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VALERIA

I hurry down a dim corridor draped with black velvet, lit by the flicker of crystal chandeliers overhead.

My heart pounds hard enough to feel in my fingertips.

The banquet hall is just ahead—my first real infiltration into dark elf society outside the safety of House Draeven’s walls.

For weeks, I’ve trained and schemed under Vaelorian’s watchful eye.

Now, I’m on my own, wearing the role of a human servant in Lord Marik’s retinue.

I pause to catch my breath, steeling myself.

A far-off harp melody drifts from the chamber beyond, accompanied by the murmur of voices.

The air here is thick with cloying perfumes and magical wards I can almost sense brushing against my skin.

Dark elves love their illusions, their elaborate parties, and their webs of intrigue—exactly what I’ve come to exploit.

Lifting a hand to smooth the bodice of my simple midnight-blue gown, I remind myself: I am a prized servant, newly purchased by Lord Marik, gifted with minor domestic skills. My official cover story. If anyone pries, that’s what I’ll say.

A flicker of memory stirs, Vaelorian handing me the forged papers, telling me to memorize every detail. My chest constricts at the thought of him, and I force the feeling aside. This mission can’t be clouded by personal entanglements.

Gathering my courage, I step out into the banquet hall.

The space unfolds before me like a scene from a fever dream.

Vast marble floors inlaid with swirling silver filigree reflect candlelight from a hundred chandeliers.

Silk tapestries hang along the walls, depicting half-clothed dark elves conquering beasts and subjugating lesser races. My stomach roils at the sight.

Clusters of dark elves stand or recline on low couches, sipping from engraved goblets. Their garments shimmer with arcane threads, some so opulent they hurt the eyes to behold. Soft music emanates from a trio of Chivdouyu performers near the dais.

I keep my head bowed just enough to avoid meeting any aristocrat’s gaze.

Stay unobtrusive, but not cowed—lordly servants have a measure of pride.

That’s what I’ve rehearsed. My nerves buzz, though, because this is no mere mock exercise.

Everyone here is a predator, and one misstep could end in agony.

A male attendant in sweeping black robes moves my way, a tray of goblets balanced on his palm. He regards me with indifference. “You, new girl. Help serve the wine. The main course will arrive soon.”

His tone demands obedience; any real servant would comply without question. I dip my head. “Yes, sir.”

He extends the tray, and I accept it carefully. The goblets rattle slightly, betraying my tension, but I steady them with a practiced hand. Breathe. I slip into the role.

Weaving through the crowd, I offer wine to the elites. Many ignore me, too absorbed in their sly conversations, but a few let their gazes linger on my form, eyes glinting with predatory curiosity. My pulse quickens, remembering Vaelorian’s warnings: some dark elves delight in toying with humans.

I push the fear down and focus on listening.

That’s why I’m here—to glean rumors. Lord Marik told me the talk tonight might revolve around new alliances or shady deals.

House Draeven suspects certain dark elf families are testing arcane experiments on captured Vrakken.

If that’s true, it could spark a massive conflict.

I sidle closer to a pair of dark elf nobles lounging on a divan. Their conversation is subdued, but my heightened senses catch bits and pieces—murmured words about “vampire filth” and “using them like cattle.” My teeth clench. They’re definitely talking about Vrakken.

I bend, offering them wine. One female noble—her violet eyes rimmed in kohl—glances at me in disdain. She flicks her wrist, waving me away. The other, a tall male with long silver hair, continues in a whisper:

“…extracted the essence. The test subjects didn’t last long, but the power…”

He trails off when he realizes I’m still there, though my posture is suitably humble. He snarls a silent command for me to leave. Heart pounding, I move on, but my mind churns. They’re experimenting on living Vrakken. Extracted the essence? That can’t be good.

I deliver goblets to a group near the dais—three dark elves in embroidered finery, speaking animatedly. My heightened hearing picks out phrases like “rebel forces,” “other orc clans,” and “new weapon.” I store that away, feigning obliviousness.

My senses have grown sharper lately. Even above the din, I can pinpoint footsteps behind me, sense the hush of a concealed side door opening. At another table, I catch a whiff of something coppery—blood? My pulse surges. Is that normal? I never used to detect such subtle scents before.

Biting back anxiety, I make sure my expression remains placid. Helrath did warn me: stress can trigger unusual responses. Vaelorian noted my reflexes speeding up during training. But in the thick of a real dark elf gathering? This is not the time to lose control.

