Page 14

I nod, resisting the urge to ask if his cunning extends to more than just political aims. Does he have personal reasons for building this secret infiltration network? Does he thirst for the dark elves’ downfall, or is it all a stepping stone toward greater Vrakken power?

Instead of prying, I gesture at the new surroundings. “I appreciate the upgrade, truly. But why now? Why move me a second time?”

His gaze flickers. “Because your success with Sarith proved you’re more capable than I initially thought. You deserve an environment that fosters that capability.”

He’s praising me, in his own abrupt way. I swallow the instinctual disbelief. Could a Vrakken actually offer compliments, or is this just part of his manipulation?

I sense my moment of hesitation, and it doesn’t escape him. He exhales in that nearly silent way of his, then crosses to the window, pushing aside the sheer curtain. Sunlight glances off his pale skin, highlighting the inky sheen of his hair.

“I’m not kind,” he says, almost as if reading my mind. “I’m practical. Keeping you in cramped quarters, under constant guard, would only hamper the espionage skills I want from you.”

I grip the key tightly, reminding myself that no matter how civil he appears, I’m dealing with a vampire-like predator who has centuries of cunning behind him.

“That’s all right,” I manage, letting my voice stay neutral. “I prefer practical over fake courtesies.”

His wings shift, a faint rustle that resonates in the quiet chamber. “Good. Then we’re in agreement.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The tension thickens, laced with unspoken questions.

My mind drifts to the times I’ve caught him watching me during training or library sessions—always calculating, always on guard.

Yet behind that meticulous scrutiny, I sometimes sense a flicker of something else—something that sets my pulse racing, even if I can’t name it.

He glances back from the window, eyes skimming over me.

I brace myself for a dismissive remark or a cutting observation, but instead, he simply says, “You should rest. Tomorrow, Helrath intends to escalate your combat sessions, and I want you prepared for a more advanced infiltration exercise soon.”

I suck in a breath. “More infiltration? You’re already sending me back into the dark elf circles?”

He lifts one brow. “Soon. Not this week, but you’ll need to be ready. We can’t afford a half-trained operative stumbling into the lion’s den. So rest, study, and improve.”

A swirl of anxiety and excitement ripples through me. My chance to prove I’m not just a pawn. But also a terrifying leap into the heart of the place I once feared more than anything.

He heads for the door, pausing briefly at the threshold. “Lock it after I leave, if you wish,” he adds in a quieter tone, almost as if it’s a test. “Nobody enters these chambers without my explicit permission. And if they do, you have the right to defend yourself.”

“Even if it’s another Vrakken?”

A shadow passes over his face. “Especially then. This is your space now—guard it. If you truly want to become more than a victim, you’ll fight for what’s yours.”

His words stir a fierce sense of resolve in my chest. Fight for what’s mine. A concept I barely dared to consider when I was a slave in the courts.

I clear my throat. “Understood.”

He meets my eyes one last time, and something flickers there—an unspoken challenge, maybe. Then he’s gone, the heavy door thudding shut behind him. I listen for the echo of his footsteps fading down the hallway.

Once I’m certain I’m alone, I turn the key in the lock. The quiet click resonates like a symbol of this new life I’ve stumbled into—one with dangerous promises, lethal secrets, and an unlikely alliance with a Vrakken prince who oscillates between icy detachment and subtle respect.

I spend a short while exploring every nook of my new chambers, from the hidden storage compartments built into the bedframe to the carved cupboards that hold extra blankets.

The washroom’s marble tub is bigger than anything I’ve seen, equipped with a discreet spigot that likely taps into some underground spring.

The opulence makes me uneasy. I’ve lived too long in fear, and wealth this extravagant carries the stench of blood somewhere in its history—whether Vrakken or dark elf, I can’t say. But the water in the tub is warm when I test it, and I can’t deny the temptation.

I strip off my sweaty training clothes and slip into the bath. The water envelops me in soothing heat, washing away the grime clinging to my limbs. Leaning back, I close my eyes, letting tension unravel from my shoulders. It’s the first time I’ve truly relaxed since I was brought to House Draeven.

My mind drifts to Vaelorian’s quiet intensity.

I recall the way his eyes gleam with a depth I can’t read—like there’s an entire ocean behind those black irises.

A part of me hates how intrigued I am. He’s a Vrakken, a being that drinks blood to survive, one who wields enough power to crush me without a second thought.

