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The advisors file out in murmured conversation. I stay rooted, rummaging for my courage. Vaelorian stands by the table, rolling up the map with careful efficiency. Brinda glances between us, some unspoken knowledge in her gaze, then sweeps from the room, leaving us alone.

Silence. I shift, arms crossed. “Is that the plan, then? We do your infiltration, confirm the captives, and hope we don’t all die?”

He sets the map aside, turning to me. “It’s the best option. If it succeeds, we’ll have undeniable proof to rally other Vrakken Houses against Xathien. We can free those captives, maybe glean more about his operation.”

My anger flares again, remembering how he hid my heritage. But I keep my voice steady. “Fine. I’ll do it. I agreed to see this mission through.”

A flicker of relief touches his features. “Thank you.” He hesitates, stepping closer. “About earlier?—”

“I’m not ready to discuss it,” I say, voice tight. “We have a mission. Let’s keep it professional.”

His face registers hurt, but he nods. “As you wish.” After a beat, he adds softly, “I regret everything that brought you pain.”

I clench my jaw, refusing to let tears gather. “Regret alone doesn’t fix the damage.” Pivoting on my heel, I stride out of the war room, heart pounding. He doesn’t follow.

Over the next few days, House Draeven hums with activity as we finalize the ambush plan.

I spend hours training with Helrath, practicing infiltration spells, illusions, and advanced weapon work.

My half-Vrakken senses intensify—every time I tune into illusions, it’s like a lens snapping into focus.

I can sense the magical threads, almost unravel them.

It frightens me, but Helrath calls it “remarkable.” Another testament to my heritage.

Vaelorian keeps his distance, communicating only through official channels or quick, clipped instructions in group briefings. I sense the strain in his posture each time, as though he longs to pull me aside. But I hold him at arm’s length, consumed by my fury and confusion.

Some nights, after the fortress quiets, I wander the corridors, half-hoping he’ll corner me so we can scream at each other or find some twisted resolution. He never does. If he roams the halls, we don’t cross paths. The tension gnaws at me, fueling my nightmares of captivity and torn allegiances.

At last, the departure day arrives. A small strike team gathers in the fortress courtyard at dawn: half a dozen skilled Vrakken warriors, Helrath included, plus me.

We’ll travel with minimal supplies, using illusions to remain hidden.

Vaelorian will lead from the front, orchestrating the assault.

Additional House Draeven forces will circle wide, ready to close the trap once we confirm the caravan’s location.

I stand by my assigned horse, adjusting the straps on a pack stuffed with infiltration gear. The morning air smells crisp, with a faint hint of rain. My heart thrums with anxious energy—I’ve done infiltration missions before, but never one so crucial, or so personally fraught.

Vaelorian emerges from the keep, clad in dark leathers, wings partially furled.

He checks the harness of his own mount, giving instructions to a soldier.

Our gazes meet across the courtyard, tension arching between us.

We exchange a curt nod. We both know we can’t let personal drama undermine this operation.

When everyone is ready, Vaelorian swings onto his horse. Helrath signals for the warriors to form up. I mount mine, adrenaline prickling along my spine. The gatehouse groans open, revealing the road leading away from House Draeven. The world beyond beckons—wild, dangerous.

Vaelorian raises a gloved hand. “Move out.” His tone is clipped. The horses respond, hooves echoing on the cobblestones. I urge my mare forward, falling into the second rank. In moments, we ride out under the fortress gate, leaving behind the relative safety of House Draeven.

Wind bites my cheeks. My senses sharpen.

The reality of what’s to come floods me: we’re heading toward a confrontation that could shift the balance of power in Protheka.

My half-Vrakken blood simmers in my veins, a reminder of what sets me apart, even among these Vrakken allies.

The memory of Vaelorian’s deception burns, but so does the memory of the anguish in his eyes when he apologized.

One step at a time, I remind myself. Survive the ambush, confirm Xathien’s captives, rescue them if possible. Only after that can I decide my future. Whether I stay with House Draeven or vanish into the unknown.

We ride on, the dawn sky streaked with gold and violet.

My heart remains conflicted, balanced between fury and a deeper longing I can’t bury.

Vaelorian leads us, silent and focused. I stare at his broad back, wings arching gracefully, and the old ache resurfaces.

Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. But for now, I have a mission that demands my full attention.

Tightening my grip on the reins, I vow that I’ll see it through—and once the dust settles, I’ll make sure Vaelorian understands that I’m more than a tool, or a secret bloodline advantage. I am Valeria Thorne, half Vrakken, half human, wholly done with being anyone’s pawn.