Page 15

Finished with my meal, I settle onto the plush chair by the window.

Outside, the angle of the sunlight indicates we’re nearing late afternoon, that liminal time when the sky shifts from bright gold to dusky rose.

House Draeven is busy below; I see soldiers drilling in the courtyard, flitting about with inhuman speed.

My thoughts wander to Vaelorian’s last words.

“Fight for what’s yours.” He might see me purely as a strategic asset, but there’s no denying the subtle glances, the tension that coils whenever we stand too close.

Could that ever shift into something more?

I dismiss the notion with a shake of my head.

I have enough to worry about without daydreaming of improbable alliances of the heart.

Instead, I pivot to practical matters: the infiltration mission that looms in my future.

In the library, I’ve read numerous accounts of dark elf court structures, but reading alone won’t be enough.

I’ll need to refine my mannerisms, reacquaint myself with the labyrinthine etiquette that determines who outranks whom.

One misstep—offering a direct compliment to a Khuzuth or failing to bow at the correct angle—and they might suspect I’m more than a simple servant.

I can do it. The vow pulses in my veins. I survived them once; I’ll do it again, this time on my own terms.

A knock on the door breaks my reverie. My heart flips, but this time I don’t scramble for a weapon. Instead, I approach with measured caution, calling out, “Who is it?”

“It’s Helrath,” comes the brusque reply. “May I enter?”

I glance at the time, surprised to hear from him so late in the day. He typically ends training sessions by mid-afternoon. “Yes,” I say, unlocking the door.

He stands in the threshold, arms crossed over his narrow chest. He’s dressed in the typical House Draeven black, but his features are sharper than most, with a long scar across his neck. Those colorless eyes sweep over my chamber, betraying neither approval nor scorn, but I sense mild curiosity.

“Nice place,” he mutters, stepping inside. “Better than you had in the lower halls.”

I close the door behind him, not quite locking it since we’re both inside. “Yes, Vaelorian moved me here.”

His eyes flicks to me, mouth twisting wryly. “I’m aware. Word travels fast. He told me to see if you need additional drills tonight, but if you’re too tired?—”

I straighten my shoulders, ignoring the ache in my muscles. “I can handle more training if it’s necessary.”

A faint spark of amusement lights his eyes. “Is that so?”

I nod. “I promised I’d do whatever it takes, and I meant it.”

He tilts his head, considering. “You’ve got spirit. Most humans wouldn’t volunteer for an extra beating.”

I exhale a humorless laugh. “I’ve already endured enough humiliations. The difference this time is that I might actually gain something from the pain.”

For a moment, his stony facade cracks, revealing a glimmer of respect. “Very well,” he says. “Meet me in the southern courtyard in half an hour. We’ll focus on defensive maneuvers.”

Before I can answer, he turns to leave. At the threshold, he glances over his shoulder. “You might want to lose the fancy tunic. We’ll be grappling in the dirt.”

I stifle a groan but manage a polite nod. “Understood.”

Helrath departs, leaving the door ajar. I let out a shaky sigh and sink onto the edge of the bed for a moment.

Extra training? My body already feels like I’ve been pounded by an orc battalion.

But if I want to stand a chance in infiltration—especially infiltration that could turn physical at any moment—I need these skills.

Better than remaining powerless. I remind myself of that whenever doubts creep in.

Half an hour later, I’m in the southern courtyard.

It’s smaller than the main yard used by most House Draeven soldiers, ringed by thick walls that block the wind.

A half-dozen torches line the perimeter, though none are lit yet because sunlight still lingers.

The ground is packed earth with scattered patches of dusty gravel.

I suspect this courtyard is reserved for more private training, as I see no onlookers or passing guards.

I’ve donned simpler, tighter-fitting garments—sans House Draeven embroidery—and pulled my hair back. Helrath stands near the center, arms folded, posture relaxed but coiled with potential energy.

“Thought you wouldn’t show,” he says when he sees me.

I snort, stepping closer. “I’m here. Let’s get it over with.”

Without further ado, he motions for me to drop into a defensive stance. “Show me what you remember from our last session.”

I do my best to recall the footwork he drilled into me. My body protests every movement, but I clench my teeth and push through. Helrath circles, launching half-hearted jabs that I’m supposed to evade or block.

His speed increases with each pass. Twice, I dodge successfully, rolling to the side. The third time, he cracks me on the shoulder with the back of his hand, sending me stumbling. I catch myself before falling.

“Keep your center low,” he growls. “You’re listing like a drunk. Again.”

I reset my stance, ignoring the bruise likely forming on my shoulder.

Helrath surges forward, hooking an arm to test my guard.

I twist away, but he pivots faster, grabbing my forearm.

In a heartbeat, he yanks me off-balance.

I manage to plant a foot before face-planting in the dirt, but it’s not graceful.

“Sloppy,” he mutters. “Your reaction time is too slow.”

Panting, I raise my head. “Any helpful advice?”

His mouth twists in a crooked smile. “Suffer enough bruises, and you’ll learn to move faster.”

Great. Another bruise is not what I’d call helpful advice , but I choke back a retort. Instead, I spring up, forcing my aching limbs to comply. My entire world narrows to the interplay of footwork, the angle of Helrath’s strikes, and my attempts to keep from being thrown like a rag doll.

