Page 7

A chill washes through me. It’s a harsh ultimatum, but I can’t pretend it’s unexpected. The Vrakken are not known for mercy.

I look down at the map, tracing a cluster of runes near the dark elf capital.

Memories of that place swirl in my mind: the decadent banquets I served at, the humiliations inflicted on me, the secrets I overheard from behind tapestry-covered walls.

Could I truly bear to go back there, even in the name of my own survival?

Yet the alternative is far worse.

Clenching my hands to hide my trembling, I lift my gaze. “I’ll do it. On one condition.”

Vaelorian’s brows rise. “You’re in no position to demand conditions.”

I swallow my fear, forging ahead. “I want your word you won’t permit the other Vrakken to feed on me either. Or treat me like their toy. Your mother... I’ve seen the way she looks at me. She might not be as patient.”

His lips press into a thin line, as though considering how much to indulge me. Then he nods once. “Agreed. You’ll be under my protection. None will touch you without my leave.”

Relief mingles with the dizzy sense of stepping off a cliff. I’ve just bound myself to a scheme that could get me killed by the dark elves if they discover I’m spying. But maybe, just maybe, it will free me from the perpetual terror of being someone’s pet.

Vaelorian steps away from the table, pacing a short line across the chamber.

The tails of his black coat swirl around his calves.

“I need to gauge your readiness. There will be training, physical, mental. You must learn to see through illusions, to resist certain enchantments. The dark elves wield potent magic, but their strength doesn’t match that of the Vrakken. Still, you’ll have to be clever.”

A shaky exhale leaves my lungs. “I’m used to that.”

His gaze turns to me. The candlelight illuminates the sharp planes of his face, accentuating the slight curve of his fangs when he speaks. “How far are you willing to go, Valeria? Spying is more than just eavesdropping. You might have to manipulate them, gain their trust. Seduce if necessary.”

Heat pricks at my cheeks. I recall my life among the dark elves, forced to be a concubine.

I learned how to read the moods of those who desired me, how to keep them entertained just enough to preserve my safety.

But seduce them now, with intent to betray them?

It’s a dark game, but I see no alternative.

“If that’s what it takes,” I say softly, “I’ll do it.”

He studies me, his expression unreadable. “Then we have an accord. You’ll serve as my operative, and I’ll grant you protection and better standing within House Draeven.”

A ripple of tension leaves my shoulders, replaced by an undercurrent of apprehension. I’m stepping into a viper’s nest. But at least it’s my choice—albeit a forced one.

He crosses the room and pulls open a tall armoire, retrieving a folded parchment. With graceful efficiency, he scribbles several lines of script, then stamps it with a wax seal. Once complete, he holds the parchment out to me.

“This is your preliminary writ of status,” he explains. “It identifies you as a sanctioned servant of House Draeven, under my jurisdiction. Keep it on your person whenever you leave this fortress. If any Vrakken, or even the dark elves, question your presence, show them this.”

I take it carefully, noting the swirling design of the Draeven crest stamped in black wax: a stylized winged figure with a ring of thorns. The script is in a formal dialect, one I only partially recognize.

“Thank you,” I murmur, folding it and tucking it inside my tunic. “It’s... more than I expected.”

“It’s a precaution,” Vaelorian corrects. “You’ll likely still face harassment, especially in dark elf territory, but this document should deter the more perceptive individuals from trying to claim you as their property.”

I nod, forcing myself not to dwell on how precarious this all is.

Vaelorian rests a hand on the back of a nearby chair, tapping the carved wood with a leather-clad finger. “You appear tense.”

I bite my lip. “I suppose I’m waiting for you to?—”

“Feed on you?” he finishes, his tone matter-of-fact.

My stomach roils at his bluntness, but I dip my chin in acknowledgment. “I’ve seen how the dark elves handle slaves. I have no illusions that the Vrakken are more merciful.”

He huffs a breath, not quite a laugh. “We’re not merciful. But we have different appetites. For many of us, pain is just a means to an end. Personally, I prefer efficiency.”

That does nothing to calm the anxiety simmering under my skin. Still, I gather the courage to meet his gaze. “So you’re saying you won’t feed on me?”

His jaw tightens a fraction. “Not unless circumstances demand it. Your willingness to spy for me is far more valuable than a moment’s indulgence.”

