Page 17

The longer she speaks, the more I sense her mind sharpening, fueled by her determination.

Leaning in, I can catch the faintest scent of her hair—something like clean soap from the fortress baths, edged with the metallic tang of sweat from earlier training.

My chest constricts at the unbidden awareness. Focus, Vaelorian.

Yet I can’t deny a certain... protectiveness.

She’s pushing herself to the brink, holding onto that fragile hope that she can change her fate.

And damn me, I want her to succeed, not just because it will serve House Draeven’s agenda—but because I can’t stomach the idea of seeing her broken like the many humans I’ve witnessed in this world.

She finishes a summary of one of the lesser vassals, then glances at me from the corner of her eye. “Well? Did I pass your test?”

I snap my mind back to the moment, ignoring my own drifting thoughts. “Better than last time. You only mixed up a couple of genealogies.”

She sighs, shutting the scroll with a tired motion. “Thank the gods.”

A beat of silence stretches. I can hear the library’s distant hush—the occasional turning of pages from some scholar in another aisle, the soft flicker of candles overhead. This quiet time is the closest I come to any sense of calm in House Draeven. And ironically, it’s with a human.

“How do you do it?” she asks suddenly, not looking at me. “How do you keep so many factions in line, so many plans spinning? Doesn’t it ever wear on you?”

I lean one hip against the table, crossing my arms. “It’s all I’ve known. My mother raised me on the principle that every breath you take should be spent plotting or defending your place in this world. She taught me that if we let our guard down, the dark elves would crush us again.”

Her brow furrows. “Again?”

I hesitate. The history of the Vrakken War with the dark elves is not exactly a secret, but we seldom discuss it in detail—especially not with humans. My mother claims it’s too personal, too rife with old wounds. But Valeria’s earnest curiosity pricks something in me.

“Our kind fought theirs centuries ago,” I say at last. “The dark elves drove many of us underground. House Draeven managed to survive on the surface by forging strategic truces, but we still remember what it’s like to be hunted.

That memory fuels our determination to remain the predators, not the prey. ”

She nods slowly, a shadow of empathy in her gaze. “Sounds like both sides see themselves as victims.”

A grim smile twists my lips. “Victims? Perhaps. But the dark elves are hardly victims now. They have an iron hold on much of the surface. They treat humans as livestock. Vrakken, though... in some circles, we’re still considered rumors or nightmares best forgotten.”

Her lips tighten. “I knew nothing of the Vrakken until I was brought here. My old masters talked about you like the monsters under the bed that might snatch us if we misbehaved.”

A harsh laugh slips from me. “Monsters under the bed. We do little to dispel that image. Fear is a useful tool.”

She lowers her gaze, fiddling with the corner of the tome on the table. “You’re not like them, though. At least, not in the way I expected.”

I go very still. “Explain.”

She shrugs one shoulder, a tentative movement. “I assumed any Vrakken was just as sadistic as the dark elves who used me. But you... you’re cold, calculating, yes, and clearly dangerous. But you don’t revel in cruelty. It’s more like a necessity to you.”

Her words pierce deeper than I expect. I mask the flicker of reaction behind a slow exhale, letting my wings shift. “Cruelty for cruelty’s sake is a waste of energy,” I say. “We can be merciless when needed. Yet I find no pleasure in it.”

She meets my gaze, and I detect a glimmer of acceptance. Then she quickly looks away, as if embarrassed she revealed too much.

I push off from the table, sensing we’re straying into a precariously personal territory. It’s better to keep emotional distance; I can’t show weakness, even to her. Especially not to her. She’s an operative, I remind myself. Your focus must remain on the mission.

“So,” I begin, voice cooling. “That’s enough theoretical talk for one night. Let’s move on to practical training.”

She frowns. “More? I thought we covered infiltration planning.”

“This training is different,” I say, heading for a section of the library rarely used.

Old shelves line the walls here, stacked with scrolls detailing illusions, wards, and illusions used by both Vrakken and dark elves.

“You need to understand the magic they might throw at you, at least in theory. If a dark elf tries to enthrall your mind, do you know how to resist?”

Her eyes widen. “I’ve never had to resist mental enchantments. The dark elves typically used physical threats or punishments, not illusions.”

“That was because you were a low-risk slave. This time, you’re posing as a potential threat—maybe even an intimate in a noble’s household. They could use enthrallment to ensure your silence.”

