Page 27

He excuses himself from the conversation, stepping aside with me. Under the guise of handing him a fresh goblet, I murmur, “I have news—important.”

His gaze flicks over my face, noting the urgency. “We should step outside for air,” he announces, loud enough for others to hear. To them, it seems he’s bored or wants a change of scenery.

We exit onto a small balcony overlooking a courtyard. The night air is crisp, a relief after the oppressive heat of the banquet hall. Two of Marik’s personal guards stand nearby, discreet but watchful. He waves them off.

“What is it?” Marik demands in a low voice, leaning close so others won’t overhear.

I recount what I’ve discovered: references to an upcoming “batch” of Vrakken, essence extraction, Lord Xathien’s involvement, and the locked room where I suspect a captive might be. Marik’s jaw tightens.

“That’s dire,” he mutters. “This banquet is more than a simple gathering—it’s a cover for these monsters to discuss furthering their experiments.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “We need to get word to House Draeven fast. Vaelorian must know.”

Marik studies me. “You’ve done well, Valeria. But be cautious. If they suspect you learned too much, they won’t hesitate to end you.”

The mention of my name and Vaelorian in the same breath sends a sharp pang through my chest. I bury it, nodding. “I’m leaving as soon as I can. Another hour, perhaps, to avoid suspicion.”

He agrees, placing a hand on my shoulder in a rare gesture of camaraderie. “Go. I’ll linger to keep up appearances.”

Returning inside, I make sure not to rush.

A hasty exit might draw attention. Instead, I resume serving tasks, dropping a polite curtsy here, a murmured apology there.

My mind swirls with worry for the captive Vrakken behind that locked door—and anger at how the dark elves treat them like lab specimens.

Eventually, the banquet’s momentum shifts.

Some nobles drift to private chambers, others dance in slow, sensuous patterns under illusions of starlight conjured by hired spellcasters.

I slip away quietly, turning over my tray to another servant with an excuse about fetching something from the carriage.

Outside, the courtyard is bathed in moonlight. I breathe easier, though the tension remains. My heightened senses are still humming, making the nighttime smells—cool stone, distant flowers, lingering torch smoke—alarmingly vivid.

At the far corner of the courtyard, a small stable yard houses the carriages belonging to various guests. I spot the modest one Lord Marik loaned me. It’s parked near a cluster of grander vehicles, each lacquered in dark colors and bearing the sigils of prominent families.

I hurry to the driver, who’s dozing on a bench. He startles awake. “We leaving already?”

“Yes,” I whisper, checking our surroundings. No one else is near. “I have what I need. We depart now, quietly.”

He nods, hurrying to hitch the horses. Within minutes, we’re trotting out of the estate’s gates. My heart thunders until the guard tower is out of sight. The night beyond stretches wide, an open road lit by pale moonbeams.

I did it. I have the intel. But my uneasy mind can’t forget the locked door, the muffled moans. Hold on, I tell myself. Vaelorian will know what to do. We’ll stop this.

The carriage ride back to the agreed rendezvous is long, almost two days.

During the journey, my heightened senses continue to plague me.

I pick up the driver’s hushed snores through the partition, smell the horses’ sweat when we slow to rest, sense birds stirring in the trees before I can see them.

It’s overwhelming. More than once, I recall Vaelorian’s voice telling me to ground myself.

I grip the seat, focusing on the grain of the wood under my fingertips.

At last, we reach the designated meeting spot—an abandoned farmhouse near a river crossing. Lord Marik arranged this as a safe location for me to switch carriages. By the time I arrive, I’m exhausted and frayed, but relieved to see House Draeven’s riders waiting.

They guide me back to the fortress with minimal rest stops.

My mind spins with the knowledge I carry.

By the time I glimpse the spires of House Draeven rising against the horizon, my nerves are taut.

I can’t wait to share what I’ve learned with Vaelorian, though a knot of dread tugs at me—our parting was strained.

The fortress gates open. Vrakken guards peer at me with mild curiosity as I pass. I feel like a phantom, carrying the smell and tension of the dark elf banquet on my skin. A stable hand helps me dismount, and I slip into the interior halls, the clang of gates sealing behind me.

I expect a formal reception, maybe a steward or Helrath demanding a report. Instead, Vaelorian himself waits in the main foyer, leaning against a column. His eyes snap to me the instant I enter, dark irises reflecting a swirl of restrained emotion—relief, perhaps, or anger.

I swallow, stepping forward. “I have news,” I say, my voice rasping from travel.

