Page 29 of Blood and Thorns

A thousand warning bells clang in my head, and I forcibly lock down any surge of emotion. My mother’s voice echoes:Never let them see you falter. You can’t risk attachments. This is a war.

“No,” I say, voice calm but final. “You need rest, and I have my own duties.”

She nods, casting her gaze down. “I figured as much.”

An odd heaviness descends. I wrestle with a twinge of guilt for refusing, though I know it’s the right choice. Keeping emotional distance is critical. I can’t befriend, let alone desire, the woman whose loyalty I must constantly question.But do I truly question it? Or am I just following habit?

Shaking away the thought, I let my tone soften by a fraction. “Sleep well, Valeria. Tomorrow is another day of training, infiltration prep... and more potential bruises.”

She musters a faint smile. “Sounds like paradise.”

I huff out a quiet laugh. “Go. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She closes the door, and the click of the lock resonates in the still corridor. I stand there for a heartbeat, staring at the carved crest on the wood.I’m oddly protective, I realize with an uneasy start. A portion of me wants to ensure she’s not devoured by the fortress’s myriad dangers—both within and without.

Why?

I can’t let it compromise the mission. That’s the bottom line. If she fails, I’ll have to cut her loose, no matter how uncomfortable the thought has become. Any sign of weakness in House Draeven invites exploitation by our enemies—dark elves or rival Vrakken Houses.

So I turn on my heel, ignoring the strange tightness in my chest, and stride back down the corridor. My boots echo against the stone, each step a reminder that I must remain detached. Valeria is an asset, a crucial one, but an asset nonetheless.

Even so, I can’t entirely quell the memory of her exhausted smile or the stubborn glint in her eye. Something stirs in me, reminiscent of empathy—something I haven’t felt in a long time.Damn it,I curse silently.Keep your distance.

Still, the moment I return to my own chambers, I linger at the window, gazing out at the moonlit courtyard. The fortress stands silent, an edifice of stone and secrets. My mind churns with thoughts of Valeria’s next step, the infiltration mission, the danger she’ll face. I wonder if she’s already asleep, or if she’s studying those scrolls by the dim glow of a candle, pushing herself even further.

A part of me admires her resilience. Another part, the one raised by a ruthless matriarch, urges caution.She’s human. They break easily.

Yet so far, she hasn’t broken. Every time she stumbles, she rises again, forging ahead with unwavering determination. Thatmixture of grit and vulnerability draws me in, much as I hate to admit it.

Eventually, I tear my gaze from the night sky, running my fingers through my hair. My reflection in the window stares back, pale eyes ringed with flickers of silver.You can’t show weakness.The mantra echoes. But I suspect that, in my own quiet way, I’ve already begun to care more than I should.

I blow out a long breath and move to a desk piled with documents, trying to refocus on House Draeven’s broader agendas. Politics, supply lines, expansions, alliances—my life’s tapestry of power plays. Still, as I sift through the parchments, I catch myself glancing at the empty corner of the room, imagining Valeria’s expression if she ever ventured here.

Enough.I set the stack of documents down, cursing under my breath. It’s going to be a long night, and I can’t afford to squander my energies on unproductive thoughts.

So I force my mind into the realm of strategic plans, reminding myself that the war between Vrakken and dark elves still smolders, that House Draeven stands on a precipice.Valeria is part of that puzzle, nothing more.

If only my heart believed it as easily as my head.

With a low snarl at my own conflicting emotions, I settle behind the desk, burying myself in the methodical chaos of the fortress’s affairs. Tomorrow, I’ll watch her train again, push her limits, ensure she remains strong. And I’ll guard the boundary between necessity and something dangerously close to care.

Because no matter how impressed I am by her progress, no matter how much I admire her spirit, the truth remains: I am Vaelorian Draeven, prince of a predatory House. If she falters, I cannot afford to let sympathy rule me.

Even if that sympathy has begun to feel alarmingly real.

7

VALERIA

Ipace across a polished marble floor in one of House Draeven’s lesser-used training chambers, struggling not to fret about the small details of my posture or expression. Three weeks have passed since Vaelorian first mentioned I’d be heading into the dark elf courts as his spy, and every day since has been an unforgiving drill in espionage, court etiquette, and survival skills.

In that short span, my life has settled into a curious routine—if you can call it that. I rise before dawn to meet Helrath or one of his assistants for combat training, where I learn how to parry blows and, more importantly, evade them. After breakfast, I bury myself in the library, devouring tomes on dark elf family trees, intricate caste structures, and the lethal politics they wield like a collective blade. Afternoons bring infiltration exercises where I’m tasked with weaving lies so convincingly that evenIstart to believe them. My evenings alternate between more reading, more sparring, or, on rarer occasions, carefully staged practice missions around the fortress.

That’s how I find myself now, part of an elaborate mock exercise arranged by Vaelorian. He’s posted half a dozen HouseDraeven guards throughout this training hall, disguised as “dark elf aristocrats.” My goal: move among them, gather specific bits of “information,” and leave undetected. Of course, I have to complete it while wearing a flowing gown that drags on the floor—dark elves in high society rarely miss a chance to flaunt wealth, and that means skillfully handling impractical attire.

A guard, playing the role of a haughty Chivdouyu musician—strides by me, nose in the air. I dip into a brief curtsey, careful not to trip over the trailing hem of my borrowed dress. The guard sneers, but otherwise ignores me. My heart thumps, reminding me that if this were real, I’d be in the heart of a dark elf gathering, each word or gesture a potential trap.

I drift toward a cluster of two more “aristocrats” perched near an archway. My posture reflects subservience, an ingratiating bend to my shoulders, but I keep my ears open, catching faint bits of gossip about “Lord Vaelorian’s questionable alliances” and “unrest brewing in the merchant caste.” None of it’s real, just fragments conjured for this scenario, but I treat it as though my life depends on it.

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