She inhales sharply. “All right. Tell me what I need to do.”

I scan the spines of dusty scrolls, finally selecting one that addresses mental resilience.

I lay it out on a narrow reading stand, beckoning her to join me.

She stands close enough that I catch her scent again—clean soap, underlying tension, something distinctly her.

Ignoring the awareness, I trace a finger over the diagrams.

“This incantation,” I point to a spiral of runes, “represents a mind-bending technique favored by certain dark elf conjurers. It’s weaker than full-blown illusions, but if you’re unprepared, it can disorient you, even force you to speak secrets.”

Her mouth slants in a grim line. “I’d prefer to avoid that.”

“Then memorize the runes,” I say, voice steady. “And learn the mental exercises that help shield your thoughts. They’re not foolproof, but they give you a fighting chance.”

She nods, carefully brushing her fingertips over the drawn runes as if capturing every curve in her memory. I watch her closely, noticing the tightness around her eyes. She’s pushing through exhaustion. Perhaps I’m overloading her.

A pang of regret twinges in my chest. I clench my jaw, tamping it down. No, I chastise myself. She asked for this chance. She wants to survive. Our time is short. If she fails, everything I’ve worked for crumbles.

To lighten the mounting tension, I shift the focus to a simpler topic. “Tell me about your experience with dark elf magic, if any. Did you see them cast illusions or wards in their estates?”

She draws a shaky breath, as though recalling unpleasant memories. “I saw illusions sometimes—like in their banquet halls, they’d conjure illusions of dancing lights or phantom creatures to amuse the guests. But I never personally had illusions cast on me. At least, not that I’m aware of.”

I hum in thought. “Then you’re fortunate. Some dark elves like to toy with their slaves using illusions of terror.”

Her face pales. “I’ve... heard rumors.”

I press on, wanting her to be prepared. “They can conjure phantasms that mimic your worst fears, illusions that distort your surroundings. You’ll need to recognize the signs—blurring at the edges of vision, an odd hum in your ears, a subtle smell of brimstone.

If you sense those, break line of sight with the caster or force yourself to focus on something real, like your heartbeat, your breath. ”

She listens intently, nodding. Her gaze flicks over the runes again. “Heartbeat, breath,” she repeats. “I can do that.”

A thought occurs, unbidden: If she can’t, if illusions overwhelm her, I’ll have to step in. The idea of her trapped in some conjured nightmare disturbs me more than I’m willing to admit. I shift, unsettled by my own reaction.

Snapping the scroll shut, I tuck it under my arm. “Enough theory. We’ll gather a few resources for you to study in your suite. Then you should rest.”

She nods, pressing her lips together. “Rest sounds... good.”

I sense the wave of fatigue rolling off her—she’s practically swaying on her feet. A spark of guilt flares again. She’s too tired to keep going, and you’re the one pushing her.

“Wait here,” I say, indicating a small stool near the shelf. “I’ll fetch what you need.”

She sits, shoulders sagging in gratitude, as I stride across the library to collect a handful of texts. My mind churns. Why do I feel so responsible for her wellbeing? She’s an operative, not a confidante. Focus.

Yet I can’t simply ignore the tug of protectiveness. It’s small, but persistent—like a thorn lodged under my skin, reminding me of its presence every time I see her worn expression or fresh bruises from training.

Gathering the scrolls and a thin codex on mental defenses, I return to find her leaning against the shelf, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. She quickly straightens when she notices my approach, but she’s not fast enough to hide the fatigue from me.

I place the texts beside her. “These should suffice for tonight. Study them when you can. And if you can’t keep your eyes open, rest. There’s no point memorizing runes in a delirium.”

Her lips twitch in a tired smirk. “I’ll remember that. Or try to.”

We stand in awkward silence. My gaze sweeps over her face, noticing the faint hollows under her cheekbones, the bruise at her jaw, the dryness on her lips from hours of training. She’s pushing herself too hard. Then again, so am I.

With a curt nod, I pull back. “We’re done for now. I’ll escort you to your suite.”

Her brows lift. “You... want to walk me there?”

I stiffen. “House Draeven’s corridors are mostly safe, but I don’t trust certain individuals who might test your boundaries. Given your new status, some might resent you. It’s better if I accompany you.”