I circulate the hall, continuing to serve wine until I reach a tall archway leading to an antechamber. Lord Marik stands there, speaking with a cluster of lesser nobles. He catches my eye, raising a finger in a brief signal. He must want me to gather more details.

I incline my head slightly, stepping deeper into the crowd. My goal is to find any direct confirmation that these experiments involve capturing Vrakken en masse. House Draeven needs concrete intel to act.

Towards the center of the banquet, I see a distinctive figure, tall, robed in layered crimson. He’s flanked by two servants. The hush around him suggests high status, maybe even someone close to the monarchy. If he’s talking about these rumored experiments, it could be crucial.

I drift in his direction, eavesdropping with carefully timed passes. “They say the next batch arrives next week,” he murmurs to a companion. “Carefully handled—no sunlight exposure. Must keep them in prime condition for the ritual.”

His companion hums in assent. “Yes, Lord Xathien’s plan proceeds smoothly. Once the essences are distilled, we’ll see if the dark elves can harness them for our own spells.”

My blood runs cold. Lord Xathien, that name Vaelorian mentioned as a potential threat. This is exactly the intel we need: They’re capturing Vrakken, transporting them to some secret facility. Distilling essences. My stomach turns at the thought.

They fall silent when a gaggle of courtiers approaches, so I slip away, mind racing. This is bigger than we feared. If Xathien succeeds, he might create a new form of magic lethal enough to topple House Draeven’s precarious hold on power.

Moving across the hall, I nearly collide with a dark elf guard. He scowls, pushing me aside. I force an apologetic murmur, remembering my place. My heightened senses prickle again—this time, I smell something earthy and metallic on him. More blood. Are they storing captured Vrakken here?

I decide to venture farther than planned, following the guard discreetly. He steps through a side door leading to a corridor lit by faint, shifting illusions. The banquet noise fades behind me. My pulse quickens—this is risky, but if there’s evidence of captives on-site, it’s worth investigating.

I slip along the corridor’s edge, hugging the wall. The guard pauses at an unmarked door, rapping in a sequence. The door opens a crack, a pair of narrowed eyes peering out. The guard mutters something inaudible, then is admitted.

Seconds later, the door closes. The lock clicks. I can’t see inside, but a whiff of that same copper tang emanates from beneath the door. Fresh blood. My heart hammers. This place is dangerous—maybe they’re storing a wounded Vrakken behind that door.

My instincts scream to flee. Get out, deliver your findings to Vaelorian. But part of me can’t bear leaving without a quick peek. If I can confirm there’s a living captive here, I’ll bring back undeniable proof. House Draeven could escalate.

Carefully, I crouch and press an ear to the door. My enhanced hearing picks up faint moans. A wet, shuffling sound. My stomach churns, imagining the horrors on the other side. This is real.

Fear prickles at the base of my spine. Another voice inside me insists, You can’t do anything for them alone. You’ll blow your cover. Reluctantly, I inch away, swallowing the urge to help. I’m no hero. I’m a spy, and the best chance for rescuing them is to inform House Draeven.

With one final glance at the sealed door, I retreat down the corridor. My steps are swift but quiet, each footfall measured so as not to attract attention.

Re-entering the main banquet hall feels like stepping back into a gaudy nightmare—music, laughter, and the stench of arrogance.

My adrenaline still spikes from what I overheard.

My body hums with a hyperawareness that’s almost dizzying.

The rustle of silk, the clink of crystal goblets, the swirl of perfume—it all overwhelms me.

Calm down, I admonish myself. If I draw attention now, I could jeopardize everything. A wave of nausea hits, and I grip a nearby pillar. My senses are too sharp; I can detect the heartbeat of a noblewoman ten feet away. That shouldn’t be possible.

Gritting my teeth, I force myself to breathe slowly.

Helrath’s training echoes in my mind: When overstimulated, ground yourself.

Focus on a single concrete detail. I concentrate on the smooth marble under my palm, letting its cool texture anchor me.

Slowly, the rush of sensations dulls to a manageable level.

No one notices my brief lapse, thank the gods. I resume my role, crossing the floor as if I’m simply a servant fulfilling my duties. Lord Marik’s retinue is gathered near an ornate side table. I spot him in conversation with a pair of dark elves.

Approaching, I incline my head. “My lord,” I say softly.