Page 31 of Blood and Thorns

Vaelorian’s jaw tenses. “I’ll see to it.”

With that, Helrath strides off, leaving us alone again. I glance at Vaelorian, who looks mildly annoyed. “Your mother?” I ask quietly.

“She’s always seeking updates on House affairs.” He lifts a shoulder in a faint shrug, though frustration bleeds into his posture. “She’ll want a report on your progress soon, too.”

A chill prickles over my skin. “You think she doubts me?”

He exhales a short breath. “She doubts everyone. But so far, I believe she’s content with your training.”

I bite my lip, unsettled by the idea of facing Brinda’s scrutiny again. The last time we crossed paths, she eyed me like a curious specimen. Yet if I’m to remain in House Draeven’s favor, I have no choice but to meet her standards.

Vaelorian motions down the corridor. “Go change out of that gown. We’ll discuss your next infiltration lesson tonight.”

I nod, departing with quiet footsteps. Even as I leave, I can still feel his gaze tracking my form. My face heats at the thought.

Three Weeks Later

Time compresses into a whirlwind of training, infiltration drills, and half a dozen mock missions that Vaelorian arranges throughout the fortress. By the end of each day, my muscles scream for mercy, and my mind feels crammed with dark elf genealogies, magical runes for illusions, and the unspoken rules of high society.

Vaelorian is everywhere, my silent shadow, or perhaps I’m his. He observes every sparring match, every infiltration attempt, every language lesson. When I slip into the library after an exhausting day, he appears among the shelves, offering an obscure text on dark elf dialect. He never intrudes on my personal quarters without announcement, but I sense his presence in the hallways, lingering just out of sight.

And that tension between us? It’s grown into a taut wire, vibrating with unspoken intensity. A brush of hands during training, a too-long stare across a table, a split second when I catch him looking at me before he schools his features back into neutrality. Some nights, I can’t sleep because my mind replays the brush of his wing against my shoulder—a fleeting touch that sets my pulse skittering.

But we keep our distance, physically and emotionally. He’s my superior, my trainer, my borderline captor. And I’m the operative whose success is vital to his plans. There’s no place for indulgence.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

Late Afternoon, Training Courtyard

It’s a crisp day, the sky overhead a pale blue tinted with the threat of oncoming dusk. I’m in the courtyard, wearing a sleeveless tunic and light trousers—my arms bare except for wrappings over my forearms. I’ve just finished a grueling sessionwith Helrath, and my lungs burn from the exertion of dodging real steel. The clang of swords still echoes in my ears.

Helrath dismisses me with a grunt, and I slump against the courtyard’s stone wall, sweat cooling on my skin. A handful of House Draeven soldiers pass by, giving me curious glances before returning to their routines.

I close my eyes, taking a moment to steady my breath. My entire body aches. Every muscle feels like a coiled spring that’s been overextended. Still, I can’t deny I’m better now—faster, more precise. The memories of flailing helplessly in the courts fade a little more every day.

A faint noise, barely a breath—alerts me to Vaelorian’s approach. I open my eyes to see him rounding the corner, his black hair loose around his shoulders, wings tucked neatly behind him. He’s wearing fitted leathers, understated but clearly expensive.

“You look half-dead,” he says, but there’s a flicker of concern beneath his usual calm tone.

I push off the wall, wiping my brow. “I’ll survive.”

He cocks his head. “It’s nearly evening. You could rest.”

I glance at the practice swords racked nearby. My stubborn pride refuses to yield. “I want to run a few more drills. I need to refine my parry. I keep letting Helrath slip through my guard.”

Vaelorian steps closer, blocking my access to the rack. “There’s such a thing as pushing too far. Helrath said you nearly got cut today.”

I bristle, glaring up at him. “Better now than in the real mission, right?”

His lips thin. “It won’t help if you enter the mission already battered.”

A lump forms in my throat. The intensity in his eyes unsettles me, as if he’s waging an internal battle between caution and the drive to hone me into an unbreakable blade. My heart thuds. Ishis concern purely strategic, or is there something else stirring beneath the surface?

I mutter, “I’m not made of glass.”

He exhales. “I know.”

Silence stretches. I notice the lines of his shoulders, the faint ripple of tension in his arms. Our proximity draws attention—one or two passing soldiers glance our way, but Vaelorian pays them no mind.

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