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VAELORIAN

I stand on a rugged cliffside strewn with the charred remains of a once-proud outpost, the wind tugging at my hair and teasing the edges of my wings.

A pale sunrise struggles through low-hanging clouds, painting the horizon in muted gold and gray.

Smoke from our overnight fire still clings to the air, curling around my ankles before vanishing into the crisp morning chill.

I breathe deeply, letting the scent of damp ash and wild pine fill my lungs—an odd mix that reminds me of the life I’ve left behind and the fragile promise of what might lie ahead.

Once, I wouldn’t have been content merely standing here, with no fortress at my back, no banners bearing my crest, no retinue of loyal soldiers awaiting my command.

But that was before. Before I cast aside everything I thought I stood for.

Before I discovered that the proud inheritance of House Draeven meant nothing if it demanded the sacrifice of my own heart.

Now I’m a rogue. An exile. A traitor, the Council would say—if they bothered to speak my name anymore.

But I am alive, free of their yoke, and I am no longer alone.

Behind me, the makeshift camp stirs. A handful of tents, salvaged from countless escapes and stolen supply lines, dot a gentle slope leading to a trickling stream.

The outcasts—some exiled from the Council, others fugitives from dark elf bondage—wake to the hush of this dawn, their illusions and wards at rest in the safe knowledge that for once, no immediate threat lurks nearby.

We’ve purchased this rare peace with blood and flame, burning the last fortress that stood between us and freedom.

A soft footstep crunches the gravel behind me.

I turn my head slightly, wings shifting to accommodate the presence I sense: Valeria.

She emerges from a narrow path lined with mountain brambles, hair unbound and shimmering faintly in the new light.

My heart kicks at the sight of her, the pang of wonder still fresh.

She carries herself differently now, no longer weighed down by the terror or scorn the world once inflicted.

She’s half Vrakken, half human, and fully the most formidable woman I’ve known.

If once I thought her a mere pawn, I’ve since learned how wrong I was. She’s my partner, my equal, my future.

She stops next to me, gazing at the burnt timbers below.

Our camp is perched at the edge of a deep gorge—a natural barrier from any wandering patrols—so the swirling remains of our old life lie scattered in the distance, nothing but an ashen memory.

We have traveled far from that ruin, seeking a sanctuary where neither the dark elves nor the Council can reach us.

For now, this valley seems like it could be that place.

The stinging wind that used to chill me to my core now feels invigorating, as though it, too, rejoices in our stolen freedom.

Valeria brushes a strand of hair from her face. “You’re up early,” she says quietly, her voice carrying only a few feet before the breeze devours it. “You’ve barely slept.”

I glance at her, studying the faint circle of bruises fading around her eyes, the slow-healing gash on her thigh.

Even battered, she radiates strength. “I don’t need much rest when I’m at ease,” I say, trying to smile.

“And I wanted to watch the sun rise over this place. To see if it felt real.” My voice cracks on that last word.

Real. Not an illusion, not a borrowed dream of power handed down by the Council or stolen from dark elves. But ours, forged by choice and blood.

She sets a gentle hand on my wrist, her half-blood senses picking up the flicker of illusions that linger around me.

I used to cloak myself in illusions constantly, armor for the proud prince who believed in House Draeven’s legacy.

Now, the illusions that swirl around me are a reflex, a comfort more than a shield.

“It’s real,” she confirms softly, stepping closer so our shoulders brush. “We’ve earned this breath of peace.”

I release a tight exhale, letting the illusions dim.

Together, we look out at the rugged terrain.

This vantage point reminds me of the first time I stood on a fortress parapet, convinced my path was to inherit the monarchy—or at least a seat of influence within the Council.

All I wanted then was to be recognized as the rightful heir, to avenge House Draeven’s humiliations, to show the dark elves they could never surpass our might.

Now, the ambition that once drove me has burned away, replaced by a simpler, fiercer desire—to protect the people I love, to protect Valeria, and to shape a future on our own terms.

