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She lifts her chin, just enough to meet my gaze. The flickering torchlight accentuates the curve of her jaw. “Yes,” she answers, voice controlled. She doesn’t stutter like the others.

I let silence linger, studying her. “You understand your place here?”

Her eyes narrow, but her features remain outwardly calm. “I’m told I’m an offering,” she says. “Your House can do with me as it sees fit.”

Those words come out with a bitterness that she struggles to hide. I find myself both amused and intrigued by the attempt at composure.

“Indeed,” I reply, pivoting slightly so she must follow my movement or risk turning her back on me—a foolish choice in Vrakken territory.

I direct her down a hallway leading deeper into the fortress.

As we walk, the air grows colder, the stone walls lit by spaced torches.

My footsteps are nearly silent on the polished floor. I hear the faint catch of her breath.

“If I’m just a piece in your House’s game,” she ventures, voice echoing softly off the stone, “why personally oversee my preparation?”

My mouth lifts in a subtle smirk. She’s perceptive. “I’m certain you’ve realized that House Draeven chooses its... acquisitions with care. We don’t waste resources on meaningless trifles.”

Her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t respond. I continue, “My mother sees something in you. As do I.”

She shoots me a quick sidelong look, clearly suspicious. Her lips press together, as though she wants to ask a thousand questions but dares not.

We arrive at a set of ornate double doors carved from dark walnut.

Intricate patterns swirl across the wood, depicting nightmarish creatures locked in eternal battle.

I push them open, revealing a modest receiving room with a high ceiling and a tall window framing the evening sky.

Candles flicker along a table in the center, where a silver pitcher and two goblets rest.

“Sit,” I instruct, gesturing to a curved chaise upholstered in crimson velvet. The color is reminiscent of fresh blood, a detail that doesn’t escape my notice. Valeria hesitates, then complies, perching carefully on the edge of the seat, as though ready to spring away at any sign of danger.

I close the doors behind us, dismissing the guard with a brief nod. Only the crackle of the fireplace disrupts the quiet now. My wings rustle faintly as I cross the room, taking a seat in a high-backed chair angled opposite her.

This vantage allows me a clearer view of her every movement, every subtle shift in expression. She’s changed from the moment I saw her at the gates, but not drastically. She keeps her spine straight, hands folded in her lap, a vision of forced serenity.

“Tell me,” I begin, resting my forearms on the chair’s arms, “how did you end up in the dark elves’ possession? You don’t appear to be from the typical slavestock that Lowtown churns out.”

Her gaze flicks to the dancing flames in the fireplace, as if she’s gathering her thoughts. “I was born in their territory. My mother was a captive, so I became one by default.”

I note a flash of pain cross her features. “And your father?”

She hesitates. The movement is slight, but her lips tighten. “I never met him. The dark elves told me he was killed.”

Tension coils between us. I drum my fingers against the carved armrest, considering. The typical story of a half-orphaned human in Protheka, but something about the way she says it feels incomplete.

“That might explain your resilience,” I say slowly. “Children of darkness often adapt—or perish.”

She lifts her chin, a defiance smoldering in her eyes. “I’ve learned how to survive.”

So you have, I think, watching her with growing interest. “Good. You’ll need that if you want to continue breathing within these walls.”

She squares her shoulders. “I’m not na?ve,” she says, voice low. “I understand my life belongs to House Draeven. But if there’s any chance to... be useful, I’ll take it.”

I let a slight pause hang in the air. Then I reach for the silver pitcher on the table, pouring liquid into one goblet.

I recognize the aroma: dark wine laced with a mild narcotic, a typical refreshment for new tributes.

The dosage is minimal—just enough to loosen a person’s inhibitions without rendering them unconscious.

I offer it to her. “Drink.”

She hesitates, suspicion flaring in those stormy eyes. I can almost taste her fear, but she takes the goblet. Instead of raising it immediately to her lips, she studies the liquid, likely pondering the risk of poison or worse. She must realize that refusing me could be an even bigger danger.

She brings it to her mouth and sips. I note the slight grimace—an understandable reaction to the sharp, medicinal bite. Still, she doesn’t spit it out. There’s a flicker of steel in her manner that I respect.

“You’ll remain here,” I tell her once she sets the goblet down. “We’ll arrange a chamber for you near the western corridor. For now, you’re not to wander freely until I’m certain you aren’t a liability.”

