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Vaelorian nods, turning to the rest of our group. “We split. Valeria and I will infiltrate the main tent, see if wecan break their illusions from the inside. The rest circle the camp, disabling outer sentries and planting small bombs on the wagons. Work quickly—at the first sign of major resistance, we retreat.”

The outcasts glance at each other, tension thick in the hush. They trust us, but they also know how lethal dark elf illusions can be. Despite that, determination steels their expressions. None of them wants to yield to the dark elves, who already subjugate half the world. I feel a swell of resolve that dwarfs my lingering dread.

I press my lips together, adjusting the illusions swirling around my body. Vaelorian slips forward, cloak shifting to match the forest’s darkness, and I match his pace. We circle wide, hugging the perimeter. The camp’s meager firelight casts dancing shadows across the clustered wagons. A ring of illusions flickers overhead, wards set in place to detect intruders.But I can see them,albeit faintly. My half-blood senses pick out the shimmering lines that shape each ward. If we time it right, we can slip through the largest gap—like stepping through a net of light.

Vaelorian holds my hand as we approach the wards. My leg throbs, but I grit my teeth. His presence pulses with a steady calm, letting me focus on unraveling the pattern. My illusions swirl in tandem with his, forming a subtle weave that I guide through the wards’ biggest gap. My breath catches, every sense screaming we’re a hair’s breadth from triggering an alarm. But the wards shiver, parting around our illusions as we pass. I exhale softly in relief. We’re inside.

Behind us, I sense the outcasts skirting the opposite flank. With any luck, they’ll disable a few sentries without raising a ruckus. Meanwhile, Vaelorian and I aim for the largest tent at the camp’s center—a drab, high canopy from which I hear faint chanting. The dark elves must store or shape illusions there,or coordinate this supply line. If we sabotage the illusions, our group can sabotage the wagons without detection.

We slip between two guarded carriages. A pair of soldiers stands within feet of us, discussing watch rotations. My entire body tenses. Vaelorian’s illusions swirl around us, and I hold my breath, praying my half-blood aura doesn’t slip free. The soldiers look right at us—but their gaze drifts away, seeing only empty air. My heart hammers.We’re invisible enough for now.My grip on Vaelorian’s hand tightens.

He leads me around stacked crates of spelled ore—dark lumps that faintly radiate arcane potential. Another reminder of the dark elves’ hunger for power. We reach the tent’s edge, slipping through the gap in the canvas. The interior is lit by a single brazier, coals glowing with a sickly greenish hue. My stomach churns at the stench of burning herbs. A low table stands near the center, piled with scrolls and runic crystals. Three robed figures cluster around it, chanting in that guttural dark elf tongue.

One figure is tall, male, wearing intricate filigreed armor over his robes. The second is a slender female with hair braided tight, her dark skin etched with runic scars. The third is a smaller silhouette, possibly an apprentice, carefully pouring some glittering powder into a mortar. The illusions in the tent swirl in a visible swirl of color—the wards. They’re powering or adjusting them with each incantation. If we break that cycle, the wards around the camp flicker, letting our group sabotage the wagons.

I exchange a glance with Vaelorian, who lifts two runic tokens from his belt. We each have a limited arsenal of illusions designed to disrupt or invert spells. We can’t simply kill these mages in open combat without risking a loud commotion.We must be subtle.My breath whooshes quietly. His expression is grim but confident.

We inch closer. My illusions ripple, and I focus, letting my half-blood senses spool out. The swirl of color around the robed trio is intricate, each thread representing a portion of the ward’s power. I can see a faint line connecting them to crystals on the table—a conduit for their illusions. If I can unravel that line…Focus.I quell the tremor in my hands. This is what I was born for, or so it seems: using my strange hybrid gift to tear down illusions meant to oppress or enslave.

Vaelorian sets touches my shoulder, silently encouraging me. I close my eyes, steady my breathing, and let my power sink into the swirling wards. A tingle runs along my spine—the wards sense my intrusion. My heart jackhammers, but I keep going, weaving a subtle counter-pattern. I only learned this technique in bits, forging it from Vaelorian’s illusions and my own instincts. If I slip, the wards might recoil violently, triggering an alert.

The robed figures keep chanting, oblivious to the silent battle I wage. Slowly, I feel the main thread slacken. Another breath. My illusions twine with Vaelorian’s, supporting me. Then I tug, unraveling the final link. The robed female stiffens, sensing a disturbance, but too late.Snap.The wards fracture. A flicker of greenish light pulses through the brazier, and for a heartbeat, the chanting stutters.

Vaelorian lifts a runic token. With a flick of his wrist, he hurls it under the table. Smoke erupts—a silent, shimmering cloud that devours sound for a few precious seconds. The mages jerk upright, cough, scramble for clarity, but our illusions keep us invisible. We slip backward, letting them flail in confusion. The entire tent glows with fracturing illusions. They might reestablish them if given time, but we only need them down long enough for sabotage.

Without a word, Vaelorian and I retreat out the tent’s gap. The wards around the camp flicker; I sense the entiremagical net stutter. Now the outcasts can sabotage the wagons unimpeded. I permit myself a moment of triumph even as alarmed voices ring out inside the tent.We must hurry.The mages might recover. We move quickly, illusions swirling around us, weaving between tents and crates, heading toward the wagon cluster.

Distantly, I hear the muffled clang of a guard’s blade hitting the ground. That might be Daron or one of our other outcasts quietly dispatching a sentry. My adrenaline spikes. We near the row of wagons laden with crates of steel and potions. Already, I see subtle shapes flitting in and out—our allies placing small arcane charges under the axles or dousing the crates with flammable oil. The wards’ failure means no immediate alarm when they handle the goods.

