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Nodding, I turn away before emotion overwhelms me. He’s safe. Our entire effort isn’t in vain. I swallow the sob threatening to rise and focus on helping Helrath coordinate a hidden campsite. The freed captives deserve rest, and we have urgent news to share with Vaelorian once he arrives.

Night falls, and we find a small clearing tucked between rocky outcrops.

Helrath organizes watch rotations while I help distribute meager rations.

The air is cold, starless clouds hiding the moon.

A low campfire crackles, its flames carefully shielded behind a boulder to avoid detection.

The rescued Vrakken huddle close, trembling from exhaustion and trauma.

Their presence is a grim testament to the dark elves’ cruelty.

Time drags. Every minute, I expect dark elf scouts to descend upon us. Each rustle of wind or snap of a twig sets my nerves on edge. But no one appears—at least not from that direction.

Finally, the crunch of gravel alerts us to approaching figures.

My heart leaps. Helrath signals caution, but a moment later, Vaelorian steps into the fire’s glow, supporting a limping House Draeven soldier.

My chest constricts at the sight of a fresh gash on his forearm, blood staining his coat.

Yet he’s alive, expression grim but fierce as ever.

He meets my gaze across the flickering firelight. Relief, anger, unspoken emotion churn in my gut. I stand, hands shaking. He passes the wounded soldier to Helrath’s care and heads my way, eyes never leaving mine.

“You made it,” I whisper, voice clogged with more feeling than I’d like.

He dips his chin, exhaling. “We lost a few good men. But yes. We stalled the reinforcements long enough to escape.”

I notice fresh bruises on his jaw, dirt smudging his cheek, a tear in one wing membrane that’s already scabbing over. My heart aches. “Are you—hurt badly?”

He shakes his head. “Superficial wounds. I’ll manage.” He glances at the ragged circle of freed prisoners. “Looks like you got them out.”

I nod. “Thanks to you and Helrath. They’re shaken, but alive.”

His shoulders sag slightly, relief threading through his posture. “Good.” Then his gaze flickers with renewed tension. “We need to talk.” He gestures away from the camp, ensuring privacy. “Please.”

I swallow, recalling the scout’s report that an entire dark elf army pursues me. My terror, fury, and confusion swirl anew. Still, I find myself following him beyond the low ring of light cast by the fire.

A short distance from camp, we stand under the shadow of towering pines. The night is black except for the faint glow of starlight. Vaelorian turns to me, face half-hidden in darkness. The tension is palpable.

He speaks first, voice soft but urgent. “The dark elves who followed us… I overheard some of their shouts. They specifically want you, yes, but not just for experiments. They plan to use your half-blood status as a catalyst—a demonstration of power. If they capture you, they’ll parade you as a triumph, a new dawn for dark elf magic.

They’re rallying their armies around that concept. ”

My stomach lurches. “So I’m a… trophy?”

“Worse,” he says. “They’d dissect you publicly, perhaps feed the rumor that half-bloods exist in greater numbers, incite fear among Vrakken. They’d use your suffering to fracture our alliances.”

I choke on a wave of revulsion. “Gods. How can they be so monstrous?”

He reaches out, almost touching my arm, then withdrawing. “Not all are. But the ones loyal to Xathien? They’d do anything to harness your unique blood. They see it as a key to controlling Vrakken essence, bridging a gap in their magic. We can’t let them take you.”

Tremors course through me, tears burning my eyes. “I’m so tired of being everyone’s tool. Why can’t they just—” My voice cracks, and I suck in a ragged breath. “The Vrakken Council calls me an abomination, the dark elves want me as a trophy for war. I’m cornered on all sides.”

Vaelorian’s expression twists with sympathy and guilt.

“I’m sorry. Truly. If I could carry that burden for you, I would.

” His tone trembles with sincerity that pricks my heart.

“But we have this proof now—those captives. Once we bring them to House Draeven, we might unite enough Vrakken to stave off the dark elf armies.”

My anger bubbles up again. “And then what? The Council might still execute me if they decide it’s politically expedient. If they think handing me over to the dark elves will avert war, they might do it.”

He shakes his head fiercely. “I won’t allow it.”

I laugh bitterly. “You keep saying that, as if your will alone can stop them. Are you prepared to fight the entire Council, your own mother included?”

His jaw sets. “Yes. If that’s what I have to do.”