She gives a measured nod, struggling for composure. “As you command.”

Her subdued tone intrigues me; it’s not fawning, not sniveling. She’s cautious, but I sense the underlying flicker of irritation.

“Tomorrow,” I continue, “you’ll receive fresh attire and basic training in our customs. My mother and I have... plans for you. Obedience will keep you alive. Competence may grant you more freedom than you expect.”

“Freedom?” She arches a brow. “Under Vrakken rule?”

My lips tighten. “You’ll find we are not the dark elves. We don’t delight in making our thralls suffer needlessly. But make no mistake—we are predators. Don’t confuse our disinterest in petty cruelty for mercy.”

A shadow crosses her face. She reaches for the wine again, as if grappling with the implications of my words. Silence follows, punctuated by the steady crackle of the fire.

That’s when I sense it—the faint shift in her pulse.

My heightened hearing picks up the quickening tempo, and my predatory instincts stir.

Her blood calls to me, but I clamp down on the hunger.

Feeding is not my aim this evening. There’s a bigger opportunity here, one that requires cunning, not impulsive indulgence.

I lean forward. “Valeria, House Draeven has many enemies.”

Her brow furrows. “The dark elves? Aren’t they your allies now?”

A mirthless laugh escapes me. “They’d like to think so, but alliances with them are fleeting.

The bigger threats lie elsewhere as well.

Rival Vrakken Houses, certain orc factions, and other.

.. forces that resent our hold on strategic resources.

” I lace my fingers together. “We have to stay vigilant, and for that, we need eyes in many places.”

She studies me for a moment, lips parted in a silent question. A shadow of realization flickers behind her gaze—perhaps she’s guessing that I intend to use her in some greater design. My mother’s words echo in my ears: Watch her, Vaelorian. There’s more than meets the eye.

“I see,” she replies softly. “So you’re telling me I might be one of those eyes?”

“Perhaps.” My wings shift against the chair’s back, a subtle reminder that I’m far from human. “In time, if you prove capable.”

She releases a slow breath. “I’ve been surviving under the dark elves for years. I know how to gather information.” There’s a bitterness to her tone that piques my curiosity. She’s either well-practiced in subterfuge or extremely desperate. Possibly both.

I rise to my feet with deliberate grace, ignoring the slight tension in my muscles.

Her gaze flicks to my wings, then away, as though unnerved by the silent threat they represent.

The room suddenly feels smaller with me standing, overshadowing her.

I’m keenly aware of her elevated pulse and the faint flush creeping along her neck, whether from the wine or something else.

Stepping closer, I let the firelight cast dancing reflections in my black eyes. She stiffens, but holds her ground. “There will be rules,” I say softly. “Betray them, and you’ll learn how swiftly House Draeven punishes disloyalty. Am I clear?”

She swallows. “Perfectly clear.”

For a moment, we stand in silence. The flicker of candlelight plays over her features, highlighting the set of her jaw, the intensity of her gaze.

Something about her stirs a faint spark in my chest—a fleeting sensation that’s neither hunger nor pity, but a dangerous third option. Interest. I mentally push it aside.

I pivot toward the door. “You’ll be escorted to your temporary quarters. Rest. Tomorrow begins your orientation into our household.”

The door opens to reveal a Vrakken attendant waiting on the other side. Without needing direction, he steps in, offering a curt bow. “My lord?”

“Take her to the west wing,” I instruct, then glance back at Valeria. “Don’t cause trouble.”

She inclines her head. “I won’t.”

Her tone is subdued, but I don’t miss the way her gaze lingers on me as she stands. She follows the attendant out, and leaves me alone in the receiving room. I watch her disappear into the corridor. As soon as the door closes, I exhale slowly.

She’s different than the others. I can’t fully articulate why, but I suspect the next few days will reveal more. I recall the subtext in my mother’s parting words: “See what she’s capable of, Vaelorian. Push her until she shows her true colors.”

An hour later, I make my way through the fortress halls toward the highest tower, where my mother’s private study overlooks the entire estate.

My boots barely whisper over the ancient stone floors.

My wings remain furled, though they occasionally brush the corridor walls.

Servants and lesser Vrakken step aside with bowed heads when I pass.

The hush of this place is something I’ve grown up with, a constant reminder that we exist above the fray of lesser creatures.