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Brinda’s lips curl in a half-smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Very well. I’ll expect a full report upon her return. Meanwhile, I assume you’ll be focusing your attention on potential expansions in the southern regions?”

I nod. “Yes. We can’t afford to let the dark elves or orcs claim that territory. Our long-term plans demand we hold key positions near the trade routes.”

She inclines her head in what might be approval. “Continue, then. I have other matters to attend to.”

Dismissed. I give a final bow and exit, not waiting for her to change her mind and inquire further. The tension in my shoulders eases only when I’m out of the chamber and back in the corridor.

She’s suspicious of everything.I can’t blame her—Brinda’s survival instincts have kept House Draeven afloat for centuries.But if she knew the depth of my involvement with Valeria, if she sensed the crack in my composure…

I clench my jaw. This infiltration must go smoothly, for reasons beyond politics.

Night falls by the time I manage to finalize the details for Valeria’s mission. I sit in my study, leaning over a table strewn with maps and coded messages from various informants. A single candelabra provides light, flickering over the parchment. Occasionally, the flame gutters, sending dancing shadows across the walls.

I hear the knock before I see her. Valeria steps into the doorway, wearing a fresh tunic and trousers. She’s cleaned up from training, but fatigue lines her eyes. There’s also a wariness in her stance, as though she’s bracing for an argument.

“Come in,” I say.

She closes the door gently, crossing the room until she’s a few paces from my desk. I sense her tension, and the memory of last night slams into me—our bodies tangling, the heat of her skin. I swallow hard, forcing my face into neutrality.

“Here,” I say, sliding two documents toward her. “One is your cover story, courtesy of our forger. Study every line. The other is a coded parchment with contact details for Lord Marik’s retinue.”

She approaches, picks them up, and scans the text. I track the movement of her eyes, noticing how she’s forcing herself to remain distant.She’s following my lead, burying everything behind a cool facade.

“All right,” she says quietly. “I leave at dawn?”

“Yes. You’ll travel with a small escort to meet Marik. From there, you’ll blend into his household. He’ll present you as a favored servant, newly purchased from a reputable dark elf merchant.”

She frowns. “What about any requests to see proof of ownership, or a brand, or other typical marks?”

I lean back, gesturing to the documents. “Marik has an official letter detailing your ‘brand and paperwork.’ It’s forged but convincing enough for a minor banquet. If anyone tries to examine you more closely, rely on deflection or feigned ignorance. I doubt they’ll push too hard unless they suspect something amiss.”

She bites her lip, nodding. “I can handle it.”

Silence falls. I clasp my hands together, fighting the urge to say something personal.Apologize? Offer comfort?But that would undermine the boundary I’ve tried to reassert.

Instead, I rise, circling the desk. She watches my approach warily, hugging the documents to her chest. My gaze drifts over her—her hair braided tight, the lines of her shoulders tense. I pause a foot away, close enough to smell her soap and a faint trace of sweat.

“This mission is dangerous,” I say, voice low. “Even if it’s a ‘minor’ gathering, dark elves can be cruel. Keep your wits. If anything seems off, get out. I won’t lose House Draeven’s operative to carelessness.”

I phrase it like a caution rooted in strategy. But beneath that cold veneer, my heart hammers with genuine concern.

She stiffens at the wordoperative, but she meets my gaze. “I won’t be careless. I want to survive as much as you want success.”

Our eyes lock. An electric tension thrums through the space between us, reminiscent of the moment before a storm breaks. My pulse thrums. I want to drag her into my arms again. The other part screams that indulging that weakness once was mistake enough.

“Good,” I say, stepping back. “Finish your preparations. The escort leaves at dawn’s first light.”

She hesitates, as though expecting me to say more. When I don’t, she simply dips her head in acknowledgment. “Yes. I’ll be ready.”

As she moves toward the door, I struggle with an impulse to call her back.Tell her to be safe.I bite my tongue. That kind of sentiment fosters illusions we can’t afford.

She opens the door, pausing for a final look. Her eyes flick over my form, lingering for a fraction longer than necessary. Then she slips out, leaving me alone in the hush of my study.

I exhale. A pang resonates where my heart should be shielded.She’ll be all right.She has to be.

Dawn arrives quicker than I anticipate. I stand at the main gate, watching as a small carriage readied for Valeria’s departure waits in the courtyard. Four House Draeven guards fuss over the horses, ensuring the harnesses are secure.

Helrath stands off to the side, arms crossed, scanning the scene with disapproval. He thinks I’m sending her out too soon. I ignore him. We can’t keep her caged in training sessions forever. The dark elves won’t wait for us to perfect our infiltration.