Yet he hasn’t, and that alone is remarkable. Could it be simple necessity? Or is there more?

I sink lower into the water, the steam curling around my face. Focus on the mission, I remind myself. Focus on training, on not dying.

But that persistent spark remains, fueling questions I can’t ignore. Could I truly become something more than a powerless human thrall? His words echo: “If you want to be more than a victim, fight for what’s yours.”

I’m so lost in thought that I nearly jump when a soft rap sounds at the outer door of my quarters. I freeze, heart pounding. Who would knock? And didn’t Vaelorian say no one should enter without his permission?

Quickly, I scramble out of the bath, water sloshing.

I wrap a thin robe around myself and hurry to the bedroom.

My hair drips onto the carpet, and I curse under my breath, dropping into a crouch to rummage for the wooden dagger Vaelorian issued me for practice.

It’s tucked inside the chest near the foot of the bed.

Clutching its handle, I step cautiously toward the main door.

The knock comes again, accompanied by a muffled voice: “Miss Valeria? I have a delivery.”

A delivery? My tension eases somewhat, but I remain wary. Could be a ruse. I unlock the door, keeping the dagger concealed behind my hip.

Standing there is a young human woman dressed in plain livery—House Draeven’s crest embroidered over her left breast. She’s clutching a small basket covered with cloth. At the sight of me, damp hair plastered to my face and brandishing a hidden blade, she takes a nervous step back.

“I—I was sent by the kitchens,” she stammers. “Lord Vaelorian instructed we ensure you have proper meals. This is your midday fare.” She lifts the basket timidly, as if to prove she’s not a threat.

I exhale, a mix of relief and embarrassment. “Oh. I... sorry.”

She offers a hesitant smile, glancing behind me at the lavish suite. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be here. Some of us were told you’d moved from the lower floors.”

I tuck the dagger behind my back more discreetly. “Yes, that’s right. I, uh, I’m Valeria.”

Her smile widens a fraction, though it remains cautious. “My name is Malina. I was a servant at the old courtyard wing until Lord Vaelorian’s steward assigned me to deliver trays to your chamber. I’m to serve as your runner for small errands, if you need anything.”

A runner. So I have an attendant now, albeit part-time. The notion feels surreal. I shift, conscious of my wet hair and minimal robe. “I appreciate it. You can just set the basket on the table. Then you’re free to go.”

Malina nods and enters with tentative steps. She places the basket gently on the small writing desk, eyes darting over the opulent furniture. “This is quite the room,” she whispers.

I clear my throat. “I’m still getting used to it.”

She nods, but I sense the question burning in her mind: Why would a human get such a suite? No doubt rumor is spreading. I can’t afford to feed speculation, so I don’t elaborate.

She lifts the cloth covering the basket, revealing a bowl of broth, a chunk of fresh bread, sliced fruit, and a carafe of water. Simple fare, but leagues above what most humans in the dark elf territory or even lower-level House Draeven thralls receive.

“Thank you,” I say, gentler now. “You can leave it. I’ll be fine.”

Malina offers a small curtsy, but curiosity still shines in her eyes. She hesitates, then blurts, “Is it true you work directly for him? For the prince?”

A swirl of nerves tightens in my stomach. The prince. I haven’t heard Vaelorian called that out loud, but it makes sense—his mother is the Matriarch, effectively the queen of House Draeven. Which would make him a prince, of sorts.

“I... yes,” I manage. “I’m performing certain tasks for him.”

She nods, fiddling with the edge of her apron. “If you ever need anything from the kitchens or around the fortress, just send word. I’ll come right away.”

“Thank you, Malina. That’s kind. But do be careful.” I meet her gaze, wanting to warn her that this is not a safe place. “Some of the Vrakken don’t like humans wandering without direct orders. Keep your head down and avoid unnecessary attention.”

She exhales, relief and fear mingling in her eyes. “I’ll do my best.”

With that, she leaves, quietly shutting the door behind her. I wait a moment, listening to her footsteps fade, then turn the key in the lock again.

I eat quickly, aware that the bread and broth will restore some energy after the punishing drills Helrath put me through.

My body aches from head to toe, and my scalp is still damp.

I exchange the robe for a fresh set of clothes—another House Draeven tunic and fitted leggings.

The black fabric is comfortable, though every time I see the swirling crest embroidered along the neckline, I’m reminded I’m essentially wearing the banner of predators who once terrorized the world above.