Page 9

VAELORIAN

I stand on one of the upper balconies of House Draeven, watching the first pale slivers of sunlight creep over the distant hills.

Below, the courtyard is quiet, the only movement coming from a handful of guards patrolling the high walls.

Even though the morning sky is free of clouds, an edge of chill clings to the breeze, setting my nerves on alert.

I often come here before the fortress stirs. In the hush of dawn, my thoughts are sharper. And today, I have much to contemplate.

Last night, I brokered an unprecedented arrangement with Valeria.

A human, a spy, a potential weapon. By all rights, she should be trembling in a dungeon, awaiting my leisure.

Instead, she is asleep—comfortably, I hope—in a private suite near the western corridor, because I’ve chosen to spare her.

No, more than spare. I’ve chosen to give her an opportunity.

It’s a decision that unsettles something deep within me, a part that’s grown adept at ignoring sentiment.

My mother, the Matriarch of House Draeven, senses something unusual in Valeria.

I feel it too. Whether it’s some hidden power in her blood or simply a fierce survival instinct, I’m not certain.

But I do know that watching her last night—straight-backed in the library, unwavering in her acceptance of my terms—sparked a rare sense of intrigue.

Intrigue can be dangerous.

My fingers tighten around the black iron railing, the cold metal grounding me.

Usually, I don’t let curiosity dictate my actions.

I’ve spent decades orchestrating a careful game against the dark elves, a slow, deliberate dance of alliances and betrayals.

Emotions have no place in such machinations.

And yet, I can’t deny the stir of excitement that flickers to life whenever I think about testing Valeria’s potential.

Because if I’m right... she might prove to be the key that tiptoes through the dark elf courts without raising alarms, a blade that can slip beneath their guard.

If I’m wrong, and she can’t handle the weight of this mission— then I’ll discard her. That’s the vow I’ve made to myself. A vow I must keep, no matter how intrigued I am. House Draeven’s future outweighs any sentimental notion, no matter how fleeting.

Exhaling, I let go of the railing and step back. The fortress beckons, its thick stone walls and labyrinthine corridors humming with faint magic. It’s time to see if my new operative is truly as cunning as I suspect.

Descending the spiral staircase, I pass tapestries depicting my ancestors—winged figures locked in battle with monstrous creatures.

Shadows flicker over my shoulders, reminding me to keep my wings tucked.

Several of the older, more self-important Vrakken prefer to display their span at all times, a show of dominance.

I have no need for such posturing; fear often comes more efficiently from quiet certainty.

I head toward the west wing. Guards stationed at intervals offer respectful bows or murmured greetings. Some glance at me with curiosity—no doubt rumors of Valeria’s presence have begun to spread. Let them wonder why their prince has bestowed unusual privileges on a human.

When I reach her door, I find a single guard posted there as instructed. He stiffens immediately. “My lord.”

I wave him off. “Any problems?”

He shakes his head. “She remained inside. No visitors.”

“Good. Return to your usual station.”

He strides away without protest, leaving me alone before the closed door.

I raise my hand to knock, then pause. Should I barge in unannounced?

She is my operative now, my subordinate.

Yet I can’t ignore the sense that politeness might earn me better cooperation.

Still, politeness is not always the Vrakken way.

I knock.

A brief pause, and then her voice—soft, cautious—calls, “Yes?”

I push the door open. The suite is dimly lit by the pale morning light filtering through a slit of window.

Valeria stands near a small desk, her auburn hair loose around her shoulders.

She’s already dressed in the tunic and leggings I provided, though the tunic is rumpled as if she slept in it.

A faint flush creeps up her cheeks when she sees me.

“Vaelorian,” she says, voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of nerves. “I didn’t realize you’d come so early.”

I step inside, shutting the door behind me. My gaze sweeps the room, noting the scrolls I assigned to her lying on the desk. She must have been reading through them at dawn.

“We have much to accomplish,” I reply, crossing my arms over my chest. “And you’re expected in the training hall soon.”

She nods, fiddling with the corner of one scroll. “I’m ready.”

I can sense her resolve, but also that flicker of apprehension. Helrath will test her. If she can’t hold her own in a simple spar or drill, how will she manage when she’s neck-deep in dark elf intrigues?

My wings shift slightly of their own accord, as if echoing my inner tension. I clear my throat. “Come. We’ll walk together.”

