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I slam the window shutters closed, plunging the room into gloom. My heart thuds with an intensity that shames me. She’ll succeed, I tell myself. She has the training, the cunning, the fire needed to navigate that viper’s nest.

Raking my hair back, I strip down to my loose trousers and collapse onto the bed. The mattress feels cold and unwelcoming, a far cry from the heat of her body. This is how it should be, I remind myself. Separate, unencumbered.

Yet sleep refuses to come. I toss and turn, mind replaying every detail of her infiltration plan, every flaw that could unravel it. Hours might pass—time loses meaning in the silent fortress. Each shift of the night, each distant footstep in the corridor, jolts me into fresh waves of worry.

Eventually, exhaustion claims me in a fitful doze.

My dreams are riddled with half-formed images: Valeria stepping through a grand banquet hall, masked figures whispering behind columns, the swirl of deadly illusions.

In one fleeting vision, I see her pinned by a dark elf lord, fear etched on her face, calling my name—and I can’t reach her.

I jerk awake, sweat clinging to my skin. It was just a dream. But the echoes linger, driving home the reality that I’ve let her matter too much.

Rolling onto my back, I stare at the ceiling. My throat feels tight. She’s gone now, and I can’t protect her. That knowledge, more than anything, threatens to erode my composure.

Dawn breaks again, pale sunlight slipping through the shutters. I sit up, rubbing my temples. The day’s duties loom—meetings, strategic briefings, a thousand small tasks. It’s a ceaseless cycle, one I used to handle with ease.

But now I feel heavier, like my mind can’t quite align with my body. A final surge of stubborn resolve stirs in my chest. She won’t be gone forever. She’ll return, or I’ll see to it personally. The thought glimmers with an edge of defiance I usually reserve for external threats.

I dress in measured silence, choosing black leathers trimmed with the faintest silver sigils. My reflection in the metal mirror reveals tension in my jaw, but my eyes remain unreadable. If nothing else, I can maintain that facade for House Draeven.

Leaving my chambers, I stride through the fortress, greeting various subordinates with impassive politeness.

The routine suffocates. I yearn for news of Valeria but know it’s far too soon.

Instead, I bury myself in negotiations with the quartermasters, ensuring they have an updated roster for training new recruits.

Next, I meet with the stewards, finalizing resource allocation.

All mechanical tasks, dull enough to keep my mind from wandering too deep.

When midday arrives, I stand on a terrace overlooking the training grounds. Soldiers spar below, Helrath among them. He meets my gaze momentarily, as though measuring my mood, then returns to instructing.

She should be near the banquet’s province by now, I estimate. Another spike of worry. The harsh truth is that if things go awry, she’s on her own. She can’t send for help without blowing her cover, and the dark elves won’t show mercy.

I grip the terrace railing, forcing my breathing to steady. A part of me hates the helplessness. If you can’t handle this, you never should have let her become more than a tool.

That’s the core of my conflict: she’s no longer just a tool. She’s a person with fire in her veins, someone who’s matched me in determination, someone I… No. I clamp down on that line of thought. Love isn’t a word I can even entertain.

Time drags. By late afternoon, I retreat to the fortress’s library, hoping a deep dive into ancient texts on dark elf illusions will distract me.

The library is quiet, dust motes swirling in golden sunbeams that pierce the high windows.

I settle at a long table, scanning aged pages about wards and counterspells.

But my focus remains elusive. Each passage about illusions makes me envision Valeria confronted with those illusions in some lavish banquet hall. Would she recall the training, the mental exercises I hammered into her? Could she keep her mind clear if the dark elves attempt to enthrall her?

The thought of her spirit crushed or her memory stolen haunts me. She’s stronger than that, I remind myself, flipping a page with more force than necessary. The aged parchment crinkles. A few other library patrons—a pair of scribes—shoot me curious looks. I ignore them.

As dusk settles, the library empties. I remain, hunched over a half-read tome, refusing to return to my silent chambers. The emptiness there is worse. Even so, the candlelight in the library begins to flicker, reminding me that soon the scribes will close the halls.

I sigh, standing up. The weight in my chest hasn’t lifted. If anything, it’s grown heavier with each passing hour of her absence.

Outside, the corridors glow with a gentle arcane light. I drift aimlessly, eventually stumbling upon an unused cloister-like space. It’s a small courtyard enclosed by high arches, lit by a solitary lantern. A fountain trickles at the center, its water gleaming in the subdued glow.

I sink onto a bench near the fountain, letting the sound of water soothe my frazzled nerves.

My mind wanders to the last words I said to Valeria before she departed: “This is a mission. Don’t fail.

” So cold. Not a single reassurance or parting word acknowledging our closeness, or the reality of last night’s passion.

She deserves better. The admission is a punch to the gut. I told myself all day it’s necessary, that any softness would sabotage us both. But a whisper of regret gnaws at me. If something happens, she might believe I never cared.

I shake my head. Caring doesn’t factor into House Draeven’s grand design. That’s the truth. Or so I’ve told myself for countless years.

In the hush of the cloister, the fountain’s trickle is like a confessional’s whisper. It reminds me of how lonely immortality can be. The flick of wings, the hush of dark halls, and the weight of endless strategy weigh down my soul. Perhaps I saw in Valeria a fleeting chance to connect.

A sardonic laugh escapes me, echoing against the stone walls. Sentiment is a luxury for weaker creatures. But try as I might, I can’t expel the memory of her sighing my name.

Eventually, the chill of the night seeps into my bones. Standing, I pace around the fountain once more, letting the water’s reflection dance over my boots. Then I exit, returning to the fortress’s main corridors with a fresh layer of composure.

I pass a guard who bows, eyes flicking to my face. “All is well, my lord?” he asks.

“As well as it can be,” I reply, striding on without elaboration.

I retire to my chambers again, fighting an urge to climb the fortress walls and scan the distant horizon. Her mission is miles away. I can’t protect her. I can’t join her. All I can do is endure the wait. The flicker of worry in my chest is an unwelcome companion—one that’s grown claws.

If she never returns, a dark voice inside me whispers, will you regret pushing her away?

I stand at my window, gazing out at the swirling shadows beyond the fortress. Yes, a quiet part of me confesses. That’s my deepest truth: I’d regret it with every fiber of my immortal being.

But I bury that thought, letting the darkness remain my shield. The hours pass, filled with restless pacing and forced reading until exhaustion finally claims me.

In the end, I slip into a troubled sleep, haunted by the knowledge that Valeria is out there, walking a razor’s edge.

My mother’s cautionary lessons ring in my mind: Emotion is a liability.

And yet, I can’t deny that a spark has been lit—one that refuses to be snuffed out, no matter how I resent its power.

When dawn breaks again, I open my eyes to another day of waiting. Another day balancing the burdens of House Draeven while a knot of apprehension twists inside me.

She’s gone, I remind myself, on the mission you gave her.

And so I wake to conflict: half of me craving word of her success, the other half dreading news of her downfall. My carefully constructed shell is cracking, and I don’t know how to mend it without losing the very thing that sets me apart as a Vrakken prince.

Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

That’s the price of vulnerability, and as I march forth to face another day of fortress politics, I wonder if I can truly handle the cost.