Page 56

VALERIA

I crouch in the dense underbrush, heart thrumming in my ears, scanning the dark elf supply convoy through a mesh of thorny vines.

Behind me, Vaelorian waits in absolute stillness, his presence a steady warmth against the chill of midnight.

The moon lies hidden behind thick clouds, granting our small band natural cover, but we cloak ourselves in illusions nonetheless.

We’re close enough to the dark elf camp that I can smell the tang of metal and the faint stink of arcane residue lingering in the air—a testament to their twisted experiments.

The forest around us rustles with nocturnal life.

Each creak of a branch or flutter of wings sends a spike of tension through me, though I force myself to stay calm.

This is our first major strike since we turned our backs on House Draeven.

The plan is simple: sabotage the dark elves’ supply lines before they can move out at dawn, crippling their ability to fortify Xathien’s fortress.

If we pull it off, we’ll buy ourselves precious time to rally more outcasts—Vrakken just like us who reject the Council’s hypocrisy and the dark elves’ tyranny.

I suppress the flicker of rage that bubbles up whenever I recall my old life: a human slave, ignorant of my half-Vrakken blood.

So many months have passed since that blind terror I once felt, bowing to dark elf masters.

Now, crouching here in the gloom, illusions rippling around me with each indrawn breath, I feel the raw power of my hybrid nature thrumming in my veins. I’m done being anyone’s prey.

Vaelorian’s hand brushes my shoulder, a subtle signal to hold.

I glance at him, reading the question in his dark gaze: Are you ready?

I give a short nod. My leg still aches from the wound I sustained during House Draeven’s downfall, but the bandages hold, and I’ve taught myself to fight through the pain.

Adrenaline sharpens every sense, making me hyper-aware of the faint hum of illusions Vaelorian weaves around us and the low murmur of conversation drifting from the dark elf camp ahead.

Close behind us crouch five of our newest allies—disgruntled Vrakken outcasts who, like us, have either lost faith in the Council or never had it to begin with.

They’ve joined Vaelorian and me in our mission to destroy the dark elves’ supply lines, forging a new camaraderie amid the wreckage of what we once called home.

For them, the Council’s betrayal stings as deeply as House Draeven’s downfall stings for Vaelorian, and none of them wants the dark elves running rampant with fresh resources.

“The wagons are loaded with spell components, potions, steel for forging weapons,” Vaelorian murmurs, so low I only catch the edge of his voice.

His wings remain tucked behind him, a sign of disciplined tension.

“If we destroy them, we hamper Xathien’s fortress by weeks, maybe more.

They can’t build their advanced illusions or arm their thralls so easily. ”

I nod, letting my illusions settle. The swirl of magic around us flickers in my peripheral vision: faint sparks of color that only a half-blood’s senses might detect.

I find myself relishing this new awareness.

Where once illusions left me confused and defenseless, now I read them almost instinctively.

The subtle weave of Vaelorian’s cloak merges with my own, forming a layered shield that keeps the dark elves from noticing us.

All these gifts… I used to fear them. Now, I embrace them.

The power is heady, a salve to the memories of cowering in dark elf courts.

One of our outcasts, a tall Vrakken named Daron, inches forward on his belly.

He gives me a small hand signal—he sees about a dozen sentries stationed around the wagons, plus who-knows-how many inside the tented center of the camp.

That’s more guards than we expected. My heart clenches.

We can’t brute force this. If we try, we’ll be surrounded in minutes, illusions or not.

Vaelorian’s palm finds my shoulder blade again, warm through the fabric of my cloak.

I steady my breath, letting the old fury course through me, sharpen me.

For a moment, I think of how our synergy has grown.

Since that night we fled House Draeven, parted ways with the Council for good, we’ve survived by forging a tight bond—both physically and in combat.

My leg may still ache, but the electricity of Vaelorian’s presence fuels me.

We stand as equals now, no longer master and operative, no more manipulations.

