Page 34

“How did my life become this?” I whisper aloud, tears falling unbidden. Once, I was just a human concubine escaping dark elf cruelty. Now, I’m half Vrakken, tethered to House Draeven’s politics, locked in a twisted dance of love and resentment with its prince.

A rustle of wings startles me. I jerk upright, wiping my face hastily. But the figure that lands lightly on the courtyard floor isn’t Vaelorian—it’s a female Vrakken guard, her wings folded neatly behind her. She offers a faint smile, stepping out of the shadows.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” she says quietly. “Just checking the perimeter.”

I exhale, relieved it’s not another ambush. “You’re fine. I was… just thinking.”

She nods, eyes keen. There’s no hostility in her posture—House Draeven’s guards have heard rumors, but none of them seem eager to confront me with accusations. “We all heard about the fiasco with that Sharath noble,” she says gently. “You handled yourself well. He was a fool.”

I twist my hands together. “It was more complicated than that.”

She nods. “These gatherings often are. The important thing is no one doubts your place here now.”

I want to laugh. My place? “Do you see me as half monster, or half ally?”

Her eyebrows lift, but she doesn’t flinch. “I see you as a person Vaelorian trusts enough to defend House Draeven. That’s all I need to know.” She shrugs. “The rest? Not my concern.”

A shaky breath leaves my lungs. “Thank you.”

She inclines her head and takes flight again, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Her words echo in my mind: I see you as a person Vaelorian trusts.

So even the guards realize how closely Vaelorian has tied me to the House.

He’s staked his reputation on me. My heartbreak tangles with pity for him—he must have known this fiasco could blow up in his face.

Slowly, I rise, ignoring the chill in the air. If I stay out here, I’ll freeze. If I return to my suite, I’ll fall into an endless spiral of questions about my father, my powers, Vaelorian’s motives. But I can’t keep wandering aimlessly all night.

Back in my suite, the emptiness aches sharper than before.

I sink onto the bed, burying my face in my hands.

My anger hasn’t vanished, but it’s cooled into a raw sense of betrayal layered with reluctant understanding.

He might have used me, but he also genuinely wants me safe.

Or so he claims. The worst part is, I believe him, as much as I hate it.

I tear off my boots, unlace my tunic, then stop, staring at my reflection in the polished mirror leaning against the wall.

My eyes look haunted, shadows beneath them.

My hair hangs in disarray. If I tilt my head, I can almost imagine the faint trace of Vrakken features in my bone structure—the sharper angle of my cheekbones, the slight point of my ears.

I never noticed before. Or maybe I’m just seeing illusions.

“Who are you?” I whisper to my reflection. “Valeria Thorne, half-human, half-Vrakken. An outcast no matter which side claims me.”

The reflection offers no comfort, just a lonely, exhausted woman who can’t outrun her heritage. Maybe Vaelorian is right: in this savage world, House Draeven is my only shield. But it’s a shield that has barbs of its own.

Sighing, I strip down to an undershirt and slip beneath the sheets, fully expecting another night of restless half-sleep.

My mind churns with images: the dark elf courts, Vrakken illusions, the memory of Vaelorian’s hands on my body when we gave in to that night of desire.

Heat flares in my chest, quickly replaced by a wave of rage.

How dare my heart still flutter for him after he used me?

Eventually, exhaustion weighs my eyelids.

Darkness claims me in broken intervals. I dream of shadowed labs where dark elves strap me to a table, draining my blood drop by drop.

I try to scream for Vaelorian, but he stands behind glass, watching with detached fascination, a scholar’s quill in hand.

The dream shifts, and he’s the one strapped down while I stand with fangs bared—no, that can’t be right—tearing into his throat. I gasp awake, heart pounding.

Dawn breaks like a silent promise, pale light creeping through the window.

I lie there, drained, too spent to face another day of House Draeven politics.

But the fortress never sleeps, especially not now, with Xathien’s threat looming.

So I drag myself out of bed, wash my face in cold water, and pull on standard training attire: fitted trousers, a loose dark tunic.

If Helrath expects me to join drills, fine.

Better to unleash my aggression on a practice dummy than stew in self-loathing.

I exit my suite, nearly colliding with a stoic guard.

He steps aside with a bow, as if I’m some high-ranking official.

It’s bizarre to realize House Draeven’s staff now sees me as Vaelorian’s personal retainer.

A retainer who’s half Vrakken. The hush that follows my footsteps attests to the swirling rumors.

