Page 24

Valeria steps into view, wearing a muted dress more in line with a lesser servant’s attire—a different view from the regal gowns we used in our practice sessions.

A cloak drapes her shoulders, concealing her figure.

She’s done her hair in a simple style, no flashy adornments.

The effect is understated—perfect for blending into a dark elf gathering.

She approaches the carriage with measured steps. Her face is neutral, though I suspect her heart pounds as heavily as mine. A guard offers to take her small bag of belongings. She hands it over without protest.

Our gazes meet across the courtyard. There’s no time for private words. Helrath, standing near me, notices the tension in my face. He casts me a sidelong glance.

“You think she’ll do well?” he asks, voice low.

“She’s prepared,” I answer, trying to sound unwavering. “If she keeps her nerve, she’ll succeed.”

He grunts. “I still say we could have trained her longer. But it’s your call.”

I clench my jaw. “Yes, it is.”

Across the courtyard, Valeria confers with the driver, who nods. Then she looks at me one last time, a question in her eyes. Will I not even say goodbye? I remain rooted, shoulders tense.

A second later, she bows her head in acceptance of my distance. She climbs into the carriage. The driver snaps the reins, and the horses trot forward, hooves clacking on the stones. The carriage rumbles through the open gates, departing House Draeven’s inner courtyard.

I watch until the carriage disappears around a bend in the fortress walls. A hollow ache expands in my chest, unexpected and unwelcome. Helrath casts me an appraising look, but I turn away before he can read too much.

I ascend the steps into the fortress proper, ignoring the staff who pause to bow. My mother once told me that caring for an operative is like caring for a fleeting shadow—useful, but ephemeral. She warned me never to entangle my emotions in such matters.

Yet as I climb another set of stairs, heading to my study to bury myself in administrative tasks, I can’t shake the flicker of concern that churns in my gut. She’ll be in dark elf territory by nightfall. A place I know well enough to fear. If anything goes wrong…

Damn it, I curse inwardly, pacing the length of my study. I can’t stand not knowing. Perhaps in a few days, I’ll hear word from Lord Marik, verifying the success of the infiltration. Or maybe I’ll hear nothing at all, which would be worse—silence that could mean capture or death.

I glare at the scattered documents on my desk, half-tempted to conjure some excuse to follow her from a distance. But that would undermine the entire point of trusting her infiltration. She needs to do this alone, to prove she can operate without me hovering.

Still, the coil of anxiety in my chest doesn’t lessen. My mother’s teachings war with the memory of Valeria’s touch, the flash of defiance in her eyes, the spark of synergy whenever we planned side by side. She’s become more than just a pawn, and I hate myself for letting that happen.

Without thinking, I slam my palm onto the desk, rattling an inkpot. Focus, Vaelorian. House Draeven must remain the priority. Valeria’s life is her own, however entangled it’s become in mine.

I retrieve a fresh sheet of parchment, intending to outline proposals for expanding our southern holdings.

My pen hovers, but my mind refuses to settle.

Instead, I picture Valeria stepping off the carriage in some unknown courtyard, wearing a meek smile while she scouts the venue for threats.

I imagine the dark elves, cunning and remorseless, noticing the quick glint of intelligence in her gaze.

If they sense she’s not the docile thrall she pretends to be, they’ll tear her apart.

The pen trembles in my grip, leaving an inky blot. Damn everything.

I press the quill to the page, forcing my thoughts into lines of strategy. With measured strokes, I draft plans for tomorrow’s assembly with a potential ally clan. The fortress stirs outside—messengers run errands, soldiers conduct drills, servants bustle with daily tasks.

Time crawls. I lose track of the hours, scrawling sentences that have no real flavor.

Occasionally, I realize I’ve written the same phrase twice, and I huff in frustration, crossing it out.

This is not like me. I’m usually composed, efficient.

Now my mind is fixated on the possibility of Valeria stumbling into a trap.

After an eternity, a knock jars me from my spiral. Helrath pokes his head inside. “You’re expected at the southern training hall for your meeting with the quartermasters, my lord.”

I exhale, setting down the quill. “Right. I’ll be there shortly.”

Helrath lingers. “You seem… restless.”

I narrow my eyes. “I’m fine. Dismissed.”

