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VAELORIAN

I stand beneath the towering arches of our estate gates, watching as the last of Protheka’s daylight bleeds from the sky.

The air is cool, edged with that familiar taste of latent magic that coats my tongue like a film of iron.

House Draeven’s sprawling fortress rises behind me, its jagged spires cutting dark silhouettes against the thinning streaks of sunset.

Torches burn in sconces affixed to the outer walls, their flames flickering like restless spirits.

My breath is steady as I wait, posture perfectly still.

A small retinue of Vrakken guards stands a respectful distance behind me, clad in the same onyx leathers that I wear.

Their presence is a silent testament to House Draeven’s might.

Outside these gates, the dark elves bustle, always eager to maintain their veneer of power.

But we know the truth: in the grander game, the Vrakken hold the more lethal hand.

Especially House Draeven. Especially my mother and me.

Memory flutters at the back of my mind: my mother’s voice, low and pointed as a blade.

“Power isn’t given; it’s seized.” I’ve heard that edict my entire life, almost from the moment I was old enough to sharpen a blade or channel my magic.

It’s our creed, the essence of House Draeven’s philosophy.

I’ve embraced it willingly, forging my aspirations in the crucible of her expectations.

Across the courtyard, an ancient iron gate separates our territory from the broader realm of the dark elves.

The gate is reinforced with runic wards and carved filigree—originally a symbol of alliance from centuries ago, though we seldom speak of that time.

Tonight, it has swung halfway open to allow a caravan of dark elf officials to approach.

Their footsteps resonate on the cobblestones, and I catch the muted gasps of humans in their company—tributes meant for us.

I run a quick hand through my long black hair, pushing the ink-dark strands away from my eyes.

It hangs well past my shoulders, a mark of my lineage and station.

My wings remain folded close to my back, the membrane a deep charcoal hue with faint silver veins.

They’re not as large as some of the older, more ancient Vrakken, but they mark me nonetheless as one of the nobility—born, not Made.

That alone is enough to ensure respect, and perhaps fear.

Stepping forward, I place myself just inside the open gate, letting the torchlight skim over my pale features.

My skin, like most Vrakken, is almost luminescent, a spectral white that contrasts sharply with my hair and my black eyes.

I know how I look to outsiders: a living embodiment of the stories mothers tell their children to keep them inside at night.

And I let them think that.

The dark elves slow to a halt. Among them, I glimpse the ragged humans—five of them, cowering in the shadows.

They’ve been chosen as tribute, as a bargaining chip for the tenuous peace between our kind.

Some might become thralls; others could serve House Draeven’s more mundane needs.

Normally, I have little interest in these formalities.

But my mother insisted I greet this group personally.

She believes there is something special among them—particularly one female.

I scan the group with careful detachment. My gaze skims the first three tributes quickly. They carry themselves like all the others who’ve been offered to us: trembling limbs, darting eyes, hearts pounding so loudly I can nearly taste their fear on the air. Then I notice her.

She doesn’t cower the same way. Oh, she’s cautious—anyone in her position would be—but beneath her carefully lowered lashes, I catch a flicker of defiance.

She’s slender, with auburn hair that falls in loose waves around her shoulders.

There’s a faint tension in her jaw, as if she’s biting down on every frightened impulse.

Her skin is pale, though not in the sickly way I often see with battered slaves.

Instead, it seems to reflect the dim light with a subtle glow, almost as though she’s not entirely human. .. but that’s ridiculous.

The dark elf official in charge speaks with that usual blend of arrogance and forced politeness, gesturing to the tributes. “Lord Vaelorian, on behalf of the City, we present these offerings to House Draeven. Our arrangements stand, as previously agreed upon.”

I incline my head in acknowledgment. “We will receive them.” My voice is measured, the words clipped. The official bows quickly, eager to be done with this.

“Very well.” He signals for the tributes to step forward. A few shuffle in, heads down, shoulders hunched. The youngest tries to keep pace but stumbles, betraying the depths of his terror.

The female, Valeria, if the rumors are correct—squares her shoulders just enough for me to see that she isn’t as broken as she pretends. She lowers her gaze, but in that fleeting moment, I catch a flash of her eyes: a sharp stormy gray that flickers with challenge. My pulse kicks up a notch.

