Page 11

I stand at the railing, wings half-furled, letting my thoughts circle back to Valeria.

Is she cunning enough to survive? She’s proven resourceful so far, but infiltration demands a different level of skill—one that requires subtlety, careful manipulation, and an ability to read her targets like open books.

The dark elves are masters of deception, always hungry for an advantage.

Perhaps ironically, they’ve grown complacent when it comes to humans; they believe them easily cowed.

That might be our greatest asset: they won’t see Valeria as a threat until it’s too late.

If she can slip into their circles, glean secrets from unsuspecting aristocrats, she could dismantle alliances from within.

Still, the weight of that possibility sits heavily on my shoulders. If she fails, House Draeven may lose its best chance at striking back against the dark elf monarchy. Or worse, the monarchy could trace her actions to me, exposing our ambitions.

I replay yesterday’s events in my head—how she accepted my proposition without groveling, how she looked me in the eye and demanded my promise not to let others feed on her. That alone took courage. Perhaps she’s braver than I gave her credit for.

Which begs the question: how much of my trust does she truly deserve?

Trust is a currency I rarely trade in. I’ve watched countless deals unravel when emotions interfere, so I keep my attachments few. My mother taught me well: “ We are apex predators. Do not entangle yourself with lesser creatures, or they’ll drag you down. ”

And yet... I want to see Valeria succeed.

Not merely because her victory advances House Draeven’s cause, but because there’s a thrill in watching her break free from the role of powerless thrall.

It’s an odd, almost forbidden thought—why should I care about her personal triumph, so long as she serves her purpose?

The memory of her eyes flickers in my mind again—defiant, refusing to yield. That defiance intrigues me.

I push off from the railing, heading toward a secondary staircase that leads to my personal study. Decision made: I’ll test her. If she rises to the challenge, I’ll continue to invest in her training. If she falters, I’ll end the experiment. The sooner I ascertain her limits, the better.

My study is a smaller chamber adjoining my private quarters. It holds a single desk, stacks of scrolls, and a tall window that lets in enough light to read by without straining. I settle behind the desk, rummaging through notes that detail potential operations in the dark elf capital.

A scratch on the door interrupts my thoughts. “Enter,” I call.

The door swings open to reveal a familiar figure. Her hair is iron-gray, braided around a thin circlet that denotes her station as my mother’s advisor. Erlena, a senior steward of House Draeven. She offers a deferential bow.

“Lord Vaelorian,” she says, voice smooth. “The Matriarch asks for your presence in the main audience chamber.”

I stifle a sigh. “Very well. Is it urgent?”

“She indicated it concerns strategy regarding the newly arrived tributes,” Erlena replies. “I suspect Lady Brinda wishes to hear your report on them.”

I nod, rising. So, my mother wants an update, likely focused on Valeria. As I make my way out of the study, Erlena falls into step beside me.

We navigate the winding corridors until we reach a pair of opulent doors carved with scenes of winged figures subduing monstrous beasts.

Guards stationed on either side snap to attention.

Inside, the audience chamber is a grand space: polished floors, a high vaulted ceiling, and a single dais where my mother typically receives visitors.

Brinda stands near the middle of the room, dressed in a gown of deep indigo that shimmers with embedded crystals.

Her long, silver hair cascades down her back, a testament to her ancient lineage.

A cluster of lesser Vrakken courtiers hovers at a respectful distance.

At our approach, she dismisses them with a flick of her wrist, turning her full attention to me.

“Vaelorian,” she greets, eyes flickering like ice under candlelight. “I trust you’re making progress with our new acquisitions?”

I bow slightly. “Yes. Two of them have been assigned to menial tasks, as you instructed. The third, Valeria, is currently in training.”

Her lips curve in a small, knowing smile. “Ah, the intriguing one. I sense in her a potential we cannot afford to squander.”

I keep my expression measured. “I’ve begun teaching her basic self-defense and infiltration methods. She’ll require more than a few days, of course, but she appears—motivated.”

Brinda’s gaze sharpens. “Motivated is good. But you must be certain she doesn’t turn that motivation against us. Humans are fickle, easily swayed by illusions of freedom.”

My jaw tightens. She echoes the very debate roiling inside me. “I’m aware, Mother. I plan to test her loyalty at every step.”