We continue this brutal dance for a solid thirty minutes. By the end, I’m drenched in sweat, my legs shaking from repeated lunges and sidesteps. Helrath eventually halts, stepping back with a short nod.

“You’re improving,” he says, a begrudging compliment. “Your reflexes are still off, but I’ve seen worse from novices.”

I run a trembling hand across my brow. “I’ll take that as praise.”

He snorts. “Finish with a cooldown. Practice the basic stance transitions. I’ll watch.”

So I do, forcing my tired body through each shift: neutral stance to low guard, low guard to side step, side step to high guard. I recite the sequence mentally, ignoring the fire in my muscles.

Midway through, something makes Helrath’s posture stiffen. His colorless eyes flick behind me, and he lowers his voice. “We have company.”

I glance over my shoulder. Vaelorian stands by the courtyard archway, half-illuminated by the waning sunlight. He regards us with that quiet, inscrutable expression of his, wings held close against his back. There’s a tension in his posture, though I can’t pinpoint its cause.

“Don’t stop,” Helrath mutters. “He probably wants to see how you handle yourself.”

Gritting my teeth, I continue the sequence, refusing to let Vaelorian’s presence rattle me. The knowledge that he’s observing, that he might be critiquing every slip, makes my heart pound.

At the periphery of my vision, I see him step forward. He stops at the boundary of the training space, arms folded, gaze fixed on me. I finish the stance transitions, then take a shaky breath and lower my guard.

Helrath nods curtly. “She’s done for the night,” he calls to Vaelorian. “If you push her more, she’ll be useless tomorrow.”

Vaelorian’s eyes flick to Helrath, then back to me. “Understood.”

I walk over, trying not to look as exhausted as I feel. “Is something wrong?” I ask Vaelorian quietly.

He shakes his head. “I came to check on your progress, but Helrath’s correct. You’re half-dead on your feet.”

I bristle. “I’m fine. Just... tired.”

His lips twitch as though he’s stifling a smile. “Yes, precisely.” Then his expression grows serious. “I want you rested enough to attend an evening session with me in the library. We have to discuss details of the next infiltration.”

I blink, shoulders slumping. More work? “Tonight?”

“Tonight,” he confirms.

Helrath rolls his eyes. “Don’t kill her with tasks, Vaelorian. She’s only human.”

Vaelorian’s gaze hardens slightly. “A detail you’ve reminded me of many times. Yet she’s come this far, hasn’t she?”

Helrath grunts, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, then gestures for me to follow Vaelorian. “Fine. Go talk infiltration. Just try not to drag her into a dungeon at sunrise.”

I want to laugh, but I’m too drained. Vaelorian gives me a pointed look, then turns on his heel, expecting me to trail behind him. I incline my head to Helrath in thanks before trudging after Vaelorian, my legs protesting every step.

We exit the courtyard into a narrow corridor that leads back into the fortress interior. The temperature difference is stark—the gloom of the interior halls swallows the last of the day’s warmth. Torches flare against the walls, giving the stones a slick, oil-sheen appearance.

I walk beside Vaelorian in silence for a moment, acutely aware of the weight of his presence. He’s uncharacteristically quiet, as if something weighs on his mind.

Finally, I muster the courage to speak. “So, you want me to start preparing for infiltration. Does that mean you’ve decided on a specific target in the dark elf court?”

He glances down at me, those obsidian eyes reflecting the torchlight. “Yes. But we’ll discuss that in private. It’s complicated.”

An uneasy twinge stirs in my stomach. “Complicated how?”

A wry twist tugs at his lips. “You’ll see. Let’s just say it involves a certain dark elf noble who’s recently gained favor with the monarchy. I suspect he’s toying with experimental magic that could harm my people. We need to confirm it.”

He halts at a crossing of corridors, the library entrance looming ahead. The heavy doors are slightly ajar, revealing golden lamplight and rows of shelves beyond.

A hush falls between us. I glance at his face, searching for any sign of doubt or regret. His features remain carved from stone, but I recall the earlier flicker of tension in his posture when he watched me train.

I break the silence. “Is everything all right? You seem... concerned.”

He exhales, shifting his weight. “I have a great deal riding on this mission, Valeria. On you . Every step is a gamble. I’d be foolish not to be concerned.”

A mixture of pride and apprehension tightens my chest. “I won’t let you down,” I whisper, and realize I almost mean it.

His gaze locks on mine. The corridor feels suddenly too small, the space between us charged like a coming storm. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he murmurs.

My breath catches. “I can’t promise perfection, but I’ll promise to try.”

A moment passes—something heavy and unspoken hovering like a ghost. Then he steps away, pushing open the library doors. “Come. Let’s plan,” he says, voice clipped.

I follow him inside, determined to prove myself. I’d rather risk death than remain powerless. The phrase burns in my mind. If that risk involves unraveling the dark elves’ secrets— and standing at Vaelorian’s side, no matter how precarious—then so be it.

As I enter the warm glow of the library, the scent of parchment and leather welcomes me, a promise of knowledge that could save my life.

The tension between Vaelorian and me crackles like a live wire, each breath charged with possibility and danger.

And through it all, I wonder just how deep his cold eyes go—and if I’m ready to follow that depth to its darkest reaches.