Page 10 of Blood and Thorns

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 moodsof 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 crossesthe 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 stepinto 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 aslegends 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.

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