Page 29

VAELORIAN

I stand at the grand reception chamber, watching the gathering unfold with meticulously contained tension.

House Draeven seldom hosts anything this opulent—my mother typically disdains pageantry—but tonight is different.

After our recent discoveries about the dark elves’ experiments and Xathien’s looming threat, she’s decided to rally Vrakken allies.

Hence this lavish feast: to impress potential supporters, to posture, to strategize.

I taste the undercurrent of magic in the air—spells of glamor that highlight the tapestries, illusions that dim imperfections in the centuries-old walls, subtle lighting charms that create pools of ethereal glow.

My senses pick up the press of bodies, all of them Vrakken except a handful of favored human servants.

The flick of wings, the scrape of leather shoes on the polished floors, the murmuring swirl of voices discussing dark elf aggression or the latest rumor about “harvesting essence.”

And then, there’s Valeria.

She stands near a table of refreshments, wearing a sleek black dress that accentuates her form with understated elegance.

Her hair is pinned back, baring the graceful slope of her neck.

Foolishly tempting, I think, a surge of protective anger twisting my gut.

She’s disguised as one of House Draeven’s official retainers, in the sense that no one questions her presence.

Yet every time a visiting Vrakken passes too close, I feel my muscles tense.

She came back from that dark elf banquet with vital intel.

Now that we’re planning an ambush on Xathien’s next transport, my mother insisted on hosting this gathering—partly to finalize alliances, partly as a show of strength.

Valeria’s role is mostly to observe, glean any final scraps of intelligence from passing chatter.

We need to confirm if other Vrakken Houses suspect our plans, or if they’ve caught wind of Xathien’s rumored attempt to replicate our magic.

If anyone pries into her identity, we’ll wave them off with vague references to her infiltration role.

That means she’s vulnerable— my infiltration operative, standing alone in a crowd of predators who see humans as living snacks at best. Telling her to remain behind would have raised eyebrows, especially from my mother.

I insisted Helrath station guards, but Vrakken gatherings are notorious for their fluid approach to personal boundaries.

She’s safer near me… except being near me invites questions about why I guard a human so closely.

I exhale, forcing calm. This entire event brims with potential dangers, but as Prince of House Draeven, I can’t show fear.

My black coat is tailored close to my body, wing slits fitted seamlessly.

My hair falls straight around my shoulders, and I’ve chosen minimal silver adornments, letting the presence of my wings speak for my station.

I could fool others into believing I’m entirely at ease, but inside, my nerves coil tight.

A low chuckle sounds behind me, and I turn to find Lyreth—a middle-aged Vrakken noble from a distant branch of House Draeven—approaching with a self-assured stride. His black hair, tied back at the nape, reveals a face sharpened by centuries. He dips his head in greeting.

“Vaelorian,” he drawls, eyes glimmering with curiosity. “Your mother’s truly gone all out for this affair.”

“Indeed,” I reply coolly, scanning the crowd. “We rarely gather so many allied families in one chamber. Times are dire.”

He arches a brow. “Worried about dark elf meddling?” When I don’t immediately respond, he follows my line of sight—directly toward Valeria. A knowing smirk curls on his lips. “That your new pet, or is she a meal?”

My jaw tightens. “She’s an operative. Don’t even think about?—”

“Relax, cousin.” Lyreth lifts a hand, chuckling. “I’d not step on your turf. She’s yours, I take it?”

I restrain a scowl. If only it were that simple. “She belongs to House Draeven,” I say, intentionally keeping the answer vague.

Lyreth hums. “Huh. One of the better-looking humans I’ve seen around. But if she’s an operative, I’ll keep my distance. You do know some of the younger nobles might press her for… amusements, if she’s unclaimed.”

“I’ll handle it,” I say, suppressing my impatience. “Go, enjoy yourself. I’m sure my mother’s private wine selection is worth your time.”

Lyreth grins, salutes with two fingers, and saunters off.

The conversation leaves a bitter taste. Of course they view her as fair game.

My mother’s gathering is meant to unify us, but it also draws out every lesser Vrakken from the woodwork—each with a thirst for novelty.

Valeria is far too novel in a place like this.

I glide through the crowd, acknowledging nods and half-bows from various attendees.

Strings and flutes mingle in a haunting melody from a small ensemble near the dais.