In the courtyard, I find Helrath running a session with fresh recruits. He beckons me over, tossing me a wooden blade. We lock eyes, and I can tell he’s gauging my emotional state. I nod, stepping onto the training square.

We start slow: a series of footwork drills, pivoting, blocking. My body aches from tension and lack of real rest, but I press on. Each time Helrath lunges, I parry with barely contained fury. He ups the pace, forcing me to pivot so quickly my vision blurs. My breath hitches.

“Focus,” he mutters. “Don’t let your anger blind you.”

I grit my teeth. Better anger than despair. I twist aside, spin behind him, and swipe low. He blocks with a grunt. We engage in a fierce exchange of blows, the crack of wood on wood echoing through the courtyard. Recruits watch with wide eyes, likely alarmed by my aggression.

Finally, Helrath knocks my weapon aside, seizing my wrist. My reflexes flare. I jerk free, surprising him with a sharp elbow to his ribs. He doubles over slightly. The recruits gasp, but Helrath’s lips curve into a wry smile.

“Good,” he wheezes, straightening. “That’s the fire you need. Just channel it properly.” He lowers his voice, stepping closer. “Though if you keep aiming to injure me, I might think you’re imagining I’m someone else.”

My chest heaves. He’s not wrong. Each swing was aimed at a phantom wearing Vaelorian’s face. I release a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to get carried away.”

He waves it off. “We’re Vrakken. Getting carried away in a fight is half the point.” His gaze flickers over my features. “You all right?”

I let the wooden blade drop. My arms feel like lead. “No,” I admit, swallowing thickly. “But hurting you won’t fix anything.”

A faint grin touches his mouth. “At least you’re honest. Take a break.” He turns to the recruits, barking instructions for them to continue drills. Then, more quietly, to me: “Vaelorian wants you in the war room at midday. The final strategy for intercepting Xathien’s caravan will be discussed.”

My pulse flutters with anxiety. “Wonderful,” I murmur sarcastically. “More time spent in close quarters with him.”

Helrath lays a hand on me, gentler than usual. “You can’t avoid him. This is bigger than your feud.”

I know that. But that doesn’t make it easier.

Midday finds me in a cramped war room with high, narrow windows letting in beams of pale sunshine.

A long table dominates the center, maps and tactical diagrams covering its surface.

Vaelorian stands at the head, arms folded, while a handful of House Draeven’s key advisors murmur amongst themselves.

I linger at the periphery, ignoring the spike in my pulse when Vaelorian’s gaze flicks to me.

He nods a greeting but doesn’t speak directly. A swirl of tension radiates between us, unnoticed by the others who assume it’s just the intensity of planning a crucial ambush. My insides churn with unresolved fury, and an ache that refuses to fade.

Brinda, the Matriarch, arrives with stately grace, her silver hair pinned up in an elaborate style.

She glances around, acknowledging each person.

Her gaze lands on me for a heartbeat, impassive.

I force my face into polite neutrality. If she suspects my half-blood nature, she says nothing.

Possibly, Vaelorian convinced her to keep silent—at least until after the caravan ambush.

The discussion begins. Maps are unrolled, showing the mountain pass where Xathien’s rumored transport is set to travel. Advisors debate positioning of House Draeven troops, possible illusions to mask our presence, or how best to confirm the cargo is indeed Vrakken captives.

I hover at the table’s edge, carefully listening.

Vaelorian outlines a plan: a forward scouting party will lie in wait, observing the caravan from a ridge.

Once we confirm the captives, we strike, capturing the transport.

Another small team will handle illusions to disguise our approach.

My role: infiltration, slipping close enough to sense if the cargo is indeed living Vrakken or illusions.

Brinda taps a slender finger on the map. “This must be swift. If any messenger escapes, Xathien will retaliate.”

Vaelorian inclines his head. “Agreed. We can’t risk a prolonged skirmish in the pass.

The terrain is tricky. Our ambush must be surgically precise.

” His gaze flicks to me, dark eyes revealing none of our personal discord.

“Valeria will confirm the presence of living captives. She has a knack for detecting hidden illusions. Once she signals, we move in.”

I swallow. A knack, or my half-Vrakken blood at work. My chest tightens. Nonetheless, I manage a firm nod. “Understood.”

Brinda’s eyes narrow slightly, but she says nothing about my involvement. Instead, she addresses the group. “You have three days to prepare. Dismissed.”