“When I was a child,” I murmur, letting the memory come unbidden, “my mother would stand me atop House Draeven’s tallest spire.

She’d point to the horizon, saying one day the entire land would bow to me.

I believed her. I never questioned the cost.” I trace a finger along the ridges of stone under my feet.

“Then I met you. Everything I thought I knew—about power, about legacy—crumbled under the weight of what we endured.”

Valeria’s gaze flicks over my profile. “It cost you your home, your title, your family.”

“It gave me something else,” I say, pulse hitching.

I face her, wings half-furled behind me, the wind ruffling the edges of her tunic.

“I have you, and a band of exiles who share a vision that doesn’t revolve around the Council’s cruelty or the dark elves’ thirst for conquest. That might be more precious than all the spires of House Draeven. ”

Her eyes glimmer, a tear threatening but never falling. She nods, lips curving in a small, poignant smile. “We can never go back to what we were, Vaelorian. But maybe we don’t want to.”

I tilt my head, letting the wind blow across my face. She’s right. The final battle—when we burned the fortress and left the Council’s domain for good—marked the end of every old tie. That’s what a beautiful ending is, I suppose: looking back at the ashes and deciding how to move forward.

As we stand, out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse a small group of outcasts gathering near the stream below.

Daron and a few others—former knights, half-blood runaways, renegade archers from broken houses—are dividing supplies or planning a scouting trip.

They glance up, noticing Valeria and me, offering a respectful nod.

Once, such a gesture would have swelled me with pride.

Now, it warms me in a different way: these people follow me and Valeria not out of forced fealty, but mutual choice.

Valeria shifts, and I see the slight strain in her leg. The bruise on her thigh is still healing from the final push against the fortress guards. Concern flickers in my chest. “Let’s head down,” I suggest. “We can walk along the ridge, see if the others need anything.”

She hesitates. “You sure you want to leave this view? You seemed lost in thought.”

I give her hand a gentle squeeze, weaving our fingers together. “I can reflect on how far we’ve come while we walk. I want to see everyone. Make sure they’re well.”

Her mouth curls in that half-smile, the one that never fails to kick my heart into a faster rhythm.

Together, we descend from the rocky outcrop, illusions swirling faintly around Valeria’s ankles to balance her steps.

I find myself savoring each footfall, each breath, because for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not bracing for an ambush or scanning the horizon for dark elf shapes.

We’re free—for however long the gods allow.

We reach the gentle slope where the outcasts have established a rudimentary settlement, maybe half a dozen tents and lean-tos clustered around the stream.

A few cooking fires burn low, smoke drifting in thin wisps.

One of the renegade archers greets us with a quick bow, though we remind them for the hundredth time that we’re no lords or ladies to be bowed to.

Old habits die hard, apparently. Valeria offers a reassuring nod, her calm presence a salve to these exiles who once saw me as an aloof prince.

Daron emerges from behind a tent, carrying a small crate of foraged roots and tubers.

He’s tall, with scars across his brow, but his posture is more relaxed now than during the war.

“My lord,” he starts, then corrects himself, “Vaelorian. We’ve scouted half the valley’s perimeter.

No sign of patrols. The Council must be busy licking their wounds, and the dark elves…

well, they have bigger problems after losing that fortress. ”

I nod. “Good. And how are rations?”

He shrugs. “Scarce, but we’ll manage. We might need to send out a hunting party soon, or see if any local farmers are willing to trade.” His gaze flicks to Valeria, an unspoken question about her wound. “You all right?”

Valeria lifts her chin, a hint of pride in her eyes. “Healing well. Thank you.” She glances around at the tents. “We have enough bandages and herbs for everyone else?”

Daron confirms, then heads off to distribute the gathered roots.

I watch him go, remembering how he once served Helrath in House Draeven’s guard.

Now, we lead him—and he seems content with that.

The memory of Helrath’s sacrifice still aches, but we honor him by pushing onward, forging a new empire, if you will, from the pieces we’ve salvaged.