We usher them in through the courtyard. I note the way she glances at the architecture of our fortress, her attention snagging on the carved gargoyles perched at intervals along the walls. Each monstrous statue looks ready to spring to life and devour intruders.

I lead the procession toward the main entrance.

My mother, Matriarch Brinda Draeven, waits there with an air of supreme confidence.

She stands tall—her silver hair cascading in a waterfall down her back, matched by the shimmering midnight gown that hugs her lithe form.

She’s older than I, far older, though it’s impossible to see any sign of age on her.

A testament to true Vrakken immortality. And to her cunning.

Brinda regards me for a heartbeat, as if checking to see if I’ve followed her instructions correctly. She shifts her attention to the tributes, eyes narrowing in satisfaction. Behind her, a handful of Vrakken attendants hover, each as silent as death.

“Welcome to House Draeven,” she says, her voice silken as it echoes against the stone corridor. The tribute group stands in uneasy formation, none daring to lift their heads fully. “I trust you all understand what this offering entails?”

No one speaks, though a few manage shallow nods.

She sweeps forward, gown trailing across the marble floor with a gentle rustle. “Power isn’t given; it’s seized,” she murmurs as though reminding the dark elf official of a universal truth. A faint smirk curves her lips. “We have determined the terms that preserve peace... for now.”

At her side, I remain silent, letting her command the scene. My gaze flicks to the female again—Valeria. She’s not trembling like the others; her breathing is slightly elevated, but her posture speaks of stubborn pride. Something about that interests me.

Brinda moves through the line of tributes, tapping a polished nail under each chin, as if assessing livestock. She lingers on the trembling man, studying his gaunt face before arching a brow in disdain. Then she moves to Valeria.

The hush intensifies, and I can almost taste the tension from the gathered Vrakken. Brinda tilts Valeria’s chin up, forcing her to lock gazes. “This one,” my mother says. “She has potential.”

Valeria’s expression, though guarded, flashes with a spark of challenge. I realize she must be struggling not to flinch. My mother’s presence is overwhelming, her aura a swirl of ancient magic and predatory grace.

Brinda steps back, allowing the guards to herd the chosen tributes inside. She murmurs to me, voice so low only I can hear: “That one, Vaelorian. Watch her. I suspect there’s more to her than meets the eye.”

I nod, though inwardly, I’m not sure what my mother suspects. A shapeshifter? A hidden sorceress? The idea feels improbable; we’d have detected that sort of power. Still, I trust Brinda’s instincts. They’ve kept our House on top for centuries.

Once the formalities are concluded, the dark elf official departs, leaving us with the new acquisitions.

House Draeven’s great hall is dimly lit by suspended lanterns encased in wrought-iron.

Shadows dance along the carved columns, which depict scenes of battles from centuries past—Vrakken clashing with dark elves, great winged silhouettes soaring above the gore.

I watch as two Vrakken guards separate the three chosen tributes from the others. One guard leads a pale, trembling woman toward the eastern wing, presumably to be assigned domestic tasks. Another guard escorts the quaking man away, probably for menial labor in the stables or forging rooms.

Valeria stands off to the side, waiting for direction. Her eyes flick from me to my mother and back again. She’s plainly aware of how precarious her situation is, yet her bearing betrays a fierce undercurrent.

Brinda addresses me smoothly, “I’ll leave this one,” she nods toward Valeria, “in your capable hands. Ensure she’s prepared properly. I expect progress soon.”

With that, she glides away, a trio of attendants following like a shadowy retinue. The corridor empties around us, leaving me and Valeria alone—aside from a single guard and the hush of ancient stone.

I finally approach her. She tilts her head forward in a semblance of respect, though there’s a tension in her shoulders.

At close range, I note the lines of her face: high cheekbones, full lips, that subtle intensity in her eyes.

From a purely aesthetic standpoint, she’s undeniably attractive.

Most humans who make it to adulthood beneath dark elf rule are malnourished or broken in spirit, but she possesses a different quality, some hidden resilience.

“You are Valeria,” I say, my voice low. I already know her name, but I want to hear her confirm it.