Page 28

My heightened senses stir, picking up faint footsteps outside. Maybe a guard passing by. The noise disappears, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I recall the moaning behind that locked door at the banquet, the cruelty etched in the dark elf nobles’ words.

We have to stop them. The concept is too large—I’m a single operative, and Vaelorian is locked in House Draeven’s endless political games.

But if we don’t act, innocents will suffer.

Not just Vrakken, though they hold the brunt of these experiments, but eventually humans, orcs, or anyone the dark elves deem lesser.

A wave of weariness hits. I drag myself upright, stumbling toward the washroom. Stripping off my travel-stained clothes, I sink into a shallow bath, letting warm water lap over sore muscles. Candlelight plays across the stone walls. At least I can wash off the banquet’s stench.

Yet my mind refuses to quiet. Snatches of conversation about Xathien swirl, along with images of the locked door and my newfound clarity of hearing. Does Vaelorian suspects my lineage? He’s never pushed me to confront it, but the tension in his eyes earlier suggests he knows something I don’t.

I submerge my shoulders, leaning back against the tub’s edge.

My heart twinges at the memory of him pacing in his study—how even beneath his icy facade, I sensed a flicker of relief that I returned unscathed.

We haven’t spoken about that night we shared, the moment we crossed the line.

Now the wall between us feels higher than ever, though I can’t deny the ache in my chest when I’m near him.

Eventually, I finish bathing, wrap myself in a warm robe, and pad to the bed. I collapse onto the mattress, ignoring the finery around me. Sleep comes in fits, plagued by dreams of captive Vrakken and silver-haired elves chanting spells.

Morning arrives with a muted glow through the tall windows. A summons from Vaelorian’s steward awaits me: the Matriarch’s council convenes at midday. My stomach tightens, recalling how Brinda’s gaze can strip someone bare with a glance.

I dress carefully in House Draeven’s provided attire—dark trousers, a fitted tunic embroidered subtly with the crest. It marks me as one of Vaelorian’s assets, though not an equal. Precisely the balance I must strike.

In the corridor, Helrath intercepts me. He scans my face. “You survived the mission,” he says, gruffly. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I mutter.

He smirks. “I hear you found something worthwhile.”

I nod. “More than we bargained for. The dark elves have ramped up their experiments. They’re capturing Vrakken in larger numbers.”

His jaw tightens. “Bastards.”

We walk together toward the council hall, passing columns carved with scenes of mythical battles. “Vaelorian asked me to report directly,” I say. “Are you joining us?”

Helrath shakes his head. “The Matriarch keeps the circle small. I’m just a weapons master, not a strategist. Good luck, though.”

I push the double doors open into a long chamber illuminated by tall windows and hanging lanterns. A semicircle of seats stands at the far end, occupied by Brinda, Vaelorian, and three other high-ranking figures from House Draeven. My pulse speeds.

Brinda’s gaze falls on me, cool and appraising. She’s dressed in flowing black robes, hair coiled in a complex arrangement that suggests both elegance and power. Vaelorian stands at her right, expression unreadable. When I approach, he gives a barely perceptible nod.

One of the councilors, a woman with a severe face and braided silver hair, motions me forward. “You are Valeria, the operative Lord Vaelorian entrusted with infiltration. Speak your report.”

I bow slightly. My voice wavers at first but steadies as I recount everything: the banquet’s layout, the overheard plots to capture Vrakken for experimental magic, Xathien’s name, the potential involvement of orc raiders, and the locked room evidence.

I keep it precise, echoing Vaelorian’s earlier instructions—factual, concise, no personal details.

Brinda’s features remain impassive until I finish. Then she exhales. “Xathien’s ambitions threaten our hold on the surface. If the dark elves master a new form of blood magic, we risk losing our strategic advantage.”

One councilor, a tall male with pale hair, grimaces. “Do we have enough proof to confront them openly?”

Vaelorian folds his arms. “Not yet. But we can’t let them continue. We need more concrete evidence or to intercept one of their transport convoys. If we seize actual captives, we’ll have irrefutable proof.”

Brinda narrows her eyes at me. “You performed adequately, human. But your testimony alone isn’t sufficient for an attack.”

A spike of irritation flares. ‘Adequately.’ I mask it, bowing in acknowledgment. “Understood, Matriarch.”

