Page 12 of Blood and Thorns

He pauses in the hallway, glancing at me over his shoulder. “You’ll need space to train and study, plus some measure of privacy. Can’t have a potential spy sleeping in a cramped cell. That would draw questions from the rest of House Draeven—and from our visitors.”

Questions. Right. He’s trying to maintain a facade that I’m not just another hapless thrall. The notion sets my pulse racing for reasons I can’t fully articulate. Perhaps because it feels like I’m stepping into a role that demands I be cunning, resilient, and possibly ruthless.

We crossthrough the fortress until we arrive at a smaller courtyard with a narrow staircase spiraling up the side of the wall. At the top is a less imposing door, though still reinforced with iron banding. Vaelorian opens it, revealing a modest suite of rooms—a main chamber with a window overlooking the courtyard, an adjoining washroom, and a private sleeping area behind a half-drawn curtain.

It’s larger than my old room from last night, furnished with a desk, a trunk for belongings, and a wardrobe carved with thorn motifs. A single tapestry on the wall depicts a stylized silhouette of a winged figure encircled by serpentine shapes—some ancient Vrakken myth, I presume.

My footsteps echo as I step inside. “This is... for me?”

He nods. “You’ll find a set of clothes in the wardrobe, along with essential toiletries. I expect you in the training hall at dawn tomorrow. After your session with Helrath, you’ll spend the afternoon in the library. Evenings, you’ll report directly to me with progress.”

It sounds so structured, I almost feel like he’s reading from a daily schedule. But this clarity, in a twisted way, is reassuring. It means I have a purpose beyond being a victim.

“Thank you,” I manage, though the words feel foreign on my tongue.

Vaelorian lingers for a moment, gaze sweeping over the room as if ensuring everything is in order. “I’ll have a guard posted outside for now. Once you prove trustworthy, I might lessen your surveillance.”

His wings shift, and I catch a faint trace of tension in his shoulders, as if a question hovers on the tip of his tongue. Then he tips his head in a curt gesture of farewell. “Rest, Valeria. We begin your real work at dawn.”

With that, he steps back into the corridor, pulling the door closed behind him. The latch clicks, leaving me in the sudden stillness.

I let out a slow exhale and survey the suite, noticing details that reinforce my new reality. The bed is simpler than the plush one from last night, but it’s still leagues beyond what most humans in Protheka ever experience. There’s a small table by the window, perfect for reading or writing in the evening light.

Crossing to that window, I stare out. The courtyard below is rectangular, with an ornate fountain at the center trickling water into a stone basin. Vrakken guards occasionally patrol the perimeter, their footsteps light as ghosts. Past the high walls, the horizon stretches under a pale sky that begins to brighten with dawn’s first rays.

My chest tightens with conflicting emotions. Relief that I’m not locked in a dungeon. Dread at the knowledge of what awaits if I fail. Astonishment that Vaelorian has offered me this twisted semblance of freedom, no matter how conditional it is.

I recall that single moment, standing at the table in his study, waiting for him to bare his fangs. But he never did. Instead, he spoke words that might save me from the savage fate countless humans suffer under the dark elves—and, in many ways, under the Vrakken as well. The idea that I can carve out my own path, albeit with strings attached, kindles a fragile spark of hope.

Even so, I can’t ignore the pang of fear that lurks beneath the surface. I’ll have to return to the dark elf courts at some point, worm my way back into the place I despise. Their cruelty, their arrogance, their obsession with power... I shudder at the memories. And yet, I know how to navigate their twisted labyrinth of politics and manipulation better than the average human thrall. I’ve done it all my life, gleaning scraps of influence just to stay alive.

Now, it seems, I’ll be using those skills in the service of House Draeven. My loyalty is a fragile thing, though. I’m loyal first to my own survival. Maybe that’s exactly what Vaelorian expects.

I close my eyes, pressing my forehead to the cool windowpane. Yesterday, I was certain my blood would be spilled for someone’s amusement. Today, I hold a promise of safety—albeit precarious—if I prove myself indispensable.

It’s a terrifying gamble. But it’s the only hand I have.

Exhaustion drawsme to the bed. The sun creeps higher, painting the sky with a pale lavender hue, but I haven’t truly rested. My body aches from tension, my mind in overdrive.Carefully, I set the parchment Vaelorian gave me on the small desk, draping my newly acquired cloak over the back of the chair.

I lie down, the thin mattress beneath me infinitely more comfortable than the pallets in the dark elf slave quarters. My thoughts swirl with images of Vaelorian—his winged silhouette, the unnerving precision of his eyes, the way his voice cuts through me like a blade. There’s an aura about him that unsettles me, yet I can’t deny the pull of fascination.

His willingness to form a pact instead of treating me like fodder is unexpected. Is it purely strategic? Most likely. But there was something else, a hint of curiosity in the way he spoke, as though he’s caught between apathy and intrigue.

I recall the final moment in his study: the faint swirl of tension in the air as he told me about the deal. The knowledge that he, a being so powerful, is placing a shred of faith in me—albeit guarded—creates a strange sense of... connection. I clamp down on that notion before it can bloom. He’s still my captor, and I can’t afford illusions.

“Still,” I murmur to the empty room, “this is better than the alternative.”

My eyelids droop. Sleep tugs at me. Perhaps if I rest now, I’ll have enough energy to face the trials of tomorrow. There’s no telling what the training will entail, or how brutal Helrath might be in forging me into a credible spy.

Yet, as I drift into the cusp of slumber, a fragile thread of determination winds through me. I won’t be a victim. I won’t be a helpless plaything for the dark elves or a mindless thrall for the Vrakken. If Vaelorian’s plan grants me a sliver of control over my fate, I’ll seize it.

My final thought before exhaustion sweeps me under:I’ll do whatever it takes.

Because while I might despise the power games all around me, I don’t intent to lose this one.

4

VAELORIAN

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