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VALERIA

I pace across a polished marble floor in one of House Draeven’s lesser-used training chambers, struggling not to fret about the small details of my posture or expression.

Three weeks have passed since Vaelorian first mentioned I’d be heading into the dark elf courts as his spy, and every day since has been an unforgiving drill in espionage, court etiquette, and survival skills.

In that short span, my life has settled into a curious routine—if you can call it that.

I rise before dawn to meet Helrath or one of his assistants for combat training, where I learn how to parry blows and, more importantly, evade them.

After breakfast, I bury myself in the library, devouring tomes on dark elf family trees, intricate caste structures, and the lethal politics they wield like a collective blade.

Afternoons bring infiltration exercises where I’m tasked with weaving lies so convincingly that even I start to believe them.

My evenings alternate between more reading, more sparring, or, on rarer occasions, carefully staged practice missions around the fortress.

That’s how I find myself now, part of an elaborate mock exercise arranged by Vaelorian.

He’s posted half a dozen House Draeven guards throughout this training hall, disguised as “dark elf aristocrats.” My goal: move among them, gather specific bits of “information,” and leave undetected.

Of course, I have to complete it while wearing a flowing gown that drags on the floor—dark elves in high society rarely miss a chance to flaunt wealth, and that means skillfully handling impractical attire.

A guard, playing the role of a haughty Chivdouyu musician—strides by me, nose in the air.

I dip into a brief curtsey, careful not to trip over the trailing hem of my borrowed dress.

The guard sneers, but otherwise ignores me.

My heart thumps, reminding me that if this were real, I’d be in the heart of a dark elf gathering, each word or gesture a potential trap.

I drift toward a cluster of two more “aristocrats” perched near an archway.

My posture reflects subservience, an ingratiating bend to my shoulders, but I keep my ears open, catching faint bits of gossip about “Lord Vaelorian’s questionable alliances” and “unrest brewing in the merchant caste.” None of it’s real, just fragments conjured for this scenario, but I treat it as though my life depends on it.

When one “aristocrat” turns, I slip in with a polite cough. “Apologies, my lords,” I say, injecting the precise mixture of humility and confidence that a highly prized servant might use. “My master is curious to know whether the next event at the palace has been postponed.”

They glance at me, skepticism radiating from them. I freeze inside, mindful of the fact that a real dark elf might lash me for daring to speak unbidden. Yet this is the role Vaelorian has hammered into me: I’m no longer a cowering thrall. I’m a cunning asset with a light veneer of subservience.

One guard, playing the role of a minor noble, sneers. “The event? Moved to next week, thanks to certain indiscretions. Now, away with you, girl. I’ve no time for your prattle.”

I duck my head in a show of meekness. “Thank you, my lord.”

As soon as they turn away, I drift off, heart racing.

I got the nugget of gossip I needed. That’s all the scenario demanded.

Next, I’m supposed to exit the training hall.

So I move carefully, hugging the walls, employing the techniques Vaelorian taught me—blending with the background, adopting the posture of someone who belongs yet is beneath notice.

I round a corner, nearly colliding with another “aristocrat.” But he strides past without pausing, too absorbed in his role to notice me. My pulse spikes. If I can just reach the side door, I’ll have pulled it off perfectly?—

Suddenly, Vaelorian steps from the shadows near the door, arms folded, black eyes assessing. I startle, nearly stumbling, but I force my expression to remain impassive. He doesn’t speak. Instead, he tilts his head, silently asking me to proceed.

I inhale, adopting the serene mask I’ve practiced.

One measured step after another, I make for the exit.

Two guards catch sight of me, but their gazes slip away as soon as they decide I’m unimportant.

My heart thumps in victory, and I press forward—until I clear the threshold into the corridor beyond.

Once I’m out, my composure cracks. A grin sneaks onto my face, and I gasp with relief. Vaelorian joins me, his stride soundless. He closes the door behind us, signaling the end of this mock infiltration.

“Well done,” he says, voice low.

My shoulders slump, tension draining. “I really had to fight the urge to run.”

He cocks a brow. “Running would have drawn attention. You’re finally learning.”

A flicker of pride warms me. His praise is rare—brief, understated—but deeply satisfying. “Thank you.”

