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I nod. “He’s aware of our arrangement. He’ll protect your cover, but to everyone else, you’re just another slave.” The words taste bitter on my tongue, especially after last night.

She exhales. “I understand. That’s a typical role for humans in dark elf territories.”

“Precisely.” I hesitate, crossing my arms. “You must act the part flawlessly. Any slip, and the entire retinue could be under suspicion.”

She purses her lips. “I won’t slip.”

An urge to reassure her wars with my caution. Instead, I hold out the scroll. “This has the details of the event—location, approximate guest list, likely topics of discussion. Memorize it. You leave tomorrow morning to meet Lord Marik at a rendezvous before traveling together.”

Her eyes widen. “Tomorrow? That soon?”

“Dark elf events don’t give much notice. If they suspect a leak, they’ll change plans. We can’t risk letting this slip through our fingers.”

Valeria takes the scroll, scanning it with furrowed brows. Silence stretches. I catch the tension in her posture—she’s steeling herself for the infiltration. The memory of her in my arms last night gnaws at me. This is a test. She needs to succeed.

A flicker of concern sneaks through my carefully crafted walls. “Are you… ready for this?” I ask, voice dropping a notch.

She lifts her gaze, meeting mine. A storm simmers there, equal parts determination and hidden hurt. “I’ve been training for weeks. Of course I’m ready.”

I detect the faintest tremor in her words. Is that from fear or the aftermath of our abrupt shift in demeanor? Guilt tugs at me. I force it aside.

“Good,” I say tersely. “Gather what you need. Report to my study tonight for final instructions. Then you’ll depart at dawn.”

She nods curtly. Before she can step away, I reach out, intending to offer some measure of reassurance. My hand hovers near her arm. But the memory of last night—her warmth, my guard shattering—floods me, and I recoil.

She catches the aborted gesture, sadness flickering across her features. My chest tightens, but neither of us speaks. Instead, she tucks the scroll under her arm and walks away, shoulders stiff.

Well done, Vaelorian, I think bitterly, turning on my heel. You’ve turned the only person who understands you here into a stranger overnight. But it’s necessary. It must be.

I spend the rest of the morning weaving through House Draeven’s labyrinth of corridors, dealing with lesser tasks: verifying supply routes, receiving updates from scouts, and bracing for the inevitable audience with my mother.

Every moment is saturated with disquiet, my mind drifting to Valeria and the upcoming infiltration.

Eventually, I can’t postpone seeing Brinda any longer. I ascend a spiral staircase leading to the fortress’s upper halls, where the audience chamber looms behind gilded doors. Guards in black armor stand vigil, offering deep bows as I approach.

Inside, my mother is in the middle of the center of the expansive chamber, draped in a flowing gown of midnight-blue that sets off her pale skin and silver hair.

Several courtiers hover nearby—lesser Vrakken nobility, each jockeying for favor.

She dismisses them with a lazy wave the moment she notices me.

“Vaelorian,” she says, voice resonant. “I trust you’ve handled the trifling matters of supply negotiations?”

I give a respectful bow. “Handled, yes. I have an additional matter to report: I’m sending the operative—Valeria—on a minor mission.”

Her eyes sharpen with curiosity. “Already? I assumed you would wait until you were certain she wouldn’t embarrass us. This must be urgent.”

“It is. A banquet is scheduled in the outer provinces. It’s a chance to confirm whether the dark elves have begun forging alliances with certain orc clans. I want her to glean relevant intel.”

Brinda paces in a slow circle around me, the soft rustle of her gown filling the silence. “And you trust this human to accomplish that?”

I resist the urge to bristle. “She has proven her competence in multiple exercises. This mission will test her in a controlled environment. She’ll be under the protection of Lord Marik.”

“Marik,” Brinda muses. “He’s not the most reliable ally, but I suppose he’ll keep her from being slaughtered outright.”

I let a flicker of annoyance pass before controlling my tone. “Indeed.”

She halts, eyes narrowing. “Are you sure you’re not rushing this? If she fails, it reflects poorly on House Draeven—on your leadership.”

The weight of her scrutiny presses on me like a physical force. “I’m aware of the stakes, Matriarch. I believe she’s ready. Her infiltration skills are advanced for a human, and she understands the risk.”

Brinda’s lips curl in a half-smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Very well. I’ll expect a full report upon her return. Meanwhile, I assume you’ll be focusing your attention on potential expansions in the southern regions?”