He nods curtly, posture rigid. “My study.” He turns on his heel, wings rustling beneath his coat. Without another word, he strides away.

I follow, blood pounding. I want to grab him, to confirm he’s real, that I’m safe. But we’re in public view, and we both know better. We reach his study in tense silence. As fast as the door shuts behind us, he rounds on me.

“You’re back,” he says, voice low, as if unsure how to begin.

I exhale a shaky breath. “Yes. And I have information—critical information.”

His gaze flickers over me—my disheveled hair, the travel grime on my clothes. “You look exhausted. Sit. Now.”

It’s not a request. I sink into a chair by his desk, bracing my elbows on my knees. He remains standing, arms folded.

“Talk,” he orders. “What did you find?”

I gather my thoughts, recounting everything: the overheard conversations about capturing Vrakken, essence extraction, Lord Xathien’s involvement, even the locked door that suggested a captive on-site. Vaelorian’s face darkens with each sentence.

“This is worse than we suspected,” he says, pacing behind his desk. “Xathien… he’s not just dabbling. He’s escalated to full-scale experimentation. If the dark elves harness that essence, they could craft spells that rival or surpass Vrakken magic.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “They mentioned transporting more ‘batches’ soon. They’re also forging alliances with orc clans. I heard references to a new weapon, possibly fueled by Vrakken blood.”

His wings flex against his back, a sign of agitation. “That explains the renewed activity near our borders.”

For a moment, we let the gravity settle. I’m aware of his gaze sliding over my face again, concern flickering in the line of his jaw.

“You did well,” he finally says, voice softer. “This intel could change everything.”

A wash of relief courses through me. I expected anger over the risk I took following that guard, but I only see a flicker of pride in his expression.

“Thank you,” I murmur, my shoulders relaxing slightly. “I… there was more, though. My senses?—”

He frowns. “Yes?”

My hands clench in my lap. “They’re sharper, Vaelorian. I could smell blood through closed doors, hear footsteps from across the hall. It’s like… I’m stronger or more aware than I should be.”

His brow furrows. “We noticed some signs before you left, but it’s growing stronger?”

I nod. “It made infiltration easier, but it’s unsettling. At times, it was overwhelming.”

He presses a hand to his chin, contemplative. “We’ll address it. Maybe Helrath’s training can help you refine this ability, or perhaps a more discreet study of what you really are…”

I tense at the reminder of my unknown heritage. The possibility that I’m part Vrakken—even a tiny sliver—looms in my mind. We’ve never confirmed it, but these heightened senses feel like a clue.

We fall into silence. My chest aches, wanting to reach out, to confide the confusion swirling inside me. But I sense Vaelorian’s own turmoil—he’s reverting to that cold shell, as if unsure how to handle the charged undercurrents between us.

Finally, he steps around the desk, standing before me. He’s close enough that I catch his scent—like night air over a deep lake. My pulse quickens, recalling our last real encounter. Stop. We have bigger problems.

“Valeria,” he says quietly, “I’m calling a council with my mother and key advisors. We’ll decide how to respond to Xathien’s threat. Your testimony will be crucial.”

I nod, though my insides twist at the thought of facing Matriarch Brinda’s scrutiny. “All right.”

He reaches for my hand, hesitates, then lets it drop to his side. “First, rest. You look like death warmed over.”

A relieved laugh escapes me, raw, tinged with lingering tension. “I feel worse than I look.”

“Then take the evening to gather yourself. We’ll meet tomorrow.”

I stand, legs trembling from the journey and the emotional weight. “Vaelorian,” I say softly. “Thank you for trusting me with this mission.”

A flicker of conflict crosses his face. “It wasn’t trust,” he mumbles, turning away. “It was necessity.”

But the way his shoulders tense makes me suspect that’s not entirely true. He might pretend it’s just strategy, but there’s an undercurrent that pulses between us, one we’ve never fully discussed.

I exit the study, a thousand questions roiling in my mind. The fortress corridors feel both welcoming and suffocating after the dark elf banquet’s hostility. Yet at least here, I’m not alone. Or am I?

I reach my chambers, half hoping Vaelorian might follow. He doesn’t. The door clicks shut behind me, and I’m left with silence. My new suite remains as luxurious as the day he assigned it, though it feels emptier now.

Exhaustion crushes me. I slump against the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor, knees drawn up. The intel I brought back could shift the balance of power between Vrakken and dark elves. So why do I feel like I’m missing something?