I wonder if I should be grateful or offended that my worth is measured by my potential utility. But such is the reality of this world.

He straightens, the lines of his face slipping back into unreadable neutrality. “Come. Let me show you where you’ll train and what’s expected of you.”

We step into a winding corridor that slopes downward.

At intervals, narrow slits in the stone walls allow sunlight to filter in.

An uneasy mix of relief and curiosity grows in me; I’ve never seen a fortress that tries to incorporate so many vantage points.

Then again, the Vrakken aren’t nearly as light-sensitive as legends claim—some apparently use a special glamour, while others simply prefer the dark.

Vaelorian’s pace is smooth, each stride purposeful.

I hurry to keep up, noticing that whenever his wings brush the walls, he adjusts his path without breaking stride.

We descend a set of stairs until we reach a large chamber with tall columns.

The space resembles a training hall, with racks of weapons along the edges—swords, spears, daggers, and stranger contraptions I can’t identify.

A handful of Vrakken move about, some practicing combat drills, their movements swift and lethal.

I notice that each has a unique variation of wings—one with mottled gray membranes, another with sleek midnight black.

Their eyes flick to me, then to Vaelorian, and recognition dawns.

They step aside, continuing their drills but clearly aware of our presence.

“This,” Vaelorian says, gesturing to the open floor, “is where you’ll learn the skills needed to survive in the field. Though you’ll rely mostly on guile inside dark elf courts, it won’t hurt to know how to defend yourself if cornered.”

I swallow, my pulse skipping. “So I’ll learn to fight?”

A faint smile ghosts across his lips. “Yes. You might never match a dark elf soldier blow for blow, but you can learn to evade and strike at opportune moments. Their arrogance is their weakness. Use that.”

He leads me toward a smaller annex off the main chamber. Inside, I see a wide floor marked with chalk outlines, presumably used for sparring practice. Torches in iron sconces cast dancing light over the stone.

A Vrakken man, tall and lean, stands at attention near the far wall. He has short, silvery hair and pale, colorless eyes. An old scar runs across his throat, visible against his chalk-white skin. Vaelorian raises a hand in silent greeting, and the man nods in acknowledgment.

“This is Helrath,” Vaelorian explains. “He’s one of our best instructors in hand-to-hand combat. For the next few days, he’ll be your teacher in the basics. If you fail to meet our standards... well, consider the consequences.”

I tense. Helrath gives me a dispassionate once-over, his expression lacking any overt hostility. “I’ll do my best, my lord,” he addresses Vaelorian, ignoring me. “She’ll need hours of instruction each day if she’s to be anything more than a liability.”

Vaelorian makes a low, thoughtful sound. “She’s more than a liability, given the right motivation.”

For some reason, the confidence in his voice sends a ripple of warmth through me. It’s unsettling—he’s still a Vrakken, and I’m still a human trying to survive. Yet, I can’t deny the strange sense of validation that stirs inside me.

Helrath remains composed, glancing at me with an air of mild resignation. “We’ll see,” he says. “We start tomorrow at dawn.”

With that settled, Vaelorian turns, leading me back out of the annex into the main training hall.

A pair of Vrakken spar in the center, the clash of steel echoing off columns.

The sheer speed of their movements—blurs of inky black and flashes of pale limbs—makes my stomach lurch.

If they fought me, I wouldn’t last a heartbeat.

We keep walking, and eventually, Vaelorian gestures toward a side corridor.

“We’ll return here tomorrow. For now, I want to show you the library.

You’ll study the dark elf dialects, the nuances in their mannerisms, and the formalities they use in court.

Even the smallest misstep could compromise you. ”

I follow him, my mind reeling from the onslaught of changes. A day ago, I was certain I’d end up as a blood thrall if not outright slaughtered. Now, I’m being led to a library in a Vrakken fortress to prepare for espionage.

“What if I fail to gain their trust?” I ask quietly.

Vaelorian’s expression remains cool. “You won’t.

You already lived among them for years. You know how to blend in.

The difference now is that you’ll have me backing you, providing resources.

And remember,” he adds, his voice softening to a dangerous hush, “failure is not an option for either of us.”

A subtle shiver snakes along my spine. The weight of this agreement settles heavier in my chest. If I betray him, he’ll kill me. If I fail, the dark elves will kill me. The only path is forward, with every step measured.