She follows me out into the corridor. The hush of early morning has faded; servants scurry about, carrying trays or wiping down the stone floors.

A handful of lesser Vrakken pass by, their black eyes flitting between me and Valeria with barely veiled curiosity.

I catch the faint tightening of her jaw, but she keeps her head high, refusing to appear cowed.

Defiance. Yes, it’s there, a quiet spark.

As we traverse the fortress, I keep my pace unhurried. “Did you rest well?” I ask, and the question surprises even me. It sounds almost solicitous.

Valeria lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Better than I’ve ever slept in a dark elf estate. But it was... strange, waking up here.”

I can’t fault her honesty. “You’ll adjust,” I say, though I doubt if I truly believe that. A human might never fully adapt to the rhythms of a Vrakken fortress. Still, her acceptance of our deal has already set her apart from the cowering thralls who clutter the lower halls.

We arrive at the broad entrance to the training hall.

The double doors are propped open, revealing a cavernous space where a handful of Vrakken drill in various combat forms. Torches in high sconces cast orange light over racks of weapons.

The floor is marked with chalk lines for sparring.

I lead her inside, stepping around a pair of soldiers practicing with blunted spears.

Helrath stands near the far wall, leaning against a rack of swords. His pale eyes flicker in our direction. Without a word, he straightens and strides over, movements fluid as a hunting cat.

He bows slightly to me. “My lord.” Then he turns his attention to Valeria, eyes narrowing in clinical appraisal. “You’re on time.”

She meets his gaze, chin lifting. “Yes.”

Helrath gestures for her to follow him to a corner of the hall where the floor is mostly clear. I remain a few steps behind, arms folded, watching. There’s a swirl of anticipation in my gut. Can she handle this?

Helrath paces around her, hands clasped behind his back. “We’ll start with the basics. Stances, footwork, identifying openings. You won’t be matching a trained dark elf soldier in sheer strength, so you must rely on finesse and speed.”

Valeria nods.

“First, show me how you’d stand if you expect to be attacked.”

She shifts her feet, body angled, knees slightly bent—functional, but rough. Helrath snorts. “That might work against a drunken guard. If you face a sober dark elf, you’ll be on your back in seconds.”

A flare of irritation crosses her features, but she quickly adjusts. Helrath grunts, then demonstrates the correct posture, tapping her feet into place with a brusque nudge. He positions her arms in front of her torso, explaining how to keep her center of gravity.

I watch her concentrate, a small line forming between her brows. This is obviously new, but she seems committed. Helrath steps back, then strikes a lightning-fast blow aimed at her midsection. She flinches, staggering but not falling. He hasn’t landed a hit, but she failed to properly evade.

“Too slow,” he mutters. “Try again.”

They repeat the exercise, Helrath launching sudden attacks, forcing her to dodge or block. She’s out of her depth, but I notice sparks of progress: each time she staggers less, each time she manages to shift her feet a bit quicker. A sheen of sweat forms on her forehead.

“Aren’t you going to use a training blade?” she asks between labored breaths.

Helrath arches a brow. “Not yet. First, you learn to move. A blade in the hand of someone who can’t even dodge is useless.”

She grits her teeth but nods, determination burning in her eyes.

I step closer, stopping at the corner of the chalk circle. “Remember,” I say quietly, “dark elves typically favor agility. They’ll try to unbalance you. Your advantage is unpredictability: you’re no soldier, so they might underestimate you. Use that.”

Her lips part in a quick breath. “Understood.”

Helrath resumes his strikes, each an economical burst of movement. This time, Valeria ducks smoothly, pivoting to the side. He stops, studies her, then nods once.

“Better.”

Pride stirs in my chest. It’s faint, but it’s there. She’s learning.

After a few more rounds, Helrath steps back, annoyance barely hidden.

“We’ll go again at midday. Practice footwork until then.

” He points to the far side of the hall, where lines are drawn on the floor for agility drills.

“Work on those patterns. If you can’t maintain control of your feet, you’ll never hold your own in a fight. ”

Valeria rubs her forearm across her forehead, sweat gleaming on her cheeks. “All right.”

Helrath’s gaze flicks to me. “She’s adequate for a first session.” It’s not exactly praise, but from him, it might as well be. He offers a short bow and strides off, presumably to torment another recruit.