The raw conviction in his voice stuns me. We lock eyes, a crackle of unresolved emotion passing between us. My mind reels with the weight of it all—fear that the world wants me dead, fury at how I’ve been manipulated, and a traitorous longing for Vaelorian’s assurance.

Tears gather at the corners of my eyes. I blink them back, voice trembling. “I’m scared.”

He steps closer, so close I smell the faint tang of blood on his coat, the musk of sweat and dust. “Me too,” he admits, voice low.

“But we stand a chance if we unite these rescued Vrakken with House Draeven, then rally other clans. The Council thrives on power—if they see we can undermine the dark elves’ new weapon and you’re vital to that success, they’ll relent. ”

I wrap my arms around myself, nodding slowly. “You really believe that?”

His silence hangs for a moment, then he exhales. “I have to. This war is coming, whether we like it or not. At least with you fighting beside us, we have a chance to face the dark elves on equal footing.”

Warmth flickers behind my ribs, warring with the cloying terror.

I search his face, seeking sincerity. Despite our tangled past, I sense no deception now—only a desperate resolve that mirrors my own.

The night wind rustles overhead, and for an instant, it feels like the entire world pauses, letting us share this moment of raw honesty.

Eventually, I nod, stepping back. “All right. We press on. We bring these captives back, show the Council the truth. I’ll stand before them, half-blood or not, and demand they see reason.”

His eyes darken with emotion. “You won’t stand alone.”

A flush crawls up my neck. His unwavering presence could be my anchor in a world determined to tear me apart.

I hate how much I want to lean on him, how my anger at his past manipulations can’t eclipse the yearning for his protection, his approval.

We’re bound by necessity, but maybe more.

The thought is as terrifying as it is comforting.

“Thank you,” I whisper, voice thick. “For not letting me face this alone.”

A faint, sad smile graces his lips. “Always.”

We linger in the hush, hearts pounding in the darkness.

Then voices from camp filter through the trees—cries of wounded, the crackle of fire.

We break apart, each returning to the grim responsibilities that await us.

Yet an undercurrent of unity threads between us now, steadier than before.

We’re no longer master and thrall, nor manipulator and pawn.

We’re partners in survival, each clinging to the other in a world that wants us dead.

We spend the rest of the night tending to the rescued prisoners, patching wounds, and sharing scant rations.

The next morning dawns cloudy, with a chill that seeps into our bones.

Vaelorian’s group merges with ours, forming a single escort.

Everyone is on edge, glancing over shoulders, expecting dark elf pursuers any moment.

But no immediate attack comes. Perhaps the dark elves are regrouping, or they consider us too small a party to warrant heavy pursuit. Or they’re leading that army toward House Draeven itself. The possibility sends cold dread through me.

We break camp, traveling with the freed Vrakken at a careful pace.

Vaelorian and Helrath ride point, leading us through hidden trails.

As I ride behind them on a borrowed horse, I sense each soldier’s tension like static in the air.

The day drags on, each footstep a step closer to House Draeven. To the Council’s judgment.

At midday, a scout reports no sign of enemy patrols. Relief mingles with suspicion. They might be waiting for us at the fortress, or encircling us from another route. I catch Vaelorian’s gaze, and he mirrors my unease with a grim nod.

Finally, after hours of winding through forested valleys, House Draeven’s looming walls appear in the distance.

My heart lurches at the sight, uncertain if I should feel safe or threatened.

This fortress is both sanctuary and potential prison.

Yet, it’s the only place we can gather allies and plan to fight back against the dark elf army craving my blood.

As we approach, the gates open, revealing Brinda and a contingent of guards waiting.

Among them, I spot a few scowling council members.

My pulse flutters. They’re here for me. They see the battered prisoners, the worn expressions of our returning warriors.

Vaelorian rides in, head high, projecting confidence despite fatigue and injuries.

I dismount carefully, legs wobbling. Helrath and the soldiers help the rescued Vrakken into the courtyard, ignoring the shocked murmurs from watchers.

Brinda steps forward, eyes sweeping over the captives with grim recognition.

Then her gaze snaps to me, an unspoken question in her eyes: Is this your proof?

Vaelorian speaks before she can. “We have them, Mother,” he says, voice echoing in the stone courtyard. “Dark elf experiments confirmed—these Vrakken were to be used for essence harvesting. The half-blood’s intel was correct.”