Page 55

Her hand lingers. We stand in silence, letting our eyes convey a fragile sense of camaraderie that’s blossomed despite heartbreak.

A flicker of memory returns me to that feral moment in the catacombs, the mixture of pain and ecstasy.

My cheeks heat. Her lips part, and for a second, I think she might mention it.

But she closes her mouth, stepping back, clearing her throat.

We both know we can’t dwell on that now.

Outside, the group calls for us. The hour is up. It’s time. We exchange a final look, each reading the other’s mixture of fear and resolve. Then we walk from the tower, side by side, ignoring the pang in my chest that wonders if we’ll ever see these lands again.

The soldiers have readied a pair of half-broken wagons, salvaged from old stocks.

They’re not built for stealth, but we plan to abandon them once we approach Xathien’s domain.

For now, they carry our minimal supplies, extra illusions carefully stowed in crates.

Two battered horses stand harnessed to the front.

Their eyes roll with nerves, sensing tension in the air.

I help Valeria climb onto the driver’s seat of the first wagon.

A male soldier volunteers to handle the reins.

I climb in beside them, wings tight to avoid jostling the others.

The second wagon, manned by the rest, follows.

No fanfare, no banner. We leave the tower as quietly as we arrived, forging east on a rutted track that leads away from House Draeven’s heartland.

The journey stretches, day turning into night, night into day again.

We keep hidden, traveling narrow trails, resting only when absolutely necessary.

Valeria’s leg wound recovers slowly, thanks to the medical kit.

She manages short illusions whenever scouts pass, shielding us from stray dark elf patrols.

The soldiers are on constant watch, paranoid about assassins or monstrous beasts.

I realize with a pang that we might be safer among the beasts of the forest than the Vrakken Council or the dark elves.

At intervals, we come across secret caches Helrath and I stashed years ago—sealed crates hidden under rotted logs or buried near unmarked boulders.

Opening them reveals runic tokens for illusions, small bombs of arcane energy, potions for short bursts of speed or strength.

The sight of Helrath’s handiwork floods me with grief, but also pride.

He foresaw a time we might need these. We won’t waste his legacy.

Valeria helps distribute tokens to each soldier, demonstrating how to channel illusions without draining themselves.

She’s adept at explaining the runes, cautioning them about potential side effects.

Sometimes her posture sags, betraying her exhaustion, but she squares her shoulders, forging on.

Our eyes meet often—silent encouragement passing between us.

We have no one else to rely on but each other and these few loyal outcasts.

The path grows harsher the closer we get to Xathien’s domain.

The land itself feels tainted—gnarled trees, a faint miasma that might be residual illusions from the fortress.

At night, the wind howls, as though the magic saturating the area warps the very atmosphere.

The men speak in hushed tones around the campfire, glancing warily at the shadows.

Valeria’s half-blood senses prickle, warning us of subtle illusions drifting in the gloom.

We refine our wards to keep them at bay.

On the fourth day, we crest a ridge overlooking the valley that cradles Xathien’s fortress.

My stomach lurches at the sight: a massive stone structure perched on a black cliff, ringed by spiky towers that crackle with arcane power.

The air around the fortress shimmers with illusions—a web of wards so dense it appears like flickering purple lightning overhead.

A wide moat extends around the base, fed by a foul-looking river.

Dark spires loom. Even from this distance, I sense the hum of raw magic, twisting the environment.

We make camp behind the ridge, in a gully that keeps us hidden from prying eyes or scrying spells. Dusk settles, painting the fortress in malevolent silhouette. In the dying light, we gather for a final council, tension crackling in the air.

Valeria stands near me, a runic scroll clutched in her bandaged hand.

“We can’t brute force our way inside,” she says, voice carrying to the assembled soldiers.

“They have illusions far beyond normal wards. We’ll need to slip past with a layered cloak, find an internal weak point, and sabotage the labs from within. ”

I nod, scanning the group. “We have enough illusions to cover all of us for a short time. Once we’re inside, we split into two teams: sabotage and rescue.

Sabotage hits their essence labs—where they refine Vrakken blood into new spells.

The rescue team checks the holding cells for captives.

Once each team finishes, we regroup at the fortress’s northern gate.

Then we retreat before the entire garrison mobilizes. ”

The soldiers exchange grim looks. One asks, “What if we can’t find the labs? Or the illusions break?”

Valeria’s voice is sure. “Then we do as much damage as possible, any way we can. If illusions fail, we rely on stealth and speed. We can’t survive a prolonged siege. This is a strike—and-run mission. Understood?”

They nod, jaws set. My heart swells with pride at her composure.

We truly lead together, no question of me overshadowing her.

Even the soldiers, once uncertain about a half-blood, look to her for guidance.

The flicker of torches illuminates her battered face, showing raw determination in every line.

The memory of our catacomb union sears behind my eyes, reminding me how fragile we are. We must succeed or die.

Night deepens. The plan finalizes. We’ll approach on foot, illusions layered to render us near-invisible.

We carry small bombs to destroy arcane equipment or labs.

If we find captives, we’ll free them or at least kill the guards so no one else is tormented.

My throat goes dry at the enormity of it.

We are eight, challenging a fortress that might hold hundreds.

Yet fear of inaction is worse, especially for Valeria.

She stands beside me, face turned toward the ominous fortress lights flickering in the distance. I rest a hand on her shoulder. Her breath hitches, but she leans against me slightly. “We can do this,” I say softly, trying to infuse conviction.

Her eyes reflect the distant glow. “We have to.” She exhales. “If we don’t, the dark elves keep building their monstrous weapon. More half-bloods, more Vrakken, enslaved or dissected. If I can stop that even a little, it’s worth the risk.”

