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When one “aristocrat” turns, I slip in with a polite cough. “Apologies, my lords,” I say, injecting the precise mixture of humility and confidence that a highly prized servant might use. “My master is curious to know whether the next event at the palace has been postponed.”

They glance at me, skepticism radiating from them. I freeze inside, mindful of the fact that a real dark elf might lash me for daring to speak unbidden. Yet this is the role Vaelorian has hammered into me: I’m no longer a cowering thrall. I’m a cunning asset with a light veneer of subservience.

One guard, playing the role of a minor noble, sneers. “The event? Moved to next week, thanks to certain indiscretions. Now, away with you, girl. I’ve no time for your prattle.”

I duck my head in a show of meekness. “Thank you, my lord.”

As soon as they turn away, I drift off, heart racing.I got the nugget of gossip I needed.That’s all the scenario demanded. Next, I’m supposed to exit the training hall. So I move carefully, hugging the walls, employing the techniques Vaelorian taught me—blending with the background, adopting the posture of someone who belongs yet is beneath notice.

I round a corner, nearly colliding with another “aristocrat.” But he strides past without pausing, too absorbed in his role to notice me. My pulse spikes. If I can just reach the side door, I’ll have pulled it off perfectly?—

Suddenly, Vaelorian steps from the shadows near the door, arms folded, black eyes assessing. I startle, nearly stumbling, but I force my expression to remain impassive. He doesn’t speak. Instead, he tilts his head, silently asking me to proceed.

I inhale, adopting the serene mask I’ve practiced. One measured step after another, I make for the exit. Two guards catch sight of me, but their gazes slip away as soon as they decide I’m unimportant. My heart thumps in victory, and I press forward—until I clear the threshold into the corridor beyond.

Once I’m out, my composure cracks. A grin sneaks onto my face, and I gasp with relief. Vaelorian joins me, his stride soundless. He closes the door behind us, signaling the end of this mock infiltration.

“Well done,” he says, voice low.

My shoulders slump, tension draining. “I really had to fight the urge to run.”

He cocks a brow. “Running would have drawn attention. You’re finally learning.”

A flicker of pride warms me. His praise is rare—brief, understated—but deeply satisfying. “Thank you.”

Vaelorian’s eyes roam over my gown, taking in the swirl of deep purple satin and the lace trim that clings to my arms. “You handled that dress better than I anticipated. Half the darkelf aristocracy uses their elaborate attire to test others’ social awareness. One misstep, and you’re pegged as an outsider.”

I blow out a breath. “I guess this means I’ve passed the test?”

He nods, expression still guarded. “This exercise, yes. But there will be more. And, eventually, the real thing.”

The mention of infiltrating the genuine dark elf courts sends a cold flutter through my stomach, but I push it aside. I’ve known for weeks that this is my path; I have no intention of backing down.

Still, as we walk through the fortress corridor, I can’t help noticing the subtle tension between us—like a current humming just beneath the surface. For the last three weeks, we’ve maintained a strictly professional distance: me, the determined human operative; him, the Vrakken prince with lethal grace. But that distance has its cracks. When he draws near, or offers a rare, fleeting smile, I feel it in my chest—an ache of something deeper than gratitude.

We approach a small alcove, and I slow to a halt, my mind buzzing with leftover adrenaline. “Vaelorian,” I begin, hesitating. “Thank you for letting me train so extensively. I... I know you don’t have to put so much effort into this.”

He turns, wings rustling against his long coat. “I do, actually. If you fail, House Draeven suffers. We can’t allow that.”

There’s a pragmatic chill to his words, but I sense an undercurrent that he’s not voicing—something that surpasses mere strategy. Despite everything, I choose not to press. I let a faint smile tilt my lips. “Well, you’re giving me a fighting chance.”

His gaze lingers on my mouth, then flicks away. “You’ve earned it.”

My heart kicks. The tension is undeniable now, a thread pulled taut between us. I’m about to say something else whena door to our right opens, revealing Helrath stepping into the corridor. He spots us and quirks an eyebrow.

“Another infiltration success, I assume?” he drawls, raking a hand through his short, silvery hair.

Vaelorian shifts, the moment broken. “Yes. She did well.”

Helrath snorts as if grudgingly impressed. “Good. Because I have her scheduled for an advanced sparring session in the courtyard tomorrow. This time with real steel.”

I grimace. “Real steel?”

He crosses his arms, scar bisecting his throat. “You think dark elves will fight you with wooden swords? You’d better get used to it.”

The prospect sets me on edge, but I mask my unease. “All right. I’ll be ready.”

Helrath nods once, then addresses Vaelorian. “Matriarch Brinda asked for your presence after you’re done here. Something about a supply deal?”