A grin tugs at my lips: it’s working. The synergy of our group, the cunning of illusions, the ruthless efficiency of these outcasts—it reminds me how far we’ve come from that desperate flight out of House Draeven. We’re forging alliances in the dark, forging pacts with those as disillusioned as us. The entire world wants me dead for my half-blood. Now I’m turning that heritage into a weapon. The threshold between necessity and genuine relish blur. I want to see these wagons destroyed.

Movement to my left: a dark elf soldier stumbling upon one of our outcasts. The soldier raises a pike, about to shout. My illusions flare. I dash forward, silent as a breath, slamming the hilt of my dagger into his temple. He crumples with a muffled grunt. The outcast—a wiry woman named Kaliste—gives me a quick thumbs-up. We slip back into the swirl of illusions, dragging the unconscious soldier behind a stack of crates.

Vaelorian appears from behind another wagon, meeting my eyes. Gods, the rush of seeing him in his element—nimble, lethal, wings half-furled—sends a spike of warmth through me. My body still hums from the synergy we found in the catacombs,and every brush of his gaze reaffirms that bond. We exchange a nod, hearts pounding, illusions flickering across our faces. Then he gestures:Time to spark the sabotage.We’ve done enough quiet infiltration. If we linger, the mages might recover and raise an alarm anyway.

I crouch at the base of a wagon, pressing a small runic bomb to the wooden frame. A magical seal flares, indicating ten seconds until detonation once triggered. My mouth goes dry. The others set their bombs on surrounding wagons. We plan to ignite them all at once, sowing chaos, then vanish into the night. I carefully prime the bomb, breath shaky with anticipation. The swirling illusions distort my sense of space, but I push through. A tremor runs through the wagon’s wood—the wards are creeping back from the tent. I sense them, a faint stuttering net. We must act now.

I scuttle backward, illusions hugging me. Through the shimmering darkness, I see Vaelorian pressing a bomb to the largest wagon brimming with steel ingots. Our gazes meet. He lifts a hand, counting silently. I bite my lip. Five… four… three… At two, I press the trigger on my bomb, feeling the arcane seals connect. Then I sprint, ignoring the screaming pain in my leg. Vaelorian does the same. Our outcasts mirror us, illusions and darkness cloaking our movements.

Detonations tear through the air in a wild cacophony. Flames surge from wagon to wagon, bright tongues of orange and red erupting under the moonless sky. The crates of steel clatter as they collapse, potions ignite in bursts of colorful sparks, and the potions inside brew a roiling plume of acrid smoke. The entire camp jolts awake with shouts of alarm. My chest bursts with savage glee—we did it. They’ll be crippled for weeks, maybe months, trying to recoup these losses.

But now we must escape. Already, dark elf soldiers pour into the center of the camp. Some fling illusions outward, searchingfor the saboteurs. Others try to douse the flames or salvage what remains. The stench of burning chemicals scorches my nose. Vaelorian appears at my side, grabbing my arm. I lean on him heavily as we bolt for the tree line. My illusions swirl, threatened by the roiling arcane energies unleashed in the destruction.

An arrow whizzes past my head, lodging in a tree trunk with a dull thunk. My heart leaps. The dark elves are firing blindly, illusions flickering in the smoke, but they might get lucky. We press on, weaving among tents. I spot one outcast—Daron—ducking under a fallen canopy, illusions flickering. He’s safe for the moment. More arrows rain, some sparking with magical energy. Another bomb detonates, sending a fireball into the sky. I hiss, cursing the intensity of the blaze. The night air glows orange, revealing the shapes of fleeing saboteurs.

I gasp when a soldier nearly barrels into me. Vaelorian slams him aside with a wing strike, sending him tumbling. We keep running, illusions crackling around us. My leg threatens to collapse, but adrenaline buoys me. We have to reach the trees.

At last, we break past the final ring of tents, crossing the scorch-marked clearing into the relative safety of the forest’s shadow. My lungs burn from smoke and exertion. I glance back, panting, as the entire camp roars with confusion. Black smoke billows high, tinted by magical potions going up in flames. Soldiers scream in the distance, illusions swirling frantically. Triumph flares in my chest. We’ve done it—one more blow against Xathien’s supply lines.

Daron and two others appear from behind a thick pine, illusions fading. They cough, eyes streaming from smoke. “We lost Kaliste,” one mutters, haunted. “She got pinned by illusions near the center, so she signaled us to run.”

My heart lurches. Even in victory, we lose people. That’s the price of our war. I swallow hard, tears prickling my eyes. “Kaliste knew the risks,” I say softly. “Let’s pray she escaped or at least…fought to the end.” My voice falters, chest tight with grief. We can’t circle back. The camp is in full alarm. Our illusions won’t hide us from an entire troop searching for vengeance.

Vaelorian steps in, voice low but steady. “We press on. Regroup deeper in the forest. We can’t linger or they’ll track us. Move.”

He gently tugs me along, supporting my battered stride. The other outcasts follow, eyes grim, illusions flickering as they try to mask our retreat. We vanish into the forest, leaving chaos behind.

We run, or limp in my case, for a solid hour before collapsing in a small clearing near a trickling creek. My leg throbs mercilessly, each step a jolt of pain. Vaelorian eases me onto a mossy log, chest heaving from the sprint. The others gather around, scanning the surroundings for pursuers. Torchlight from the distant horizon flickers, indicating the dark elves might be rallying a search. But for now, we’re out of immediate danger.