Page 3 of Blood and Thorns

As we pass under an archway carved with monstrous gargoyles, I catch the acrid smell of sulfur. My mind tumbles through possibilities. Strange magical wards? Or just the lingering presence of centuries-old curses? Knowing the Vrakken, either could be true.

Once inside, the corridors are grand in scale: vaulted ceilings, intricate murals depicting battles and arcane rituals. My wide-eyed fascination creeps in despite my wariness. This place is a labyrinthine palace, different from the dark elf estate.

We turn a corner and come to a set of double doors, smaller than the main entrance but still impressive. Two Vrakken guards step aside at our approach, and the guard escorting me nudges my shoulder. “Inside. Now.”

I push through the doors into what appears to be a receiving room—less imposing than a throne hall, but still formal. A tall window lets moonlight spill across the floor, revealing furniture carved from glossy ebony and upholstered in deep crimson velvet. An array of tall candelabras flickers with an unsettling light. The entire space screams wealth, power, and danger.

Standing near a broad table is Vaelorian. He’s alone, arms folded behind his back, posture immaculate. He slowly pivots to face me, black eyes reflecting the candlelight in a way that makes me think of polished obsidian. Everything about him—his measured stance, the faint press of lips—radiates an air of lethal calm.

The guard who brought me here bows stiffly. “My lord, your mother has retired. She requests that you handle... preparations.”

Vaelorian dismisses him with a curt nod. As soon as the guard leaves, the door creaks shut, leaving the two of us in tense silence. My pulse hammers. The second I try to quell it, it only intensifies.

I hold my ground, refusing to lower my head as far as I should in front of a powerful master. Something in me rebels at the thought. I’m tired of groveling, and although fear gnaws at my insides, I can’t find it within myself to cower. Not anymore.

He arches a brow, taking a step closer. “Valeria,” he says, voice low. “I trust you’re not foolish enough to try anything ill-advised this evening.”

His words drip with a quiet threat, yet I detect faint curiosity beneath the surface. Maybe I’m imagining it, but it spurs me to speak. “How could I?” I say, allowing a slight edge into my tone. “Surrounded by Vrakken, locked in a fortress. I don’t see any chance for sabotage.”

“Sabotage,” he echoes, eyes narrowing. “An interesting choice of words.”

My heart flutters, but I keep my spine straight. “I simply meant I’m aware of my position, my lord.”

His lips twitch at the corners, as if suppressing a smile that isn’t quite friendly. “Indeed.”

Silence stretches between us, oppressive and loaded. Now that I see him in better light, I notice details: the faint silver veins crisscrossing the black membranes of his wings, folded behind him like a cloak. The gentle slope of high cheekbones, too flawless to be purely mortal. He’s beautiful in the way a sharpened blade can be—mesmerizing, but only until it slices you open.

He lifts a hand, and I tense, wondering if he means to backhand me or something worse. Instead, he gestures me to follow. “Come,” he says, striding toward an arched window near the far side of the room. The moon casts a luminescent glow overthe mosaic-tiled floor, reflecting in faint patterns. I step after him, pulse still pounding.

We stop by the window. Outside, I see part of the fortress grounds—a courtyard with rows of stone gargoyles and thick iron gates. Beyond that, empty plains under a sky full of stars. It feels isolated, a place where no help would ever come if I screamed.

“You’ll remain here,” Vaelorian states quietly, his tone more measured now. “But not as a concubine.”

I blink, confusion rippling through me. “Not as—then what am I supposed to be?”

He fixes that black gaze on me, searching, as if measuring how much to reveal. “That will be determined shortly. For now, know you are under my protection... or my wrath if you displease me.”

My spine tingles. Protection? From the others in his house, or from the dark elves? Is that even possible? I swallow, unsure of how to respond. Eventually, I settle on a single question: “Why protect me at all?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lets his gaze roam over my face, as though searching for cracks in my façade. Then he shakes his head once, almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps because I find you... useful.”

A flicker of frustration sparks in me. That’s not an answer that clarifies anything, but I sense pushing too hard could be lethal. “Then I’ll endeavor to be as useful as you need me to be,” I respond, forcing an even tone.

He inclines his head, the barest of acknowledgments. “Good.”

The hush that follows feels stifling. I wonder if he can hear my heart pounding. Something in the air between us crackles with uneasy energy, like tension pulled taut. I think of the rumors about Vrakken appetites—for blood, for submission,for everything in between. Uncertainty wrestles with the small kernel of anger I’ve carried for so long.

Vaelorian breaks the silence first. “You will be escorted to your quarters,” he says, turning away to signal a guard outside the door. “I suggest you rest. Tomorrow, we begin.”

“Begin what?” I manage to ask.

His gaze slides back, dark as midnight. “Your training. If you wish to survive under this roof, you will follow my instructions. Obey me, and you may yet earn the right to breathe on your own terms.”

My pulse jolts. Training? For what? I have this nagging urge to demand answers. Another part warns me to hold my tongue until I understand this place—and Vaelorian—better.

I dip my head in acquiescence, feigning calm. “Understood.”

The door creaks open, and a Vrakken guard steps in, inclining his head to Vaelorian. “My lord?”

---