He shrugs, leaving me alone. I drag a hand down my face. The candor in Helrath’s remark is jarring—he’s not typically direct about emotional matters. If even he notices my distraction, how long before my mother picks up on it?

I push back from the desk, deciding that burying myself in fortress affairs might numb the disquiet. There’s little else I can do. I stride out, ignoring the pang in my chest that insists I should have at least wished her good luck.

Night falls again, and I find myself in the courtyard, scanning the dark sky. Stars glitter overhead, cold and distant. Vrakken guards patrol the walls, their silhouettes occasionally outlined against torchlight. The hush is both comforting and oppressive, reminding me of how we operate in secrecy.

I pace along the outer edge of the courtyard, letting the crisp air clear my head.

My wings remain folded close, an old habit of maintaining a minimal profile.

On a normal evening, I might relish the solitude—an opportunity to strategize.

Now, every inch of me feels taut, as though expecting to hear word from Valeria any moment.

But that’s irrational. She only left this morning. It will be at least three days before I receive any substantial report—longer if she needs to embed herself deeper into the dark elf circle. Patience.

I scowl at the silent ramparts. I should patrol, maybe. Not that I expect trouble. House Draeven’s defenses are secure. Perhaps I want to do something—anything—to distract myself from the knot in my gut.

My strides take me to a smaller corner of the courtyard.

Here, an ancient statue stands—a representation of some long-forgotten deity.

Its features are worn down, but the spread wings hint at an ancestor of the Vrakken race.

I place a hand on the cold stone, feeling the centuries pressed into its surface.

A memory surfaces: my mother guiding me here as a child, telling me how House Draeven overcame impossible odds by never showing weakness. “ You must be impenetrable, ” she’d said. “ Emotions are vulnerabilities that the dark elves will exploit. ”

I grit my teeth. She was right. Look how quickly I’ve lost my edge by letting Valeria under my skin. Now I’m consumed by worry, an emotion I rarely indulged before.

I step back from the statue, raking a hand on my hair. The courtyard’s emptiness mirrors my sense of isolation. At times, I wonder if all immortals feel this brand of loneliness, forging alliances out of necessity while keeping everyone at arm’s length.

My thoughts drift back to that moment—Valeria in my bed, warmth in her eyes, the shape of her parted lips as she breathed my name. A pang twists low in my belly. Her presence offered a taste of something genuine, not fueled by manipulation or fear.

But forging genuine bonds is a luxury I can’t afford.

If she’s discovered, if the dark elves trace her infiltration back to me, it could spark a conflict House Draeven isn’t prepared to manage.

The precarious balance we hold in the region would shatter.

Brinda would see it as my failure, possibly strip me of authority.

And worse, Valeria might pay the price in blood. If I’d kept my distance from the start, perhaps I’d feel no such fear.

A hiss escapes me. Enough. Dwelling on mistakes or might-have-beens won’t change the present.

I force myself to conduct a final inspection of the fortress before retreating to my chambers.

In the corridors, servants scurry with oil lamps, while pairs of Vrakken soldiers make their rounds.

I keep a stoic mask, acknowledging them with curt nods.

None speak of Valeria’s departure, though a few might suspect something unusual.

Humans seldom leave House Draeven as part of official retinues.

I reach my room. Inside, I light a single lamp, letting the faint glow reveal a large bed, an armoire, and a desk stacked with missives.

My gaze skitters to the bed—where memories of countless nights, spent cold and alone, loom.

Now I have a fresh recollection of last night’s hunger, though it happened in her suite.

I grit my teeth. A brush with passion, and see how it’s crippled my focus? That can’t continue.

Peeling off my coat, I toss it onto a nearby chair. My wings stretch in the confined space, and I massage the tension in my neck. Sleep might be elusive, but I need to at least try. Darkness beyond these walls heralds another day of waiting for word on Valeria.

I cross to the window, staring out at the star-drenched night. The reflection in the glass shows me an expression I scarcely recognize—tight-lipped, haunted. I never realized how swiftly one moment of vulnerability could undo years of discipline.

For a heartbeat, I imagine her safe in some hideout, or returning triumphant after gleaning vital intel. Then an uglier vision surfaces: her cornered by dark elf enforcers, illusions shredding her mind until she confesses everything. The sting of that possibility makes my stomach churn.