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VALERIA

I wake to the faint glow of a single candle perched on a side table, its wax dripping into a dish fashioned from polished obsidian.

My surroundings come into focus—stone walls carved with arcane patterns, a narrow arched window letting in slivers of predawn gloom, and a canopy bed draped in black velvet.

The events of the previous night rush back to me: being chosen as tribute, meeting Vaelorian Draeven, and feeling certain I’d be little more than a blood source for him to drain.

Yet he didn’t feed on me. Instead, after some cryptic words, he had me taken here, to a guest chamber in the western corridor of House Draeven.

My thoughts churn, confusion twisting through my chest. I’ve lived my entire life anticipating the moment a powerful being—be it a dark elf master or, in this case, a Vrakken—would decide I was disposable.

The way Vaelorian looked at me, with careful, penetrating attention, still haunts me.

I sit up, pressing a palm to my forehead as though I can calm the spinning questions there.

The bed’s velvet canopy shifts overhead.

Everything about this room is designed to remind me I’m in a place of wealth and danger: the tapestries depicting ominous, batlike creatures swooping over landscapes; the braided rugs that feel too soft under my bare feet, like illusions of comfort in a world that’s anything but.

A tentative knock at the door startles me.

I draw a quick breath, crossing the stone floor.

Before I even reach the handle, the door creaks open.

A female attendant—clearly Vrakken from her ghostly complexion and elongated canines—enters, carrying a folded pile of clothes.

She doesn’t look me in the eye, which is surprising.

Usually, Vrakken regard humans with either apathy or mild disdain.

“You are to prepare yourself,” she says, voice subdued. “Lord Vaelorian has requested your presence in the south wing.”

My heart jolts. “Now?”

She gives a curt nod. “You have half an hour. Put these on.” She lays the garments at the foot of the bed. “I’ll wait to escort you.”

I exhale and glance down at the clothes. The fabric is surprisingly fine—a tunic in deep maroon, embroidered at the cuffs, and leggings of supple black material. My old garments reek of the dark elf estate and carry the stains of my captivity. Even so, this abrupt generosity feels like a trap.

“Thank you,” I manage, trying to keep the suspicion out of my tone.

The attendant inclines her head and motions for me to dress. She steps back, giving me space. It’s awkward, but I learned a long time ago not to balk at such intrusions. Privacy is a rare commodity in a world ruled by creatures who see humans as tools.

I slip into the fresh attire. The tunic is a bit snug across my shoulders, but the fabric is softer than anything I’ve worn before.

The attendant then hands me a pair of dark boots that fit decently well, if slightly tight at the toes.

A final glance in a mirror—tarnished at the edges, yet still reflective enough—reveals I look almost like a free woman in these clothes. Almost.

When I finish, she nods, signing me to follow, and leads me into the hallway.

The fortress corridors are narrow here, lit by wrought-iron sconces flickering with eerie greenish light.

My gaze travels over the faintly pulsing runes carved into the walls.

I suspect they’re wards meant to deter unauthorized magic or infiltration.

Every shadow seems to breathe with possibility.

We pass several other Vrakken—some in sleek uniforms, others wearing elegantly draped robes—but they pay me no heed beyond a cursory glance. The hush in this wing is uncanny, broken only by our footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Eventually, we reach a tall wooden door reinforced with black iron.

The attendant pauses, knocking twice. A low voice from within beckons, “Enter.”

She opens the door and stands aside, letting me step in first. My stomach knots, but I force myself forward.

It’s a spacious room, larger than I expected, with a high ceiling and a grand window overlooking the fortress courtyard.

Shelves stuffed with scrolls and leather-bound tomes line two walls, and a massive circular table occupies the center, strewn with maps, loose parchment, and a single black quill set in an inkpot.

A tapestry depicting a swirling night sky dotted with monstrous silhouettes hangs to the left.

Vaelorian stands near the table, broad-shouldered and impossibly poised.

In the morning light seeping through the window, he appears almost sculptural: that pale skin, hair as dark as midnight, wings folded neatly behind him.

He’s in a similar style of attire as last night—sleek black leathers, bracers at his forearms, and a plain silver clasp at his collar.

It’s understated compared to what I’ve seen some Vrakken wear, but it only amplifies the lethal grace he radiates.

