Page 54

When Valeria’s wound is dressed, she looks at me, exhaustion etched into every line of her face.

I help her settle against a wall, draping a spare cloak around her shoulders.

The soldiers around us whisper plans: forging illusions to hide our approach, searching for potential weak points in Xathien’s fortress.

They all look to me for final direction.

I realize with a jolt that I’m in command, truly , but not under the Council’s mandate—under my own.

Freed from House Draeven’s constraints, I can lead as I wish.

The responsibility is heavier than any seat on the Council.

Night falls outside, though the gloom remains thick within the tower.

A single lantern lights the center, revealing battered faces, eyes lined with fatigue.

We share a meager meal—stale bread, dried meat.

Valeria picks at hers, eyes distant. I sense she’s grappling with the day’s events, our new plan, and the swirl of heartbreak that lingers between us.

The group settles to rest, rotating two watchers at a time.

Valeria and I claim a corner near the broken statue.

I drape my coat for a semblance of privacy.

She lies down, head pillowed on a folded cloth, arms crossed protectively.

I long to hold her, to chase away her nightmares, but I sense her boundaries.

A flicker of shame reminds me how I feigned betrayal to lure the dark elves away, how she saw me cast her aside. That scar remains fresh.

I crouch beside her, wings half-furled to avoid smacking the statue. “You should sleep,” I whisper, voice low so as not to disturb the others. “Your leg won’t heal if you stay awake.”

Her lips tighten. “I’ll try,” she says curtly. Then her gaze softens a fraction. “What about you?”

“I’ll rest after I check in with the watchers. Then I’ll… sleep here, if that’s all right.” My heart thuds. She could refuse, but I want her to know I’m not straying, not leaving her alone in the darkness again.

She exhales, nodding once. “Fine. Just… don’t expect me to forget everything so quickly.”

“I won’t,” I murmur, a pang in my chest. “This plan… it’s the only way forward, but it doesn’t erase the pain I caused. I know that.”

She closes her eyes, turning her face away. “Go talk to your soldiers, Vaelorian. Then come back, if you want.” The weariness in her tone tugs at me. I manage a small nod, stepping away.

In the far corner, the watchers stand guard, eyes sweeping the tower’s single door.

I approach, giving them a quiet thanks for their vigilance.

We speak in low whispers about the route we might take to Xathien’s fortress, the illusions we must refine, the possibility of infiltration from a rear gate.

Each plan brims with risk, but I see a fervor in their eyes—this is about more than just vengeance for Helrath.

It’s about stopping the dark elves from enslaving or dissecting more of our kind.

At last, my body can’t endure further. My wings ache, my legs wobble from strain.

I nod to the watchers, instructing them to rouse me if they sense any threat.

Then I return to Valeria’s makeshift bed, finding her curled on her side, eyes half-shut.

Gently, I lower myself beside her, back to the statue, letting my wings wrap partly around us as a barrier against the chilly night.

She tenses, then relaxes when I don’t press closer than necessary.

My heart throbs with longing—I want to hold her—but I respect her space.

Sleep takes me in fitful waves, haunted by images of Helrath’s death, Mahir’s sneer, the Council’s cold stares.

I jerk awake more than once, checking the tower door.

No threat emerges. The watchers remain vigilant.

In one dream, I see Valeria’s tear-stained face in the catacombs, accusing me of lies, only to morph into the half-dead captives we saved from Xathien’s caravan.

Guilt gnaws at me, but I push it away. We’re forging a new future. We must.

Dawn arrives gray and listless, clouds masking the sun.

The watchers confirm no sign of pursuit.

Perhaps the dark elves assume we perished in the fortress’s collapse.

The group rouses, stirring stiff limbs and rummaging for meager rations.

I check on Valeria’s bandage—fresh blood seeps through, but she assures me she can walk.

Determination steels her features, overshadowing her pain.

We gather around the battered statue, our circle of eight. The tension is palpable—we’re about to commit to a dangerous strike on Xathien’s fortress. I address them in a low voice, mindful of any lingering enemies.

