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A dull ache pulls at my chest, a mix of regret and fragile hope.

I dare to lean in, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead.

She doesn’t resist, though her shoulders tremble briefly.

“Sleep,” I whisper. She nods, letting her eyelids sink closed, nestling her head against my side.

A storm of warmth floods me—an odd sense of peace in the midst of a war zone.

I vow to watch over her, no illusions left between us.

She drifts off, exhaustion overtaking her battered body.

I remain awake for a while, scanning the dim forest for threats.

My illusions swirl faintly, mind hazy with fatigue.

The mere thought of the sabotage mission fills me with adrenaline.

If we succeed, we cut the dark elves’ progress short, deny them fresh abominations, and buy ourselves weeks or months to vanish.

If we fail, we forfeit our lives. But living under the Council’s rule or the dark elves’ ambition is no life at all.

A breeze rustles leaves overhead, the forest’s hush reminding me of childhood nights spent in remote outposts.

Back then, my mother’s voice urged me to harness my power for House Draeven’s sake, never imagining I’d one day break free from it all.

The magnitude of what I’ve done—turning my back on my birthright—still stuns me.

But I can’t regret it. Not if it means Valeria escapes the fate half the world wants to impose on her.

Eventually, exhaustion claims me, too. My eyes flutter shut, head propped against the oak’s rough bark.

Even in sleep, though, I can’t fully rest. My dreams are haunted by fleeting images: Helrath’s lifeless eyes, the council chamber caked in blood, Valeria’s tearstained face when she believed I’d forsaken her for real.

I twitch awake more than once, scanning the forest for foes, but it remains silent.

By the time the sun stands high overhead, we stir.

I curse myself for sleeping too long, but Valeria still looks pale, her wound raw.

We share the last scraps of travel rations from my belt pouch.

Each mouthful tastes bitter with the knowledge we have no real supplies.

We’re fugitives, on the run, about to launch a mission no sane person would attempt.

When she stands, she wobbles, leaning on me for support. A flinch crosses her face. “We need a real healer,” she says softly.

I nod, guilt gnawing my insides. “The outpost might have basic supplies, though not much else. Let’s hope we can get you stable.

” My hand steadies her waist. Her proximity still sends a jolt through me—reminding me how we clung to each other in that catacomb in an explosive moment of heartbreak and need.

Her cheeks color, as if recalling it, too.

We share no words about it, but the tension simmers beneath our interactions, promising more complexities to come.

Step by step, we exit the hollow, illusions swirling around us as I attempt to mask our presence.

My magical reserves are battered, but I can manage a light cloak.

We pick a winding route east, avoiding roads or villages.

The day stretches, hours of quiet trudging through forest glades, crossing a shallow stream, and scaling gentle slopes.

The sun’s heat grows oppressive, especially with our wounds.

Yet we press on, a single unspoken motive binding us.

Valeria limps, determined to keep pace, though sweat beads on her forehead.

I offer her my arm whenever the trail grows rough.

Each time, she hesitates before taking it, as though testing my sincerity.

My chest aches with each flicker of mistrust, but I accept it.

I nearly cost her life. Earning back her trust might never be fully possible, but I’ll try.

Late afternoon, we crest a hill overlooking a valley.

In the distance, the faint spires of some ruined watchtower pierce the skyline.

My heart leaps with recognition—the outpost. Helrath and I used to coordinate covert missions from that tower.

If any loyal soldiers remain, that’s where they’ll be.

And if not, at least we can scrounge supplies, maybe a horse or two.

We descend the hill with caution, scanning for ambushes. The air grows thick and still, no sign of pursuit. Perhaps the dark elves remain busy sacking House Draeven. The thought sends a pang of guilt, but I push it aside. This is survival.

Upon reaching the tower, I notice the front gates stand partly ajar, vines creeping over ancient stone.

No movement. My chest tightens—what if it’s deserted?

I help Valeria inside the crumbling courtyard.

Broken crates litter the ground, a sign of old skirmishes.

My pulse jumps when I catch the outline of a figure leaning against the tower wall, sword across his lap.

My illusions ripple. I raise my hand, calling out quietly. “Who goes there?”