He glances up, those black eyes focusing on me with unnerving precision. “Valeria,” he says, voice low.

I swallow, inclining my head in what I hope passes for respectful greeting. His gaze travels from my face down to my boots, and an odd tension thrums in the air.

“Leave us,” he orders the attendant without looking her way. She dips her head and exits, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. I’m acutely aware of how alone we are and how easily he could kill me if he so wished. My pulse drums, but I keep my posture steady, refusing to show the fear fluttering inside me.

“Step closer,” Vaelorian says quietly, gesturing to the table. “I have something to discuss with you.”

I do as instructed, halting at the opposite side of the table. The spread of parchment catches my eye—there’s a map depicting the dark elf capital, as well as outlying territories marked with red ink. Scribbled notes in a flowing hand—possibly Vaelorian’s—cover the margins.

“You read, don’t you?” he asks, tapping a finger on one of the maps.

I hesitate, surprised by the question. “I do, yes.”

He arches a brow. “Fluently?”

“Mostly,” I admit, recalling the scraps of education I gleaned while serving my former masters. Sometimes I spied on them in the library, memorizing letters and words whenever I could. “I’m familiar with reading in the common tongue, and I can interpret some of the dark elf runes.”

Vaelorian’s expression doesn’t quite shift, but I sense approval. He taps the corner of the map. “Good. Then we can speak more plainly. Tell me, what do you know of the dark elf court? Their political structure, their intrigues?”

I draw a measured breath. “They have a ruling monarchy, the Khuzuth caste, but there’s also a general parliament that includes certain upper castes.

The dark elves pride themselves on their cunning, but they rely heavily on enslaved humans for labor.

Many of the noble families feud behind closed doors, each trying to curry favor with the monarchy.

Gossip is their favorite currency. They’ll align with those who can offer them the best advantage—until it ceases to serve them. ”

He listens without blinking. “That’s an astute summary.”

I shift on my feet, uncertain where this is going. “I learned these things because it helped me survive, my lord.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Don’t call me that.”

I blink, taken aback.

His voice retains that quiet edge. “Use my name. I’ve no need for empty honorifics.”

“All right... Vaelorian,” I say, a ripple of nervousness coloring the syllables.

He inclines his head, as though satisfied. Then he turns to the map, tracing a line with one gloved finger. “You know their alliances and grudges. You speak their language. You’ve lived among them. That alone makes you valuable.”

“Valuable?” My heartbeat kicks, echoing that single word in my mind.

Vaelorian lifts his gaze, and I catch the faint gleam of silver in his otherwise black irises.

“I’m prepared to offer you a unique arrangement.

You see, House Draeven has a keen interest in collecting information—real information, not the drivel the dark elves feed each other in formal gatherings.

I want the truths they hide beneath layers of manipulation. ”

My pulse flutters. Is he about to suggest what I think he is? “You’re talking about espionage,” I say slowly.

A hint of a smile curves one corner of his mouth. “Precisely. I need someone who can infiltrate their society, who understands their customs, and who won’t arouse suspicion. A human would be the perfect... ghost in their midst. They rarely pay you slaves much mind, do they?”

My mind reels. A part of me is horrified at the thought of returning to the dark elf courts, even on a mission. Yet I know how to navigate that environment. I survived it once, maybe I can again.

“Why me?” I ask.

He rests a hand on the table, leaning forward. “Because I suspect you’re more than a meek concubine. You listen. You remember. You adapt.”

The directness of his words startles me, but I refuse to shrink under his scrutiny. “So what’s the offer?”

His gaze intensifies. “Become my operative inside the dark elf courts. Infiltrate their gatherings, glean their secrets, and feed the information back to me. In exchange, I won’t treat you as a common thrall.

No feeding on you. No humiliating tasks.

You’d have certain freedoms within my domain, and my protection from. .. lesser Vrakken appetites.”

Adrenaline swells inside me. This is not what I anticipated. I’d braced for the moment he’d bare his fangs and drain me dry. Instead, he’s offering to keep me alive, even protect me, if I do his bidding.

“And if I refuse?” I manage, my throat tight.

He straightens, wings shifting slightly behind him. “Then you remain a blood thrall, nothing more. Perhaps not even that, if I decide you’re a risk. Survival in this fortress would be unlikely.”