Page 10

The hall is alive with the clang of blades and the hiss of breath from sparring pairs. Valeria stands in the midst of it, looking both exhausted and stubbornly resolute. I approach slowly.

“Not so bad,” I remark, nodding at the chalk circles. “At least he didn’t throw you to the ground.”

She manages a faint laugh, though it’s laced with adrenaline. “I was half-expecting him to.”

“That might come later.” I gesture to the agility lines. “Go practice. I want to see how quickly you adapt.”

She opens her mouth as if to protest, but then thinks better of it. With a curt nod, she trudges over to the lines. I track her every step, noticing how she tests each pattern, stepping forward and back, then sideways, in some kind of rhythmic dance that Helrath has likely devised.

I remain nearby, pacing along the hall’s perimeter.

Occasionally, I catch glimpses of her frustration—she stumbles, curses under her breath, corrects herself, and continues.

There’s a raw determination in her eyes I rarely see in humans.

They’re usually so beaten down by the dark elves that the idea of bettering themselves is unthinkable. But Valeria’s different.

Is it enough?

A cloud of uncertainty settles in my mind. She’ll need more than physical training to survive the dark elf courts. She must master subterfuge, diplomacy, manipulation. If she’s too naive, they’ll devour her. If she’s too brazen, they’ll turn on her the moment she missteps.

I catch Helrath’s gaze from across the hall. He shrugs, as if to say: It’s up to you.

Yes. It is. And that’s precisely the debate churning in my thoughts. Trust her, or treat her like another expendable asset?

If it were purely strategic, I’d hold her at arm’s length, using her only when necessary.

But something about her quiet resilience draws me in, makes me want to see how far she can go.

It’s a gamble, and House Draeven can’t afford reckless risks.

My mother would say: “Push her until she breaks or excels.” I intend to do exactly that—but I wonder if I might help her succeed, not just watch passively.

I linger, keeping an ear out for the other Vrakken’s mutterings. Some have noticed my interest in Valeria; I see them exchanging glances, though none dare approach me with questions. Eventually, I stride over to her, noticing the strain in her posture.

She glances up, panting. “I think I’ve stepped on my own foot five times now,” she jokes shakily.

“You’ll step on worse if you don’t figure it out.”

A dry chuckle escapes her, but she returns her attention to the lines. She tries a forward-and-back sequence, then transitions to a sidestep. I watch critically, noticing improvements in how she shifts her weight. It’s incremental, but progress nonetheless.

After several minutes of intense repetition, she pauses, wiping sweat from her brow. “Water?” she asks, glancing around.

“Follow me.”

I lead her to a side alcove where a large stone basin holds fresh water. She cups her hands, scooping a few mouthfuls. I grab a small towel from a wooden shelf, offering it to her.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, dabbing her face.

I lean against a nearby column, crossing my arms. “Tell me. Do you regret accepting my deal?”

Her eyes flick to mine, reflecting an edge of defiance. “No. The alternative was worse.”

I tilt my head, intrigued. “Would you rather remain a slave, used by the dark elves for their entertainments?”

A shadow passes over her features. “Of course not. But I’m not naive enough to think I’m safe here either. I’m just... less likely to die, if I do things correctly.”

“Exactly. You succeed, you live. You fail...” I let the implication hang.

She huffs a breath, gaze dropping to the floor. “I won’t fail. I’ve spent my life figuring out how to survive the dark elves’ games. If I can fool them as a powerless slave, maybe I can do it again with you behind me.”

Something in her words tugs at me, a sense of honesty that’s difficult to ignore. She’s not making grand boasts—she’s stating a simple truth: cunning, born from years of servitude. Could that cunning be shaped into a weapon?

Turning, I gesture for her to follow once more. We pass through a smaller door leading into an adjacent corridor lined with racks of practice weapons: wooden swords, daggers with dulled edges, staffs for basic forms. The hallway is quieter than the main hall, echoing only with our footsteps.

A single high window lets in sunlight that streaks across the polished stone. I pause at one rack, running my fingertips over the hilt of a training dagger. “You might not need steel in the courts,” I say, “but I want you to be comfortable defending yourself if cornered.”

She nods, standing beside me, eyes scanning the display. “This might come in handy if someone tries to end me before I can deliver your precious intel.”

My lips tilt. “Exactly.”

I hand her a wooden dagger with a weighted handle. “Show me how you’d hold this.”