One of the courtiers steps forward, a tall Vrakken male with silver-streaked hair. “Forgive me, Matriarch,” he says, “but may I ask: is it wise to invest so heavily in a human’s training? Surely we have Vrakken more suited to espionage.”

Brinda turns her cool stare on him. “The dark elves watch our kind far too closely. They know the threat we pose. A human, however, can slip through the cracks, overlooked and underestimated. This is our advantage. If Valeria proves incompetent, we lose little. If she thrives, we gain everything.”

A quiet murmur of agreement ripples among the courtiers. I sense their curiosity, their hunger for any detail that might secure them a place in my mother’s good graces.

Brinda waves them off again, beckoning me closer. When I stand before her, she lowers her voice. “You seem unsettled, Vaelorian. Are you certain you have the resolve to do what must be done if she fails?”

I meet her gaze without flinching. “I am. She means nothing if she can’t deliver.”

My mother studies me, and for an instant, I wonder if she sees the faint flicker of doubt I’m trying to bury. But her expression remains unreadable. Finally, she nods. “Good. Then push her. The dark elves grow bolder every day. We need leverage, and soon.”

My own words echo in my head: If she fails, discard her. A vow I must uphold.

“Yes, Matriarch.”

Brinda dismisses me with a graceful tilt of her hand, turning to address another matter with the courtiers. I stride out of the audience chamber, tension coiled in my muscles. Push her, indeed.

I return to my study, formulating a plan. A direct infiltration mission might be too soon, but perhaps a small test of her cunning is in order—something contained within House Draeven’s walls, where I can control the variables.

By midday, I’ve arranged the bare bones of a challenge: Valeria will be tasked with gathering a specific piece of information from one of my more reticent allies, a Vrakken named Sarith who’s in charge of certain supply lines.

Sarith can be tight-lipped, suspicious of humans.

If Valeria can coax knowledge of the next supply shipment’s route without rousing his suspicion, that’ll prove her budding skill in manipulation.

The day passes in a blur of preparations. Servants come and go, bringing me scrolls and updates about minor fortress details. I keep half an ear open, but my focus remains on drafting instructions for Valeria’s test.

Finally, near the time of the midday bell, I sense her presence approaching my study. A moment later, a tentative knock sounds.

“Enter,” I call.

Valeria steps in, looking weary but resolute. She’s changed into a fresh tunic—still House Draeven black with subtle embroidery at the collar. A faint bruise darkens her forearm, likely from training with Helrath.

She bows her head, though not deeply. “You asked me to report here after drills.”

I gesture for her to close the door. “Yes. I have a task for you.”

Her gaze sharpens. “A mission already?”

“Consider it a practice scenario.” I stand, circling the desk. “We have a Vrakken ally, Sarith, who oversees select supply routes. He’s paranoid, distrustful of outsiders. I need you to learn the exact date and time of the next shipment departure.”

She frowns. “Why not ask him yourself?”

“Sarith is as stubborn as he is paranoid. He’d suspect something if I pried too intently. But you, an unassuming human, might coax it out of him.”

Valeria’s eyes flick with interest. “How do I find him? He’s not going to volunteer the information.”

I motion toward a parchment lying on the desk. “He’s in the eastern wing, currently reviewing inventory. You’ll pose as an assistant or servant, whichever approach feels natural. Gain his confidence, or use your wiles—whatever works. I’ll be watching from a distance.”

She picks up the parchment, scanning its sparse instructions. Her brow creases. “So, I just walk in, pretend I was sent to help, and ask about shipping schedules?”

A glint of amusement runs through me. “You’ll have to be subtler than that. He’ll smell an interrogation instantly. Be creative. If you fail, we’ll both know you’re not ready for the real courts.”

She purses her lips, the weight of the challenge plain on her face. Then she sets the parchment down. “I’ll do my best.”

“See that you do.”

I lead her to the eastern wing, down corridors lined with portraits of former Draeven patriarchs and matriarchs.

Eventually, we reach a broad hallway outside a storeroom used for cataloging supplies—foods, tools, raw materials.

A handful of House Draeven’s staff move in and out, carrying sacks and crates.

Sarith stands at a long wooden table, scribbling notes in a ledger. He’s tall, even by Vrakken standards, with stark white hair braided tightly against his scalp. His black eyes sweep over every crate that passes, his expression hawklike.