Page 16

VAELORIAN

I ’m waiting in the library’s far corner when I hear Valeria’s footsteps echo off the polished stone floor.

Shadows flicker across rows of towering shelves, each crammed with well-worn tomes and scrolls.

A single chandelier of wrought iron dangles overhead, casting long rays of candlelight that illuminate dust motes dancing in the air.

It’s well past sundown. House Draeven’s halls have quieted somewhat, though faint murmurs of guards patrolling still echo through the fortress.

In here, the hush is nearly absolute—punctuated only by the occasional rustle of pages or the soft intake of breath from the few individuals who frequent the library at this hour.

Most Vrakken prefer more direct pursuits than reading, but for me, knowledge is a potent weapon.

Valeria steps into view between two shelves, and I immediately notice the fatigue weighting her movements.

She tries to hide it—arching her spine, lifting her chin—but I’ve observed her enough to see the subtle droop in her shoulders.

Helrath trained her hard tonight, and the strain lingers.

Still, she moves toward me with that stubborn determination I’ve grown to expect.

I close the tome I’ve been perusing, an aged text detailing historical alliances between dark elves and certain orc factions—and set it aside. “You’re late,” I say quietly, not wanting to disturb the silence around us.

She lets out a slow breath. “Yes, I had to wash off the dirt from Helrath’s ‘lesson’ before coming.”

I allow a small, wry smile. “I’m sure he was gentle.”

Her responding snort says otherwise. Despite her fatigue, there’s a spark in her eyes—part exasperation, part pride that she survived yet another session without quitting. That spark has become oddly reassuring.

“Let’s sit.” I gesture to a nearby table tucked into an alcove, partially hidden behind a shelf of atlases. I’ve set out additional candles, ensuring enough light to read the spread of documents waiting for us.

She follows me, carefully pulling back a high-backed wooden chair. When she settles, she exhales again, as if grateful to be off her feet. I take the seat opposite, bracing my forearms on the table’s smooth surface.

Between us rests a sheaf of parchment with notes I’ve compiled—intelligence from a variety of sources. Some are transcripts of overheard conversations, others the results of minor infiltration attempts. Pieces of the puzzle.

“Thanks for coming,” I say, keeping my tone measured. “We need to refine your knowledge of dark elf power structures before we plan your next step.”

She nods, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her eyes flick to the notes, then back to me. “You mentioned earlier there’s a particular noble who’s recently caught your attention?”

I tap a finger against the parchment. “His name is Lord Xathien Mierond. He wasn’t as prominent a few years ago—one of many ‘lesser’ noble houses jockeying for status. But rumors suggest he’s made powerful allies within the monarchy, primarily through alliances with the warrior caste.”

Valeria’s gaze sharpens. “Miou caste. They run most of the dark elf armies, right?”

I dip my chin in agreement. “Yes, and if the monarchy trusts him, he could gain access to troves of resources, arcane artifacts. Potentially a threat to House Draeven if he chooses to turn that newfound power against us. I have reason to believe he’s dabbling in something more experimental—blood-infused magic, maybe—but I need proof. ”

Her posture shifts in a way that suggests apprehension. “Blood-infused magic. I’ve heard the dark elves talk about it before, though they only spoke in hushed whispers. It’s not exactly standard sorcery.”

“Exactly. Even the dark elves know it’s risky, borderline heretical. But some individuals, especially the unscrupulous ones, can’t resist the lure of forbidden power. That’s why you’re invaluable in this. You can move among them with less suspicion than a fellow Vrakken.”

She purses her lips together, studying the notes.

In the flickering candlelight, I notice the faint bruise on her jaw—another souvenir from Helrath.

A twinge of protectiveness flares in my chest, surprising me.

She needs that training to survive, I remind myself. You can’t shield her from everything.

Valeria sighs. “So the plan is for me to confirm whether Xathien is truly pursuing blood-infused magic?”

“In part,” I say, leaning forward. “I also need to know if he’s forging alliances with the monarchy that could undermine our advantage. If he’s courting the Miou, the possibility of him raising an army against us isn’t far-fetched.”

She nods, absorbing the information with that same keen focus I observed the day she gleaned Sarith’s shipping schedule. “What about intel on his household? Servants? Is there a better angle than going straight to him?”