She flicks her gaze to Vaelorian. “We proceed with caution. Prepare a strategy to intercept Xathien’s next shipment of Vrakken. You have one week to finalize a plan. Then we act.”

He inclines his head. “Yes, Matriarch.”

The council swiftly moves to other topics—supply lines, orc alliances. My role is done, so I step back, letting the conversation wash over me. Vaelorian occasionally glances my way, an unreadable tightness in his jaw.

When Brinda dismisses the meeting, Vaelorian motions for me to follow him outside.

We walk down a side corridor lined with stained-glass windows. Light filters in, casting motley patterns on the stone floor. My nerves hum with leftover adrenaline from addressing the council.

Vaelorian halts near a carved alcove, turning to face me. His wings shift, and his voice is subdued. “Brinda doesn’t trust your intel alone, but she’s concerned enough to act. That’s more than I expected.”

I nod, trying to read his expression. “So we plan an ambush? Or an interception?”

He nods. “Precisely. If we capture even one dark elf transport carrying a live Vrakken prisoner, the entire game changes. But it’ll be dangerous.”

A beat of silence. My body tenses, wanting to offer my help, but I recall how these operations often demand stealth far beyond infiltration. He looks troubled, gaze flicking to the color-splotched floor.

“You did well,” he repeats softly, echoing his words from earlier in his study. He opens his mouth, closes it, then finally mutters, “Are you… unharmed?”

The question catches me off guard. I sense he’s not just asking about physical wounds. My cheeks warm. “I’m fine, physically. But the things I saw, overheard—they were…”

He lifts a hand as though to comfort me, but lets it drop. “Dark elf cruelty. I understand.”

I bite my lip. “I also—” I hesitate, uncertain how to address the unresolved tension between us. “We haven’t spoken about that night.”

His features tense. “No, we haven’t.”

Blood rushes to my ears. “I’m not demanding anything. But I need to know if it… changes how we work together.”

He closes his eyes briefly. “It doesn’t. We can’t let it. We have a war to prepare for, or at least a preemptive strike.”

My heart sinks at the coldness in his tone, but I remind myself it’s for the best. He’s right, we can’t let desire overshadow this mission.

“Of course,” I say, stepping back. “I’m ready to do whatever it takes to stop Xathien. I’ll follow your lead.”

Vaelorian dips his head in acknowledgment. “We’ll talk soon. I have meetings with Brinda and the generals. In the meantime, rest. And keep those heightened senses in check, if you can. Helrath will help if needed.”

I swallow. “All right.”

He lingers for a second, as if torn, then turns on his heel and strides away. I watch him go, an ache settling in my chest. This is how it must be, I tell myself. Yet it doesn’t make the sting any less real.

Over the next few days, House Draeven buzzes with activity.

Vaelorian and his advisors strategize relentlessly, drafting possible plans to ambush Xathien’s transport.

I hear rumors in the corridors about troop deployments, magical wards, even collaborations with a few disgruntled orc tribes.

Tension seeps through every hall, every conversation.

Occasionally, I see Vaelorian from afar—his posture rigid as he confers with stewards or scribes. Our eyes meet once or twice, a silent acknowledgment passing between us. We’re both weighed down by secrets.

Meanwhile, Helrath throws me back into intense drills. My heightened senses remain a double-edged sword: useful for reflexes but draining. Some days, I manage to keep them in check. Other days, a soldier’s cut finger from across the training yard overwhelms me with the smell of blood.

One afternoon, while I practice dagger techniques with Helrath, I accidentally dodge too far, slamming into the courtyard wall. My vision swims, a flood of stimuli—my own heartbeat, Helrath’s ragged breath, the clang of swords from across the yard.

“Focus,” Helrath growls, tossing me a waterskin.

I gulp water, panting. “I’m trying.”

He studies me. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. If you need a break, say it.”

I shake my head. “I can’t afford breaks.”

A flash of respect crosses his scarred face. “Suit yourself.”

We resume sparring, but my mind drifts to the looming mission—knowing that soon, Vaelorian might send me on another infiltration or have me stationed at the ambush site. The stakes are higher than ever. If the dark elves weaponize Vrakken essence, House Draeven’s precarious hold could collapse.

Late on the third evening after my return, I receive a note from Vaelorian’s steward, delivered by a breathless runner: “Valeria—come to his private study at once.” Something about the tight scrawl suggests urgency.