“Our path is clear,” I say. “We sever ties with House Draeven’s Council. They have either fallen or turned on us. We can’t count on reinforcements from them. Our target is Xathien’s stronghold. We slip inside, sabotage their essence labs, free any captives if possible, and vanish.”

The dark-haired female soldier nods. “Where do we vanish to afterward?”

I exchange a glance with Valeria, who stands at my side, chin raised. “Somewhere far from Vrakken lands,” I say. “A place they won’t expect—maybe the eastern wilds, or coastal territories. We’ll regroup and heal. Then we decide if we continue this fight or truly disappear from the war.”

They listen intently. Some shift uncertainly. One soldier mutters, “We’re going rogue,” under his breath, but it lacks condemnation. More a statement of fact. They realize House Draeven’s core has crumbled. They remain because of loyalty to Helrath’s legacy, loyalty to me, or both.

Valeria speaks up, voice steady despite her exhaustion.

“We must rely on illusions and stealth, not brute force. The fortress wards might be strong. We’ll need to identify a weak link.

Possibly infiltration disguised as mercenaries or lesser dark elves.

I can help pierce illusions, but we’ll need runic tokens to cloak ourselves.

” She looks to me. “You said you have old caches of supplies?”

I nod. “Some. Helrath and I stashed them near outlying routes to the fortress. We can retrieve them if they haven’t been raided. Enough illusions for a small group. We do this in two stages: first, the approach, undetected. Then the sabotage, using a combination of illusions and targeted strikes.”

Her gaze sharpens. “And the captives? We rescue them mid-operation or after the sabotage?”

I exhale, picturing the fortress’s rumored layout—a labyrinth of labs, prison cells, and wards.

“If we can find a direct route to the cells, we free them first. If the fortress alarm triggers early, we sabotage the labs so they can’t harness any prisoner’s blood.

Then we break out with as many survivors as possible. ”

A hush ensues, thick with fear and determination.

Each of them understands the risk. We’re possibly condemning ourselves to a suicidal mission, but letting the dark elves run amok is worse.

I let the moment weigh on them before continuing.

“I won’t force any of you to come. If you wish to abandon this fight, do so.

No shame in it.” My wings flex, acknowledging that we owe them no illusions of glory. This is pure survival and vengeance.

They exchange looks, but no one steps back. The dark-haired woman crosses her arms. “Helrath believed in you. If he were here, he’d be the first to volunteer. That’s good enough for me.”

A solemn nod ripples through the others.

My throat tightens with gratitude and sorrow.

Helrath’s memory galvanizes us. “Then let’s be about it,” I say, voice cracking.

“We leave within the hour. Travel light. The fortress is a few days’ journey if we keep to hidden paths.

We gather illusions from the caches, then strike. ”

Valeria stands beside me, tension thrumming in the space between us. She’s my partner in this, no longer my subordinate. The realization steadies me, forging a sense of unity. I will not treat her as a tool. We do this side by side, equals in every sense.

When the meeting concludes, the soldiers disperse to gather gear.

I linger near the broken statue, running a hand over its chipped features.

Once, it depicted one of my House’s founding warriors.

Now the face is half gone, the old runes scoured away.

A potent metaphor for what House Draeven has become.

My wings droop, eyes burning with unshed tears.

I never thought I’d forsake my lineage so completely. But I can’t let sorrow paralyze me.

A light touch alights on my shoulder. Valeria stands behind me, quiet concern in her gaze. “You all right?” she asks softly, voice echoing in the still tower.

I swallow the lump in my throat, turning to face her fully. “I will be,” I say, voice thick. “It’s just… the finality of it all. Giving up House Draeven. Letting the Council brand me a traitor. I spent centuries believing I’d one day lead them to glory.”

Her expression softens. “Sometimes the only way to save what matters is to let go of what doesn’t.” She hesitates, then places her hand on my chest, over my heart. “You’re forging a path free of their corruption. That might be the real glory, Vaelorian.”

A surge of warmth washes over me. She’s right. I’m forging something new—a destiny built with my own hands, not bound by archaic laws or manipulations. And if it means severing from the Council, so be it. My wings lift in a faint show of renewed determination. “Thank you,” I whisper.