“You’ll have to infiltrate his circle carefully. Maybe pose as a house slave—someone who can attend to him or his immediate advisors. But you’ll need the right credentials.”

She frowns. “Credentials?”

I push another parchment across the table.

“A forged letter from a dark elf merchant who deals in slaves, referencing you as a skilled personal attendant. We have a contact who can produce it—someone who owes House Draeven more than a few favors. You’ll need to memorize every detail, from the merchant’s name to how you ended up on the market.

If your cover story wavers, you’ll be caught. ”

Her fingers tighten around the edges of the parchment, eyes roving over the carefully inked lines. “So that’s my next mission.”

I incline my head. “In about a week, perhaps two at most. You’re not ready yet for that level of infiltration—your accent, your knowledge of court protocols, your reflexes. But soon.”

She absorbs that, and a hush follows. The candles on the table flicker, casting elongated shadows across her face. I can almost see the wheels turning in her mind, the mix of fear and resolve that’s become so familiar to me.

Finally, she sets the parchment aside. “What else do I need to learn before we set this in motion?”

I lean back. “You tell me. You lived among dark elves—what do you think you’re missing?”

She purses her lips, thinking. “When I was a concubine, I had no reason to pay attention to formalities beyond what kept me alive. Now, I need a deeper understanding of their caste system, their lines of succession, and any subfactions that might resent Xathien’s rise.

If I can find a faction that distrusts him, I might glean secrets from them. ”

A ripple of admiration skims through me. She’s quick. “Exactly. Seek out the cracks. Dark elves excel at backstabbing their rivals. If you can exploit that, you might uncover what Xathien’s hiding.”

She nods, and her fingers drum once on the tabletop. I notice a shallow scrape on her knuckles—the result of a stray blade in training, no doubt. A flicker of annoyance stirs in me that Helrath pushes her so hard. But I stamp it down. He’s doing his job, and she needs it. We both do.

Clearing my throat, I pick up a leather-bound tome from the small stack to my right. “Here’s a compiled text on the current dark elf monarchy. Names, castes, notable alliances. Study it, memorize it. We’ll quiz you tomorrow.”

She takes the tome with both hands, glancing at the thick pages. “Tomorrow? Do you ever let me rest?”

A ghost of a smirk lifts the corner of my mouth. “You can rest when you’re the one holding the power. Until then, we work.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’ll be sure to carve out time between Helrath’s next attempt to break my bones and my infiltration lessons with you.”

I stiffen, half expecting to scold her for insolence. But something in her dry humor cracks through the tension, and a low chuckle escapes me instead. She blinks, surprise flashing in her eyes—likely never having expected a Vrakken to laugh at a joke that involves mocking their own methods.

I compose myself quickly, straightening. “You’ll be all right. You’ve survived worse.”

A solemn look settles over her face, and for a heartbeat, I glimpse the ghosts of her past. Then she sets the tome down. “True,” she says softly. “And I’m still here.”

We regard each other across the table. My mind flickers with the memory of her standing defiant in the training hall, refusing to yield even when Helrath knocked her down.

The fear was there, yes, but so was the fierce will to rise again.

I can’t recall the last time I saw such resilience in a human—most are too cowed, or too broken, to keep fighting.

I rise, tension coiled in my muscles. Crossing to a nearby shelf, I retrieve a different scroll. “Let’s see if your recall is up to par,” I say, changing tack. “We’ll do a practice round. I have a roster of dark elf officials. Name them, their caste, and their known allegiances if you can.”

She groans but stands as well, moving to the other side of the table so we’re shoulder to shoulder, peering down at the open scroll. It’s annotated in my handwriting, which she’s grown used to deciphering.

“All right,” she murmurs. “Let’s start with House Ithanel. The patriarch is Lord Dathar Ithanel, a Khuzuth noble with a seat in the monarchy’s inner council. He’s rumored to support aggressive expansion into human territory.”

I nod, impressed she remembers. “Go on.”

She continues, scanning the list: a minor official in the merchant class, a dark elf general famed for his cruelty, a Chivdouyu musician whose art is favored by certain aristocrats.

Her voice, though tired, remains steady as she recites known alliances.

I correct her gently when she confuses a detail or misses a nuance—like which official has ties to the monarchy’s grand treasury.