Vaelorian’s eyes roam over my gown, taking in the swirl of deep purple satin and the lace trim that clings to my arms. “You handled that dress better than I anticipated. Half the dark elf aristocracy uses their elaborate attire to test others’ social awareness.

One misstep, and you’re pegged as an outsider. ”

I blow out a breath. “I guess this means I’ve passed the test?”

He nods, expression still guarded. “This exercise, yes. But there will be more. And, eventually, the real thing.”

The mention of infiltrating the genuine dark elf courts sends a cold flutter through my stomach, but I push it aside. I’ve known for weeks that this is my path; I have no intention of backing down.

Still, as we walk through the fortress corridor, I can’t help noticing the subtle tension between us—like a current humming just beneath the surface.

For the last three weeks, we’ve maintained a strictly professional distance: me, the determined human operative; him, the Vrakken prince with lethal grace.

But that distance has its cracks. When he draws near, or offers a rare, fleeting smile, I feel it in my chest—an ache of something deeper than gratitude.

We approach a small alcove, and I slow to a halt, my mind buzzing with leftover adrenaline. “Vaelorian,” I begin, hesitating. “Thank you for letting me train so extensively. I... I know you don’t have to put so much effort into this.”

He turns, wings rustling against his long coat. “I do, actually. If you fail, House Draeven suffers. We can’t allow that.”

There’s a pragmatic chill to his words, but I sense an undercurrent that he’s not voicing—something that surpasses mere strategy. Despite everything, I choose not to press. I let a faint smile tilt my lips. “Well, you’re giving me a fighting chance.”

His gaze lingers on my mouth, then flicks away. “You’ve earned it.”

My heart kicks. The tension is undeniable now, a thread pulled taut between us. I’m about to say something else when a door to our right opens, revealing Helrath stepping into the corridor. He spots us and quirks an eyebrow.

“Another infiltration success, I assume?” he drawls, raking a hand through his short, silvery hair.

Vaelorian shifts, the moment broken. “Yes. She did well.”

Helrath snorts as if grudgingly impressed. “Good. Because I have her scheduled for an advanced sparring session in the courtyard tomorrow. This time with real steel.”

I grimace. “Real steel?”

He crosses his arms, scar bisecting his throat. “You think dark elves will fight you with wooden swords? You’d better get used to it.”

The prospect sets me on edge, but I mask my unease. “All right. I’ll be ready.”

Helrath nods once, then addresses Vaelorian. “Matriarch Brinda asked for your presence after you’re done here. Something about a supply deal?”

Vaelorian’s jaw tenses. “I’ll see to it.”

With that, Helrath strides off, leaving us alone again. I glance at Vaelorian, who looks mildly annoyed. “Your mother?” I ask quietly.

“She’s always seeking updates on House affairs.” He lifts a shoulder in a faint shrug, though frustration bleeds into his posture. “She’ll want a report on your progress soon, too.”

A chill prickles over my skin. “You think she doubts me?”

He exhales a short breath. “She doubts everyone. But so far, I believe she’s content with your training.”

I bite my lip, unsettled by the idea of facing Brinda’s scrutiny again. The last time we crossed paths, she eyed me like a curious specimen. Yet if I’m to remain in House Draeven’s favor, I have no choice but to meet her standards.

Vaelorian motions down the corridor. “Go change out of that gown. We’ll discuss your next infiltration lesson tonight.”

I nod, departing with quiet footsteps. Even as I leave, I can still feel his gaze tracking my form. My face heats at the thought.

Three Weeks Later

Time compresses into a whirlwind of training, infiltration drills, and half a dozen mock missions that Vaelorian arranges throughout the fortress.

By the end of each day, my muscles scream for mercy, and my mind feels crammed with dark elf genealogies, magical runes for illusions, and the unspoken rules of high society.

Vaelorian is everywhere, my silent shadow, or perhaps I’m his.

He observes every sparring match, every infiltration attempt, every language lesson.

When I slip into the library after an exhausting day, he appears among the shelves, offering an obscure text on dark elf dialect.

He never intrudes on my personal quarters without announcement, but I sense his presence in the hallways, lingering just out of sight.