I gently cup her chin, wings lowering in a sign of intimacy.

She allows it, though a flicker of pain crosses her face—the memory of my betrayal still lingers.

I swallow. “After this, we vanish. Let the Council rage or label us traitors. Let House Draeven rebuild or crumble without us. We live our own fate.”

She nods, tears almost forming but blinked away. “Yes. Together.” Her voice trembles on that last word, but the vow stands. A fragile thread of hope binds us. I vow silently never to break it again.

We return to the small camp, instructing the soldiers to rest in shifts.

Tomorrow night, we strike. My nerves are taut as a drawn bowstring.

Even though exhaustion gnaws at me, my mind spins with visions of illusions and sabotage.

Valeria sits across from me at the fire, carefully re-inspecting her illusions.

The flicker of light plays over her features, revealing lingering heartbreak I can’t fully assuage.

Eventually, we bed down, each soldier forming a ring around the dimmed coals.

I settle near Valeria, who wraps a cloak around herself, eyes hooded.

The tension between us is palatable. My heart aches to offer comfort—some gentle touch or reminder that we’re not alone—but I hesitate.

We’ve shared desperate intimacy, but the rift is far from healed.

She’s the one who breaks the silence, voice low in the hush of midnight.

“I’m scared,” she admits, so quietly I almost miss it over the rustle of the breeze.

“Not just of the fortress. Of what comes after. If we do succeed and run… we’re wanted by everyone.

The Council, the dark elves, maybe even the orcs if they catch wind.

Nowhere will be safe. We might be exiles forever. ”

My throat closes. “Better exiles together than prisoners of a corrupt system.” I shift closer, letting my shoulder brush hers. “And maybe we find a place so remote, no one thinks to look. The world is vast, larger than we realize. Let them chase illusions if they want.”

She gives a fragile half-laugh. “A place of quiet… it sounds impossible.” Yet a flicker of yearning warms her tone. “I guess we’ll see.”

Gently, I curl a wing around her back, offering meager warmth.

She tenses for a moment, then leans into my side, eyes drifting shut.

My pulse races at the intimacy. This is not the frenetic collision of the catacombs but a softer closeness, weighted by sorrow and a glimmer of uncertain hope.

I press my lips to her temple. She doesn’t recoil. For now, that’s enough.

We drift into uneasy sleep, the crackle of illusions at the edge of our hearing, the fortress’s malice looming beyond the ridge.

I dream of stepping through shattered gates, runic bombs lighting up arcane labs, Valeria standing at my side, unstoppable in her fury.

Maybe it’s a prophecy, maybe just my fevered imagination.

But I cling to it. We will do this. We will break Xathien’s stronghold and carve out a future that belongs to us alone.

Dawn breaks, pale and somber, clouds thick in the sky.

Our group rises, finalizing gear for the night’s infiltration.

Tension thrums in each face. We do last-minute illusions practice, ensuring everyone can cloak themselves for a short duration.

We confirm bomb triggers, carefully packing them into sturdy satchels.

Valeria restocks her runic tokens, her leg wound stiff but scabbing over.

She moves slowly, grimacing with each step, but her eyes gleam with iron resolve.

At midday, we rest again, storing energy for the final approach.

My stomach churns, appetite gone. I watch Valeria doze under a gnarled tree, her brow furrowed as though even in dreams, war haunts her.

My wings ache with the longing to protect her from all this.

But she is no fragile ward—she is half Vrakken, a fierce operative who’s proven her worth many times over.

The days of me deciding her fate alone have ended.

We share this path, or we don’t walk it at all.

The sun dips westward, turning the sky bruise-purple.

The air grows heavy with the tang of oncoming rain.

Perfect cover for infiltration, I note grimly.

We pack camp in silence, each soldier lost in thought.

Then, with illusions readied, we begin the final march around the ridge to Xathien’s fortress gates.

No banners, no heralds—just a small band of outcasts forging into the heart of an enemy stronghold.

As we descend the ridge, the fortress comes into full view—a monstrous silhouette carved against storm clouds.

Lights flicker at parapets, illusions crackle overhead in arcs of violet lightning.

My chest tightens at the scale of it. The swirling wards are almost visible to the naked eye, radiating a hum that prickles my spine.

Valeria’s breath stutters at my side—her half-blood senses must be screaming under such potent magical pressure.

We stop at a ravine that cuts across the fortress’s outer moat. Dark water flows beneath, reeking of stagnation. I glance at Valeria, heart pounding. “We’re at the threshold,” I murmur. “No turning back.”

She nods, face set. “No turning back,” she echoes.

We stand side by side, illusions shimmering over us, runic bombs weighing heavily in our packs.

The men gather behind, grim and ready. I let out a slow breath, remembering the vow we made: sever ties with the Vrakken Council, strike the dark elves, then vanish.

This is the moment that vow becomes reality.

My wings lift in a quiet gesture of finality. “Let’s do this,” I say, voice trembling with suppressed adrenaline.

Valeria’s eyes meet mine, a flicker of shared conviction passing.

Despite the heartbreak and betrayal, we walk forward together, illusions rippling around our forms. One crisis at a time, one shared mission to sabotage Xathien’s fortress.

Afterward, we vanish into a world that may never want us, but at least we will have chosen our own fate.

With that silent oath, we step into the gloom, the fortress looming ahead like a beast waiting to devour us.

Yet for the first time, I feel a shred of freedom—not bound by the Council’s demands or the illusions of House Draeven’s unbreakable power.

I walk with Valeria at my side, equal partners forging a new path.

If we succeed or die, we do it on our own terms. And for now, that’s all that matters.