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I reach my chambers, half hoping Vaelorian might follow. He doesn’t. The door clicks shut behind me, and I’m left with silence. My new suite remains as luxurious as the day he assigned it, though it feels emptier now.

Exhaustion crushes me. I slump against the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor, knees drawn up. The intel I brought back could shift the balance of power between Vrakken and dark elves.So why do I feel like I’m missing something?

My heightened senses stir, picking up faint footsteps outside. Maybe a guard passing by. The noise disappears, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I recall the moaning behind that locked door at the banquet, the cruelty etched in the dark elf nobles’ words.

We have to stop them.The concept is too large—I’m a single operative, and Vaelorian is locked in House Draeven’s endless political games. But if we don’t act, innocents will suffer. Not just Vrakken, though they hold the brunt of these experiments, but eventually humans, orcs, or anyone the dark elves deem lesser.

A wave of weariness hits. I drag myself upright, stumbling toward the washroom. Stripping off my travel-stained clothes, I sink into a shallow bath, letting warm water lap over sore muscles. Candlelight plays across the stone walls.At least I can wash off the banquet’s stench.

Yet my mind refuses to quiet. Snatches of conversation about Xathien swirl, along with images of the locked door and my newfound clarity of hearing. Does Vaelorian suspects mylineage? He’s never pushed me to confront it, but the tension in his eyes earlier suggests he knows something I don’t.

I submerge my shoulders, leaning back against the tub’s edge. My heart twinges at the memory of him pacing in his study—how even beneath his icy facade, I sensed a flicker of relief that I returned unscathed. We haven’t spoken about that night we shared, the moment we crossed the line. Now the wall between us feels higher than ever, though I can’t deny the ache in my chest when I’m near him.

Eventually, I finish bathing, wrap myself in a warm robe, and pad to the bed. I collapse onto the mattress, ignoring the finery around me. Sleep comes in fits, plagued by dreams of captive Vrakken and silver-haired elves chanting spells.

Morning arrives with a muted glow through the tall windows. A summons from Vaelorian’s steward awaits me: the Matriarch’s council convenes at midday. My stomach tightens, recalling how Brinda’s gaze can strip someone bare with a glance.

I dress carefully in House Draeven’s provided attire—dark trousers, a fitted tunic embroidered subtly with the crest. It marks me as one of Vaelorian’s assets, though not an equal. Precisely the balance I must strike.

In the corridor, Helrath intercepts me. He scans my face. “You survived the mission,” he says, gruffly. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I mutter.

He smirks. “I hear you found something worthwhile.”

I nod. “More than we bargained for. The dark elves have ramped up their experiments. They’re capturing Vrakken in larger numbers.”

His jaw tightens. “Bastards.”

We walk together toward the council hall, passing columns carved with scenes of mythical battles. “Vaelorian asked me to report directly,” I say. “Are you joining us?”

Helrath shakes his head. “The Matriarch keeps the circle small. I’m just a weapons master, not a strategist. Good luck, though.”

I push the double doors open into a long chamber illuminated by tall windows and hanging lanterns. A semicircle of seats stands at the far end, occupied by Brinda, Vaelorian, and three other high-ranking figures from House Draeven. My pulse speeds.

Brinda’s gaze falls on me, cool and appraising. She’s dressed in flowing black robes, hair coiled in a complex arrangement that suggests both elegance and power. Vaelorian stands at her right, expression unreadable. When I approach, he gives a barely perceptible nod.

One of the councilors, a woman with a severe face and braided silver hair, motions me forward. “You are Valeria, the operative Lord Vaelorian entrusted with infiltration. Speak your report.”

I bow slightly. My voice wavers at first but steadies as I recount everything: the banquet’s layout, the overheard plots to capture Vrakken for experimental magic, Xathien’s name, the potential involvement of orc raiders, and the locked room evidence. I keep it precise, echoing Vaelorian’s earlier instructions—factual, concise, no personal details.

Brinda’s features remain impassive until I finish. Then she exhales. “Xathien’s ambitions threaten our hold on the surface. If the dark elves master a new form of blood magic, we risk losing our strategic advantage.”

One councilor, a tall male with pale hair, grimaces. “Do we have enough proof to confront them openly?”

Vaelorian folds his arms. “Not yet. But we can’t let them continue. We need more concrete evidence or to intercept one of their transport convoys. If we seize actual captives, we’ll have irrefutable proof.”

Brinda narrows her eyes at me. “You performed adequately, human. But your testimony alone isn’t sufficient for an attack.”

A spike of irritation flares.‘Adequately.’I mask it, bowing in acknowledgment. “Understood, Matriarch.”

She flicks her gaze to Vaelorian. “We proceed with caution. Prepare a strategy to intercept Xathien’s next shipment of Vrakken. You have one week to finalize a plan. Then we act.”

He inclines his head. “Yes, Matriarch.”

The council swiftly moves to other topics—supply lines, orc alliances. My role is done, so I step back, letting the conversation wash over me. Vaelorian occasionally glances my way, an unreadable tightness in his jaw.

When Brinda dismisses the meeting, Vaelorian motions for me to follow him outside.