the clean air fill my lungs. My journey begins here, with the crisp dawn on the heights of Prazh and the uncertain path stretching before me. Whatever fate or prophecy lies ahead, I will face it. The fire in my chest may waver, but it will not be extinguished.

And so I take the first step, forging a path through the whispering pines, the hush of fate growing ever louder in my ears.