She studies it, then grips it in a passable stance—elbow bent, blade angled forward. A bit too stiff in the wrist. I correct her posture, noticing how she tenses under my touch but doesn’t pull away.

“Loosen here,” I instruct, guiding her wrist. “You need to move fluidly. A rigid stance telegraphs your attack.”

She nods, adjusting. We go through a few practice thrusts, me stepping aside as she tries to jab forward. Her form is clumsy, but there’s potential. She learns quickly, I remind myself.

Time passes as we drill. Several attempts in, her movements become smoother, though still unrefined.

Sweat beads on her temples. I occasionally correct her angle, pressing a palm to her elbow or repositioning her shoulder.

Each time, I sense the heat of her skin, the tension coiled beneath it. She’s pushing herself.

Eventually, I step back. “Enough.”

She exhales, lowering the wooden dagger. “You must think me pathetic,” she says, voice edged with frustrated self-awareness. “I can’t even hold this right.”

I tilt my head, regarding her. “Not pathetic. Inexperienced. You’re improving faster than I expected.”

Her lips part in surprise. A moment later, she tries to mask it. “I... thank you.”

Setting the training dagger aside, I lead her back toward the main hall.

“You’ll have to endure these drills daily, plus your studies in the library.

We’ll ramp up quickly. We don’t have time for idle pacing.

The dark elves are restless. Whispers of their new experiments, of alliances with unscrupulous orc clans, have reached my ears. ”

She falls into step beside me, footsteps echoing. “I overheard rumors before, but never anything concrete.”

“Then you’ll collect proof next time you’re among them.” I open the door to the main training hall, letting her pass. “Helrath will refine your fighting skills, but your true strength will lie in espionage. That’s where I expect you to excel.”

She nods, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead. “I’m prepared. Although...” She hesitates, lips pressing together.

“What?”

She looks around, making sure no one else is within earshot.

Vrakken soldiers duel near the far side of the hall, but they seem too focused on their own skirmish.

“You mentioned the possibility of seduction, of infiltration beyond just listening at doors. I need to know how far you plan to push that. Because if it involves me letting a dark elf have access to me...” Her voice trembles slightly, betraying a memory of old trauma.

My jaw tightens. I recall the cruelty I’ve observed in the dark elf aristocracy. “If that becomes necessary, it’ll be your call. I’m not forcing you to share a bed with them. But you must be willing to feign interest, to flatter, to use your wits.”

She exhales slowly, relief warring with residual fear. “Good. Because I’ve had enough of being forced into a bed for someone else’s amusement. If I’m doing this, I want at least a shred of autonomy.”

I respect the bluntness of her request. Most humans would never dare speak this way, but she’s already proven she’s not typical. “Understood. You’ll have a measure of choice. However, we can’t risk losing vital intel because you’re squeamish.”

Her shoulders stiffen, and a new determination flashes in her eyes. “I’m not squeamish. I’m practical. If seduction is required, I can handle it. I just don’t want to be bartered like livestock again.”

I incline my head. “Duly noted.”

We fall into a thoughtful silence. She sets the wooden dagger on a rack near the exit. I realize that, in a way, I’m giving her more freedom than most humans in my position would. Yet House Draeven’s success hangs on her performance. The better she’s treated, the higher her odds of success.

My mother’s voice resonates in my memory: “ Push her, Vaelorian. If she fails, discard her. ”

Yes, that’s the arrangement. But a tiny fracture in my resolve wonders if I truly can discard her once I’ve seen her capacity for defiance, once I’ve glimpsed the fire in her eyes. Focus.

I square my shoulders, shutting down the swirl of conflicting emotions.

“You should head to the library next,” I say, leading her to the hall’s exit.

“I’ve assigned a caretaker to help you locate the texts on dark elf etiquette and advanced dialect.

Study them until midday. Then return here for more training with Helrath. ”

Valeria runs a hand through her hair, nodding. She’s exhausted, that much is evident, but she steels herself. “I’ll do it.”

I catch a flicker of respect for her resolve. “Good. Remember, I’ll be watching.”

She tilts her chin in acknowledgment. “I won’t disappoint you.”

I leave her in the corridor outside the training hall, assigning a junior Vrakken servant to escort her to the library. Once she’s gone, I pivot and climb a flight of stairs that loops around to a high balcony overlooking the hall. From there, I can see Helrath finishing drills with other recruits.