The lines between necessity and real affection blur each time I catch his eyes, each time his hand lingers on my skin.

Daron slides back to us, face taut. “They have illusions patrolling the perimeter, possibly set to trigger an alarm if tampered with,” he whispers. “We can’t just slip in and light the wagons ablaze. The wards will sound an alert.”

I grimace. If the wards trigger, we risk being pinned down. “We must handle them silently,” I murmur. “Take down the wards from within, sabotage the wagons with minimal fuss, then vanish.”

Vaelorian nods, turning to the rest of our group.

“We split. Valeria and I will infiltrate the main tent, see if we can break their illusions from the inside. The rest circle the camp, disabling outer sentries and planting small bombs on the wagons. Work quickly—at the first sign of major resistance, we retreat.”

The outcasts glance at each other, tension thick in the hush.

They trust us, but they also know how lethal dark elf illusions can be.

Despite that, determination steels their expressions.

None of them wants to yield to the dark elves, who already subjugate half the world.

I feel a swell of resolve that dwarfs my lingering dread.

I press my lips together, adjusting the illusions swirling around my body.

Vaelorian slips forward, cloak shifting to match the forest’s darkness, and I match his pace.

We circle wide, hugging the perimeter. The camp’s meager firelight casts dancing shadows across the clustered wagons.

A ring of illusions flickers overhead, wards set in place to detect intruders.

But I can see them, albeit faintly. My half-blood senses pick out the shimmering lines that shape each ward.

If we time it right, we can slip through the largest gap—like stepping through a net of light.

Vaelorian holds my hand as we approach the wards.

My leg throbs, but I grit my teeth. His presence pulses with a steady calm, letting me focus on unraveling the pattern.

My illusions swirl in tandem with his, forming a subtle weave that I guide through the wards’ biggest gap.

My breath catches, every sense screaming we’re a hair’s breadth from triggering an alarm.

But the wards shiver, parting around our illusions as we pass.

I exhale softly in relief. We’re inside.

Behind us, I sense the outcasts skirting the opposite flank.

With any luck, they’ll disable a few sentries without raising a ruckus.

Meanwhile, Vaelorian and I aim for the largest tent at the camp’s center—a drab, high canopy from which I hear faint chanting.

The dark elves must store or shape illusions there, or coordinate this supply line.

If we sabotage the illusions, our group can sabotage the wagons without detection.

We slip between two guarded carriages. A pair of soldiers stands within feet of us, discussing watch rotations.

My entire body tenses. Vaelorian’s illusions swirl around us, and I hold my breath, praying my half-blood aura doesn’t slip free.

The soldiers look right at us—but their gaze drifts away, seeing only empty air.

My heart hammers. We’re invisible enough for now. My grip on Vaelorian’s hand tightens.

He leads me around stacked crates of spelled ore—dark lumps that faintly radiate arcane potential.

Another reminder of the dark elves’ hunger for power.

We reach the tent’s edge, slipping through the gap in the canvas.

The interior is lit by a single brazier, coals glowing with a sickly greenish hue.

My stomach churns at the stench of burning herbs.

A low table stands near the center, piled with scrolls and runic crystals.

Three robed figures cluster around it, chanting in that guttural dark elf tongue.

One figure is tall, male, wearing intricate filigreed armor over his robes.

The second is a slender female with hair braided tight, her dark skin etched with runic scars.

The third is a smaller silhouette, possibly an apprentice, carefully pouring some glittering powder into a mortar.

The illusions in the tent swirl in a visible swirl of color—the wards.

They’re powering or adjusting them with each incantation.

If we break that cycle, the wards around the camp flicker, letting our group sabotage the wagons.

I exchange a glance with Vaelorian, who lifts two runic tokens from his belt.

We each have a limited arsenal of illusions designed to disrupt or invert spells.

We can’t simply kill these mages in open combat without risking a loud commotion.

We must be subtle. My breath whooshes quietly. His expression is grim but confident.