I hurry there, nearly colliding with a pair of soldiers in the corridor. My heart thumps—did new intel arrive? Another dark elf banquet to crash? Or maybe Xathien made a move.

Vaelorian’s study door stands ajar. I slip inside. He’s alone, perched on the edge of his desk, wings partially unfurled in agitation. Maps and scrolls clutter every surface, candles flickering to cast dancing shadows on the walls.

“What happened?” I ask, breath quick from jogging.

He rakes a hand through his hair. “We intercepted a coded message. Xathien’s next shipment leaves in four days. We have a location—near a mountain pass.”

My pulse jumps. “So we can stage an ambush?”

He nods, jaw tight. “Yes, but we need people on the inside. We must confirm the cargo before we strike, ensure we’re hitting the right caravan. I’m organizing a small infiltration team. I need you with them.”

Surprise mingles with excitement and dread. “You’re trusting me in a direct assault?”

His eyes flash. “We can’t rely on untested scouts to identify these captives. You know the signs to look for—warding spells, illusions, how they might conceal the Vrakken. You’ll signal us when you’re certain.”

I swallow. “That’s dangerous. If something goes wrong, I might be caught in the crossfire.”

He exhales. “I know. But this is the only way to secure proof.”

Silence falls. He’s offering me a pivotal role in House Draeven’s move against Xathien. Despite the risk, a surge of fierce pride swells in me. He believes I’m capable.

I step closer, resting a hand on the desk beside him. Our proximity crackles with tension. “I’ll do it. Whatever you need.”

He shifts, gaze flicking to my hand. For a second, it feels like we’re back in that heated moment, but the urgency of the situation weighs too heavily.

“Thank you,” he says, voice rough. “I’ll finalize the plan by dawn. We leave tomorrow night.”

Tomorrow night. My breath catches. “So soon.”

He nods. “Yes. The council agreed we can’t delay.”

I straighten. “I’ll prepare.”

We hover in that tight space, the unspoken turmoil between us pressing in. Eventually, he draws in a slow breath. “Be careful. You’re too valuable to lose in some ill-conceived ambush.”

My cheeks flush. “I will.”

His wings shift, brushing the side of my arm, and an electric jolt zips through me. We both freeze, locked in each other’s stares. I half expect him to pull away, but he doesn’t.

“Valeria…” he begins, tone conflicted.

A storm of emotions swirls in my chest—longing, frustration, determination. “I know,” I whisper. “We have bigger things to handle.”

He closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, they’re cool again. “Yes.”

I leave, heart pounding, with the sense that everything is building to a flashpoint. Tomorrow, we prepare to face Xathien’s transport. And if we fail, House Draeven could lose its last advantage.

Back in my suite, I collapse onto the bed fully clothed. My mind spins with possibilities: The dark elves capturing more Vrakken to fuel horrifying magic; the fate of those trapped behind locked doors. If we succeed in intercepting them, we could save lives and unravel Xathien’s plot.

I think of Vaelorian, the flicker of concern in his voice, how he tries so hard to remain distant. My heart twists. We’re both caught in something bigger than ourselves. Romance, desire—these are luxuries overshadowed by looming war.

Yet I can’t deny how my pulse races at the thought of him risking his life in the coming ambush. You can’t lose focus, I scold myself. The mission must come first. But the fear of something happening to him gnaws at me like a silent predator.

Taking a steadying breath, I remind myself: I chose this path. I wanted to be more than a powerless thrall. Now, I’m integral to House Draeven’s next move. The stakes couldn’t be higher.

I sit up, rummaging through a chest near the bed.

Pulling out my infiltration gear, I check each piece: a snug black tunic, flexible pants, a small dagger strapped to my thigh.

I also find the coded documents Vaelorian gave me weeks ago, containing intel on dark elf illusions. Every advantage counts.

When I’m done, exhaustion envelops me. I lie down, hoping for a few hours of sleep. The fortress is quiet except for distant patrols. My body is tired, but my mind conjures images of the locked door and the pained moans behind it.

Eventually, I drift off, clutching the memory of Vaelorian’s half-whispered caution like a talisman. Be careful, he said. You’re too valuable to lose.

Those words haunt me with warmth and fear in equal measure.

Tomorrow might decide the fate of House Draeven, and maybe our own fragile connection.

And despite my exhaustion, I feel strangely alive—tangled in a dance of power and desire, ready to face the storm that Xathien’s experiments have unleashed.