Page 1 of Blood and Thorns

1

VALERIA

Istand in the narrow corridor, the torchlight flickering against damp stone walls that gleam a sickly gray. My heart pounds in my chest, but I keep my face impassive. If I show fear now, I’ll only feed the dark elves’ amusement. The stale, metallic scent of blood clings to the very air I breathe, like a constant reminder of what it costs to be human in this world.

I can hear muffled whimpers from a room behind me—some other poor souls being disciplined or “trained.” My pulse races, but I exhale slowly, steadying my nerves. I have survived too many indignities to lose my composure on the day I am offered as tribute. Maybe it’s the final day of my life. Maybe not. Fear coils in the pit of my stomach, but I’ve learned to wear it like armor.

To my right, an older man tries to make himself smaller in the shadows. He is sallow-skinned, his cheekbones hollow from weeks—maybe months—of insufficient food and constant terror. We lock eyes for an instant. I see pity and resignation there. Dark elf guards shuffle around, occasionally giving us hateful glances, their pointed ears twitching with grim satisfaction.

I shift my attention to the grand set of double doors at the corridor’s end. They’re carved from ebony, etched with jagged runes that blaze a dull crimson, as though reflecting the blood spilled for centuries to maintain the dark elves’ lavish lifestyles. Beyond those doors lies the last threshold between me and whatever the Vrakken have in store.

A hush spreads among the line of slaves. We are being offered like livestock to House Draeven, the infamous clan of Vrakken rumored to have reemerged from obscurity. Most of us only know their name from whispers—fanged specters who feast on blood under moonlight, but I suspect the truth is more horrifying than any rumor. The hush thickens as the doors groan open, revealing a torchlit antechamber.

A single dark elf steps out, her black hair braided with silver threads and her slate-colored skin glowing faintly under the torchlight. She’s draped in robes of midnight blue, embroidered with swirling patterns reminiscent of arcane sigils. Her eyes narrow as she scans our line of trembling bodies. Then she lifts a haughty chin and raises one slender hand, long nails painted a glistening onyx.

“This group”, she gestures at me and four others, “will proceed to the receiving hall. Move quickly. Our Vrakken guests do not like to be kept waiting.”

She looks at me last, eyes lingering with a sneer as if she finds the sight of me offensive. I clench my fists at my sides but lower my gaze, feigning submission. I want her to believe I’m broken. It’s safer that way.

A guard jabs me between my shoulder blades with a blunt baton. “You heard her. Move.”

I step forward, joining the four men and women singled out for this offering. As soon as I cross the threshold into the antechamber, I’m assaulted by an overwhelming sense of dread. Tall pillars line the walls, each adorned with sculpted creatures—some appear to be monstrous dragons or serpents, others twisted humanoid forms. The flicker of torchlight casts their shadows in grotesque shapes that dance across the floor.

A new wave of hush swallows all sound. My companions and I stand in a row, heads bowed, while high-ranking dark elf officials lounge on raised seats to either side. Their expressions betray nothing but cold curiosity. At the end of the chamber, an ancient dais stands with elaborate steps leading up to a pair of gilded chairs. Those chairs remain empty, which can only mean one thing: the Vrakken have yet to arrive.

I keep my eyes lowered but not closed. If you want to live, you learn to be a weapon. That lesson pounds in my mind like a mantra. Slaves like me seldom have the luxury of illusions about freedom, but I’ve found that knowledge is as sharp as any blade. I memorize details quickly: the number of guards, the angles of the exits, the positions of every possible threat.

A female voice breaks the silence. “Welcome,” it purrs, each syllable dripping with that eerie arrogance typical of dark elves. “The offering begins now.”

A tall figure steps from behind a pillar, gliding across the polished floor as though weightless. Her presence demands attention. She’s dressed in a voluminous black gown with spiderweb lace across her shoulders. Intricate jewelry dangles from her slender neck, each gem pulsing faintly with enchanted light. She must be one of the dark elf high nobility.

“We gather here to present these tributes to the Vrakken,” she announces. “Our honored guests will choose as they see fit. The rest—” She shrugs, and a few dark elves chuckle with cruel amusement. “Shall be returned to Lowtown or repurposed as we see necessary.”

I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to snap at them for speaking about us like livestock. But I hold my tongue. Oneoutburst might cost me my head, or worse, incite some twisted curiosity from a dark elf looking for a new toy.

Suddenly, the chamber doors behind the dais swing open. My entire body tenses. A heavy silence falls again, thick enough to choke on. Two silhouettes emerge, backlit by torches in the corridor beyond. Even though I’ve never seen a Vrakken before, I know immediately who they must be—something about the graceful, predatory posture sets my nerves on edge.

They enter the chamber without a sound. Both are tall, their skin bleached white as bones, but each carries themselves with a presence that shames even the regal poise of the dark elves. One is female, her hair tumbling to her waist in silver waterfalls. She moves with languid grace, each step echoing with lethal confidence. The other figure stands slightly behind her, face partially in shadow, an imposing figure with a fluid, panther-like gait.

I can’t tear my gaze away. My lips part, but I force them shut, remembering my place. Their arrival alone is enough to stoke goosebumps along my arms. Something about them is otherworldly—like predatory sculptures animated by living darkness.

The tall female stops in front of the dais. With a flick of her slender hand, she beckons. “Let us see your offerings.”

A dark elf official motions for me and the other four tributes to step forward. We do so, heads lowered, uncertain how to address these creatures.

One of the new arrivals, the male, surveys our group. I feel his gaze pass over me. It’s fleeting, but it sears, like a brand. He towers over everyone in the room. His hair is long, dark as midnight, forming a stark contrast against his pale skin. Though I keep my head bowed, my eyes flick upward, trying to catch the shape of his face. What I see is not comforting: an angular jaw, lips so pale they nearly blend with the rest of his face, except forthe faintest tinge of color that might be leftover from feeding. Two obsidian-black eyes track us with cold apathy. Yet behind that apathy, I sense a controlled lethality, a coil wound tight and ready to strike.

The female Vrakken, who must be the one in charge, glances around the chamber. She speaks in a voice smooth as a lullaby and yet edged with threat. “I am Brinda Draeven, Matriarch of House Draeven. We have come for the tribute promised to us. You, dark elves, will be well compensated. But do not overstep.” Her lips curve into a half-smile that never touches her eyes. “My son, Vaelorian, and I will decide which tributes suit our House’s needs.”

Her son, then. I manage a quick sidelong look at him. Vaelorian. That name carves itself into my mind.

Brinda’s gaze lingers on the five of us. One of the male tributes steps forward, trembling with forced courage. “I—I am at your service.” He lowers himself to a shaky bow.

Brinda’s eyes narrow, and she lifts an unimpressed brow. Her attention slides off him like water. “Next?”

We move to present ourselves one by one. I try to ignore the creeping dread in my veins as I watch each tribute before me attempt to look appealing or at least worthy of selection. One woman, Lillith, tries to plaster on a simpering smile. Another man can barely stand without quaking.

Then my turn arrives. I step forward, chin high enough to show I have some pride, but I do not challenge them. I bend my knee in an approximation of a formal bow. The movement is something I learned during my time serving the dark elf nobility—I aim to strike a balance between humility and defiance.

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