The figure starts, scrambling to his feet. He’s a young Vrakken soldier, wearing battered House Draeven leathers. Recognition dawns on his face. “Lord Vaelorian,” he breathes, voice echoing in the courtyard’s hush. “We thought… the fortress fell.”

I step forward, guiding Valeria. “It did,” I say bluntly. “The Council is compromised, traitors everywhere. We need your help—if you’re loyal to me, not the Council.” My gaze flicks to the tower door, wondering if more of them hide inside.

He glances at Valeria, eyes widening. She stands with me, half leaning on my arm, hair matted with sweat, face set.

In the old days, a soldier might question a human’s presence, but he just nods once, awe crossing his features.

“We owe you for saving those captives from the caravans. Helrath spoke highly of you both.” His voice softens. “But… Helrath is…?”

My throat constricts. “Gone. Murdered by Mahir.” I see shock and grief in the soldier’s eyes, matching my own heartbreak. “Are there others here?”

He jerks his chin at the tower. “A handful of us, mostly Helrath’s men. We fled the fortress when it turned chaotic, hoping to regroup. We thought we might stage a rescue mission for anyone left. We’re low on supplies, though.”

Relief wars with sorrow. “We’ll figure it out,” I say, voice grim. “We have a bigger mission now. Let’s go inside.”

He nods, leading us through the battered doors into the tower’s main chamber.

The interior smells of old straw and stale air.

A small band of Vrakken—five men and one woman—huddles around a feeble campfire.

Their eyes widen at our entrance, some standing abruptly, hands on weapons.

Then they recognize me, stiffening in salutes or half-bows.

I see grief etched in their faces—these must be Helrath’s personal retinue, loyal to him more than the Council.

Valeria stands tense, uncertain how they’ll react to a half-blood.

No hostility arises; they just look relieved to see any sign of leadership.

I clear my throat, wings flexing in the cramped space.

“We survived the fortress. Helrath did not. Mahir betrayed us, opening the gates for the dark elves. The Council is likely scattered or compromised. House Draeven as we knew it has fallen.” My words draw anguished gasps.

I see the men exchange looks, shock rolling in waves.

Valeria steps forward, voice tight. “I’m sorry for your losses. We lost everything last night.” She exhales, blinking fatigue from her eyes. “But we can’t surrender.”

The female soldier—dark-haired, face smudged with dirt—nods vehemently. “Never. Helrath taught us better than to give in to betrayal. But what can we do? We’re just seven, eight counting you two. Hardly an army.”

I let the hush build, meeting each gaze with as much steady calm as I can muster. “We can strike the dark elves at their core,” I say. “Xathien’s fortress, the place fueling their essence- harvesting operation. We sabotage it, free any captives, and shatter their momentum.”

A ripple of confusion greets my words. “That fortress is rumored to be heavily guarded,” the soldier warns. “We’d be walking into our own funerals.”

Valeria lifts her chin, that fierce spark flaring. “We managed to rescue captives from Xathien’s caravan. If we do nothing now, the dark elves will keep capturing Vrakken and possibly more half-bloods—like me—for their twisted magic. War is coming, but if we strike first, we level the field.”

Murmurs break out, some uncertain, others nodding with grim admiration. The soldier who greeted us in the courtyard sets his jaw. “Helrath would want us to fight,” he says. “If it means avenging him, we’re in.”

I nod, gratitude coursing through me. “Then gather what supplies remain. We rest a day to tend wounds, and tomorrow at dusk, we depart. Speed and stealth will be our weapons. Any illusions you can muster, any scouting we can do, we’ll use.”

The group murmurs assent. I notice Valeria swaying slightly—her leg must be killing her.

I guide her to a corner, letting her sink onto a half-rotten crate.

One of the men offers us a ragged blanket.

Another fetches a battered medical kit. The woman with dark hair kneels, helping me re-examine Valeria’s wound.

She flinches, exhaling in relief as the soldier applies a mild salve that stings but disinfects.

While they work, I scan the tower’s interior—a battered statue in the corner, chipped away by time, once a symbol of House Draeven’s glory.

My heart clenches with a mixture of loss and resolve.

We’re forging a new path. This tower, once a footnote in my House’s domain, is now our staging ground for a mission that might change the balance of the entire war.