My mother is at the far side, entertaining a prominent matriarch from a neighboring House, no doubt exchanging barbed compliments.

I scan the room for Helrath. He’s perched near a column, arms folded, watchful.

Good. If anything goes wrong, he can intervene.

Finally, I near Valeria. She’s speaking in low tones with a tall, wiry Vrakken wearing a burgundy cloak. Tension lines her posture, though she keeps her expression perfectly neutral. Good. She’s learned well how to maintain composure.

“…only hearing rumors,” the Vrakken says, swirling a crimson beverage in a goblet. “Hard to confirm them. But if the dark elves truly aim to siphon Vrakken essence, we’d be wise to crush them swiftly.”

Valeria nods. “Of course. House Draeven is gathering intelligence to ensure an effective response.”

He narrows his eyes. “And you speak for House Draeven, do you?” His gaze slides over her with undisguised interest. “Rather unusual for a human to speak so boldly.”

She doesn’t flinch. “I serve them. Lord Vaelorian trusts me with information.”

He leans forward, fangs glinting. “Trust, hmm? That’s… fascinating.”

My blood simmers. Before he can push further, I step behind him. “Everything all right here?”

He whips around, mild surprise registering on his pale features. “Prince Vaelorian. We were just discussing the dark elf threat.” He flicks a glance at Valeria, smirking. “Your operative has some interesting opinions.”

I fix him with a cool stare. “She’s well-informed, that’s all. If you’d like more details, speak to me directly.” I will not let you corner her alone.

He sniffs, inclining his head. “Perhaps I will.” Without further comment, he glides away, disappearing into the throng.

Valeria exhales softly, letting her guard drop for a fraction. “Thanks.”

I lower my voice. “You handled it well. Did you learn anything new?”

She shakes her head. “Just more references to Xathien. They all sense tension with the dark elves. But nothing concrete.”

I nod, scanning her expression. She’s composed, yet I notice the slight tremor in her fingers—residual anxiety. The memory of that night, her body beneath mine, threatens to surface. Not now. Focus. “Stay alert. Some of these newcomers are… unpredictable.”

She dips her chin in acknowledgment. “I will. You too.”

Our gazes lock—an unspoken current flares. Then, with a sharp breath, I tear my eyes away. “I should make rounds. Find me if anything suspicious arises.”

She nods, and I turn, walking off before I’m tempted to linger. I can’t let personal feelings overshadow the mission. My wings give a slight twitch, betraying how on-edge I feel. Even so, part of me longs to keep Valeria in my sight constantly.

I drift through the crowd, exchanging greetings with half a dozen lesser lords and ladies.

All the while, I sense undercurrents of conversation about forging alliances or obtaining “fresh thralls.” The typical political posturing.

Yet tension radiates from every corner—people sense we’re on the cusp of a confrontation with Xathien, even if they don’t know the details.

Half an hour passes. I endure tedious small talk, feigned politeness. At one point, I stand with a cluster of older Vrakken nobles, listening to them debate House Draeven’s potential aggression toward the dark elves. I offer carefully neutral responses, keeping my real strategies concealed.

Then a murmur ripples through the crowd.

I spot two newly arrived figures wading into the hall, both bearing the sigils of a distant Vrakken House.

By their attire—rich red and black—and the arrogant tilt of their heads, I realize they must be from House Sharath, known for its decadent tastes in feeding.

They rarely come to these gatherings. Something about this is… troubling.

I watch them approach my mother, bowing perfunctorily.

She greets them in that icy, regal manner of hers.

When they straighten, I catch a faint smirk on the face of the male—a tall, broad-shouldered noble with pale hair braided tightly down his back.

He scans the room, an expression of hunger flitting across his features. This one is definitely trouble.

Sure enough, within minutes, he breaks from my mother’s side and prowls the hall. I lose sight of him for a heartbeat, but a foreboding prickle makes me follow. Where is he heading?

Too late, I realize he’s moving toward the refreshment table—where Valeria stands, adjusting a tray of goblets. My pulse spikes. Damn it. I push through the throng, trying not to cause a scene. She notices him approach, sets down the tray, and attempts a polite half-bow. He circles her like a wolf.

I’m close enough to overhear:

“You’re a new face,” he says in a low, purring voice. “Exquisite, for a human. Which House do you serve?”

Valeria’s eyes flick up, cautious. “House Draeven.”