Page 2 of Blood and Thorns

Time seems to slow as I hear the faint scrape of Vaelorian’s shoes against the floor. He closes in on me. My muscles lock. For a heartbeat, all I sense is him: the quiet shift of leather, the nearly imperceptible hiss of air as he inhales, the faint hum ofpower in the space around him. I don’t dare look up fully, but in my peripheral vision I glimpse broad shoulders draped in black, slender hands at his sides, and the slightest shimmer behind him that suggests folded wings.

“Your name,” he says, voice as still as an undisturbed lake.

I swallow. “Valeria,” I answer, my voice steady, if a bit hushed.

He circles around me slowly, like a predator inspecting prey. “Stand.”

I rise carefully, shoulders squared. My heart thunders; it feels like every eye in the chamber is on me. Vaelorian studies me, those obsidian eyes revealing nothing.

I force myself to meet his gaze briefly, adrenaline spiking in my veins. I can’t read him. He could tear my throat out right here, and none of these dark elves would so much as flinch.

For a moment, I recall every humiliating moment I’ve endured—every backhand across my face, every sneering guard who pawed at me like I was their personal plaything. The memory ignites something in me, a core of rage I’ve kept buried. But I clamp down on it. I cannot afford an outburst.

Vaelorian’s nostrils flare, just a bit, as if he’s tasting the tension in the air. Then he steps back with a languid grace that hints at immense control. “Interesting,” he murmurs. “Mother.”

He tilts his head in Brinda’s direction. Her gaze zeroes in on me, lips curved in the faintest smile. “Yes,” she says softly. “Very.”

I maintain my posture, refusing to quiver. The chamber remains unsettlingly quiet until Brinda finally speaks again. “We’ll take her.” She points to me with a razor-sharp nail. Then she picks two others, the trembling man and a woman with bruises on her neck. “The rest, do as you wish,” she tells the dark elves with dismissive finality.

A wave of tension ripples through the onlookers. The chosen tributes—myself among them—are corralled off to the side. The two unfortunate souls left behind sag with relief or terror, uncertain of what fate the dark elves have planned for them. Our immediate destiny is clear: we belong to House Draeven now.

Another hush sets in as Brinda addresses the entire gathering. “You have upheld your end of the arrangement,” she tells the dark elves. “House Draeven appreciates your... cooperation. We trust this will maintain peaceful relations between us. For now.”

Her words bristle with subtext: The Vrakken are not to be trifled with, even by those as sadistic as the dark elves. I notice the dark elves on the dais tense subtly, but they don’t argue.

Vaelorian crosses the chamber to stand beside his mother. His silhouette towers in the flicker of the torches, those dark wings faintly visible behind him. I can’t stop my gaze from drifting there. That’s all the confirmation I need—Vrakken truly have wings. It’s not just a rumor or legend. A forbidden tingle of apprehension and awe slides up my spine.

Brinda gestures for the newly chosen tributes, including me, to follow a small contingent of Vrakken guards toward the entrance by which they arrived. I expect to hear the dark elves sneering or congratulating themselves, but the moment is eerily silent. Perhaps even they are unsettled.

I exchange a final glance with the older man I saw in the corridor. He stands pressed against the wall, eyes full of sympathy—and helplessness. He knows none of us are coming back.

Then I feel a push from behind. A black-robed Vrakken guard steers me forward without a word. My new life, if I can call it that—begins now.

We are led through a labyrinth of corridors, the flicker of wall sconces illuminating every passing second in harsh,coppery light. My senses are on overload—whispers of Vrakken guards, the rustle of heavy robes, the suffocating hush that signals we have no place in these halls except as property. My fellow tributes, the man and the bruised woman, walk like automatons. They clutch each other’s hands, exchanging fearful looks whenever the guards aren’t watching.

I focus on controlling my breath and monitoring each step I take. ‘If you want to survive, you learn to be a weapon.’ My mind repeats that phrase like a prayer. I can’t afford the luxury of despair. Observing, learning, adapting—that’s how I remain alive.

At last, we emerge into a wide courtyard open to the night sky. I glance up, half expecting to see storms brewing or some ghastly phenomenon. Instead, I see only stars—cold, distant lights. Several sleek carriages stand waiting, each harnessed to lean, black-scaled creatures that look like mutated horses with elongated muzzles and glistening red eyes. I stifle a shudder.

Brinda and Vaelorian approach a carriage at the head of the line. I notice her gown trailing behind her, tendrils of dark fabric swirling like living shadows. Vaelorian follows at a measured pace, every movement crisp and deliberate. Their auras, so thick with arcane power, feel like invisible chains pressing down on me.

Brinda turns her head slightly, addressing the guard holding me by the elbow. “Put them in the second carriage. Keep them separated from the rest. I want no... complications.”

The guard inclines his head. “Yes, Matriarch.”

He directs me toward a carriage near the back, and the other two tributes are ushered elsewhere. My pulse spikes. Why am I being singled out? My mind scrambles with questions, but I keep them contained. I can’t reveal my panic.

Before climbing the carriage steps, I catch a glimpse of Vaelorian glancing in my direction. Our eyes lock for a fractionof a breath. His face is unreadable, but my stomach twists at the awareness I see in that fleeting moment. He’s studying me, analyzing my every move. I feel like a butterfly pinned under glass, thoroughly scrutinized.

The inside of my assigned carriage is sparse: a small bench, steel reinforcements along the windows, and the pungent hint of old blood. My stomach roils as I slide onto the bench. The door slams shut behind me, enveloping me in cramped darkness. A bolt locks from the outside.

I sense the carriage lurch forward. My hands tremble in my lap. I clamp them down. Fear is a weapon—if I let it rule me, I’m as good as dead. So I force myself to breathe slowly, in through the nose and out through the mouth, until the worst of my panic subsides.

Time blurs as we roll along. The wheels clatter over uneven cobblestone, and I feel every jolt rattle my bones. My thoughts wander to all the stories I’ve heard about the Vrakken. The rumors I gleaned from hushed conversations behind locked doors or from slaves whispering in the kitchens. They spoke of unstoppable predators with wings like living shadows, of vampires who devour flesh as eagerly as they drink blood. Yet in their cruelty, they’re dispassionate. They break you, but they don’t revel in it like the dark elves do. A small distinction, but it might mean the difference between living and dying.

Eventually, the carriage slows, then halts. My heart thumps. I hear the driver speak in hushed tones to someone outside. Then footsteps approach. The bolt slides back, and the door opens, revealing a single guard’s silhouette. “Out,” he orders.

I step down onto a gravel path illuminated by pale moonlight. My shoulders ache from tension, but I keep them raised, refusing to display vulnerability. The guard motions for me to move along a torchlit walkway leading to a towering structure of black stone and jagged spires. It’s a fortress—unmistakably. The walls rise high overhead, and I pick out glimpses of turrets in the distance. Everything is designed for intimidation, reminding me exactly where I stand in this new hierarchy.

---