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We walk down a side corridor lined with stained-glass windows. Light filters in, casting motley patterns on the stone floor. My nerves hum with leftover adrenaline from addressing the council.

Vaelorian halts near a carved alcove, turning to face me. His wings shift, and his voice is subdued. “Brinda doesn’t trust your intel alone, but she’s concerned enough to act. That’s more than I expected.”

I nod, trying to read his expression. “So we plan an ambush? Or an interception?”

He nods. “Precisely. If we capture even one dark elf transport carrying a live Vrakken prisoner, the entire game changes. But it’ll be dangerous.”

A beat of silence. My body tenses, wanting to offer my help, but I recall how these operations often demand stealth far beyond infiltration. He looks troubled, gaze flicking to the color-splotched floor.

“You did well,” he repeats softly, echoing his words from earlier in his study. He opens his mouth, closes it, then finally mutters, “Are you… unharmed?”

The question catches me off guard. I sense he’s not just asking about physical wounds. My cheeks warm. “I’m fine, physically. But the things I saw, overheard—they were…”

He lifts a hand as though to comfort me, but lets it drop. “Dark elf cruelty. I understand.”

I bite my lip. “I also—” I hesitate, uncertain how to address the unresolved tension between us. “We haven’t spoken about that night.”

His features tense. “No, we haven’t.”

Blood rushes to my ears. “I’m not demanding anything. But I need to know if it… changes how we work together.”

He closes his eyes briefly. “It doesn’t. We can’t let it. We have a war to prepare for, or at least a preemptive strike.”

My heart sinks at the coldness in his tone, but I remind myself it’s for the best.He’s right, we can’t let desire overshadow this mission.

“Of course,” I say, stepping back. “I’m ready to do whatever it takes to stop Xathien. I’ll follow your lead.”

Vaelorian dips his head in acknowledgment. “We’ll talk soon. I have meetings with Brinda and the generals. In the meantime, rest. And keep those heightened senses in check, if you can. Helrath will help if needed.”

I swallow. “All right.”

He lingers for a second, as if torn, then turns on his heel and strides away. I watch him go, an ache settling in my chest.This is how it must be,I tell myself. Yet it doesn’t make the sting any less real.

Over the next few days, House Draeven buzzes with activity. Vaelorian and his advisors strategize relentlessly, drafting possible plans to ambush Xathien’s transport. I hear rumorsin the corridors about troop deployments, magical wards, even collaborations with a few disgruntled orc tribes. Tension seeps through every hall, every conversation.

Occasionally, I see Vaelorian from afar—his posture rigid as he confers with stewards or scribes. Our eyes meet once or twice, a silent acknowledgment passing between us.We’re both weighed down by secrets.

Meanwhile, Helrath throws me back into intense drills. My heightened senses remain a double-edged sword: useful for reflexes but draining. Some days, I manage to keep them in check. Other days, a soldier’s cut finger from across the training yard overwhelms me with the smell of blood.

One afternoon, while I practice dagger techniques with Helrath, I accidentally dodge too far, slamming into the courtyard wall. My vision swims, a flood of stimuli—my own heartbeat, Helrath’s ragged breath, the clang of swords from across the yard.

“Focus,” Helrath growls, tossing me a waterskin.

I gulp water, panting. “I’m trying.”

He studies me. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. If you need a break, say it.”

I shake my head. “I can’t afford breaks.”

A flash of respect crosses his scarred face. “Suit yourself.”

We resume sparring, but my mind drifts to the looming mission—knowing that soon, Vaelorian might send me on another infiltration or have me stationed at the ambush site. The stakes are higher than ever. If the dark elves weaponize Vrakken essence, House Draeven’s precarious hold could collapse.

Late on the third evening after my return, I receive a note from Vaelorian’s steward, delivered by a breathless runner:“Valeria—come to his private study at once.”Something about the tight scrawl suggests urgency.

I hurry there, nearly colliding with a pair of soldiers in the corridor. My heart thumps—did new intel arrive? Another dark elf banquet to crash?Or maybe Xathien made a move.

Vaelorian’s study door stands ajar. I slip inside. He’s alone, perched on the edge of his desk, wings partially unfurled in agitation. Maps and scrolls clutter every surface, candles flickering to cast dancing shadows on the walls.