I nod. “Yes. We can’t afford to let the dark elves or orcs claim that territory. Our long-term plans demand we hold key positions near the trade routes.”

She inclines her head in what might be approval. “Continue, then. I have other matters to attend to.”

Dismissed. I give a final bow and exit, not waiting for her to change her mind and inquire further. The tension in my shoulders eases only when I’m out of the chamber and back in the corridor.

She’s suspicious of everything. I can’t blame her—Brinda’s survival instincts have kept House Draeven afloat for centuries. But if she knew the depth of my involvement with Valeria, if she sensed the crack in my composure…

I clench my jaw. This infiltration must go smoothly, for reasons beyond politics.

Night falls by the time I manage to finalize the details for Valeria’s mission.

I sit in my study, leaning over a table strewn with maps and coded messages from various informants.

A single candelabra provides light, flickering over the parchment.

Occasionally, the flame gutters, sending dancing shadows across the walls.

I hear the knock before I see her. Valeria steps into the doorway, wearing a fresh tunic and trousers. She’s cleaned up from training, but fatigue lines her eyes. There’s also a wariness in her stance, as though she’s bracing for an argument.

“Come in,” I say.

She closes the door gently, crossing the room until she’s a few paces from my desk. I sense her tension, and the memory of last night slams into me—our bodies tangling, the heat of her skin. I swallow hard, forcing my face into neutrality.

“Here,” I say, sliding two documents toward her. “One is your cover story, courtesy of our forger. Study every line. The other is a coded parchment with contact details for Lord Marik’s retinue.”

She approaches, picks them up, and scans the text. I track the movement of her eyes, noticing how she’s forcing herself to remain distant. She’s following my lead, burying everything behind a cool facade.

“All right,” she says quietly. “I leave at dawn?”

“Yes. You’ll travel with a small escort to meet Marik. From there, you’ll blend into his household. He’ll present you as a favored servant, newly purchased from a reputable dark elf merchant.”

She frowns. “What about any requests to see proof of ownership, or a brand, or other typical marks?”

I lean back, gesturing to the documents.

“Marik has an official letter detailing your ‘brand and paperwork.’ It’s forged but convincing enough for a minor banquet.

If anyone tries to examine you more closely, rely on deflection or feigned ignorance.

I doubt they’ll push too hard unless they suspect something amiss. ”

She bites her lip, nodding. “I can handle it.”

Silence falls. I clasp my hands together, fighting the urge to say something personal. Apologize? Offer comfort? But that would undermine the boundary I’ve tried to reassert.

Instead, I rise, circling the desk. She watches my approach warily, hugging the documents to her chest. My gaze drifts over her—her hair braided tight, the lines of her shoulders tense. I pause a foot away, close enough to smell her soap and a faint trace of sweat.

“This mission is dangerous,” I say, voice low. “Even if it’s a ‘minor’ gathering, dark elves can be cruel. Keep your wits. If anything seems off, get out. I won’t lose House Draeven’s operative to carelessness.”

I phrase it like a caution rooted in strategy. But beneath that cold veneer, my heart hammers with genuine concern.

She stiffens at the word operative , but she meets my gaze. “I won’t be careless. I want to survive as much as you want success.”

Our eyes lock. An electric tension thrums through the space between us, reminiscent of the moment before a storm breaks. My pulse thrums. I want to drag her into my arms again. The other part screams that indulging that weakness once was mistake enough.

“Good,” I say, stepping back. “Finish your preparations. The escort leaves at dawn’s first light.”

She hesitates, as though expecting me to say more. When I don’t, she simply dips her head in acknowledgment. “Yes. I’ll be ready.”

As she moves toward the door, I struggle with an impulse to call her back. Tell her to be safe. I bite my tongue. That kind of sentiment fosters illusions we can’t afford.

She opens the door, pausing for a final look. Her eyes flick over my form, lingering for a fraction longer than necessary. Then she slips out, leaving me alone in the hush of my study.

I exhale. A pang resonates where my heart should be shielded. She’ll be all right. She has to be.

Dawn arrives quicker than I anticipate. I stand at the main gate, watching as a small carriage readied for Valeria’s departure waits in the courtyard. Four House Draeven guards fuss over the horses, ensuring the harnesses are secure.

Helrath stands off to the side, arms crossed, scanning the scene with disapproval. He thinks I’m sending her out too soon. I ignore him. We can’t keep her caged in training sessions forever. The dark elves won’t wait for us to perfect our infiltration.