Page 15 of Blood and Thorns

A cloud of uncertainty settles in my mind. She’ll need more than physical training to survive the dark elf courts. She must master subterfuge, diplomacy, manipulation. If she’s too naive, they’ll devour her. If she’s too brazen, they’ll turn on her the moment she missteps.

I catch Helrath’s gaze from across the hall. He shrugs, as if to say:It’s up to you.

Yes. It is. And that’s precisely the debate churning in my thoughts.Trust her, or treat her like another expendable asset?

If it were purely strategic, I’d hold her at arm’s length, using her only when necessary. But something about her quiet resilience draws me in, makes me want to see how far she can go. It’s a gamble, and House Draeven can’t afford reckless risks. Mymother would say: “Push her until she breaks or excels.” I intend to do exactly that—but I wonder if I might help her succeed, not just watch passively.

I linger, keeping an ear out for the other Vrakken’s mutterings. Some have noticed my interest in Valeria; I see them exchanging glances, though none dare approach me with questions. Eventually, I stride over to her, noticing the strain in her posture.

She glances up, panting. “I think I’ve stepped on my own foot five times now,” she jokes shakily.

“You’ll step on worse if you don’t figure it out.”

A dry chuckle escapes her, but she returns her attention to the lines. She tries a forward-and-back sequence, then transitions to a sidestep. I watch critically, noticing improvements in how she shifts her weight. It’s incremental, but progress nonetheless.

After several minutes of intense repetition, she pauses, wiping sweat from her brow. “Water?” she asks, glancing around.

“Follow me.”

I lead her to a side alcove where a large stone basin holds fresh water. She cups her hands, scooping a few mouthfuls. I grab a small towel from a wooden shelf, offering it to her.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, dabbing her face.

I lean against a nearby column, crossing my arms. “Tell me. Do you regret accepting my deal?”

Her eyes flick to mine, reflecting an edge of defiance. “No. The alternative was worse.”

I tilt my head, intrigued. “Would you rather remain a slave, used by the dark elves for their entertainments?”

A shadow passes over her features. “Of course not. But I’m not naive enough to think I’m safe here either. I’m just... less likely to die, if I do things correctly.”

“Exactly. You succeed, you live. You fail...” I let the implication hang.

She huffs a breath, gaze dropping to the floor. “I won’t fail. I’ve spent my life figuring out how to survive the dark elves’ games. If I can fool them as a powerless slave, maybe I can do it again with you behind me.”

Something in her words tugs at me, a sense of honesty that’s difficult to ignore. She’s not making grand boasts—she’s stating a simple truth: cunning, born from years of servitude.Could that cunning be shaped into a weapon?

Turning, I gesture for her to follow once more. We pass through a smaller door leading into an adjacent corridor lined with racks of practice weapons: wooden swords, daggers with dulled edges, staffs for basic forms. The hallway is quieter than the main hall, echoing only with our footsteps.

A single high window lets in sunlight that streaks across the polished stone. I pause at one rack, running my fingertips over the hilt of a training dagger. “You might not need steel in the courts,” I say, “but I want you to be comfortable defending yourself if cornered.”

She nods, standing beside me, eyes scanning the display. “This might come in handy if someone tries to end me before I can deliver your precious intel.”

My lips tilt. “Exactly.”

I hand her a wooden dagger with a weighted handle. “Show me how you’d hold this.”

She studies it, then grips it in a passable stance—elbow bent, blade angled forward. A bit too stiff in the wrist. I correct her posture, noticing how she tenses under my touch but doesn’t pull away.

“Loosen here,” I instruct, guiding her wrist. “You need to move fluidly. A rigid stance telegraphs your attack.”

She nods, adjusting. We go through a few practice thrusts, me stepping aside as she tries to jab forward. Her form is clumsy, but there’s potential.She learns quickly,I remind myself.

Time passes as we drill. Several attempts in, her movements become smoother, though still unrefined. Sweat beads on her temples. I occasionally correct her angle, pressing a palm to her elbow or repositioning her shoulder. Each time, I sense the heat of her skin, the tension coiled beneath it. She’s pushing herself.

Eventually, I step back. “Enough.”

She exhales, lowering the wooden dagger. “You must think me pathetic,” she says, voice edged with frustrated self-awareness. “I can’t even hold this right.”

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