Page 5 of Blood and Thorns

Valeria’s expression, though guarded, flashes with a spark of challenge. I realize she must be struggling not to flinch. My mother’s presence is overwhelming, her aura a swirl of ancient magic and predatory grace.

Brinda steps back, allowing the guards to herd the chosen tributes inside. She murmurs to me, voice so low only I can hear: “That one, Vaelorian. Watch her. I suspect there’s more to her than meets the eye.”

I nod, though inwardly, I’m not sure what my mother suspects. A shapeshifter? A hidden sorceress? The idea feels improbable; we’d have detected that sort of power. Still, I trust Brinda’s instincts. They’ve kept our House on top for centuries.

Once the formalities are concluded,the dark elf official departs, leaving us with the new acquisitions. House Draeven’s great hall is dimly lit by suspended lanterns encased in wrought-iron. Shadows dance along the carved columns, which depict scenes of battles from centuries past—Vrakken clashing with dark elves, great winged silhouettes soaring above the gore.

I watch as two Vrakken guards separate the three chosen tributes from the others. One guard leads a pale, trembling woman toward the eastern wing, presumably to be assigned domestic tasks. Another guard escorts the quaking man away, probably for menial labor in the stables or forging rooms.

Valeria stands off to the side, waiting for direction. Her eyes flick from me to my mother and back again. She’s plainly aware of how precarious her situation is, yet her bearing betrays a fierce undercurrent.

Brinda addresses me smoothly, “I’ll leave this one,” she nods toward Valeria, “in your capable hands. Ensure she’s prepared properly. I expect progress soon.”

With that, she glides away, a trio of attendants following like a shadowy retinue. The corridor empties around us, leaving me and Valeria alone—aside from a single guard and the hush of ancient stone.

I finally approach her. She tilts her head forward in a semblance of respect, though there’s a tension in her shoulders. At close range, I note the lines of her face: high cheekbones, full lips, that subtle intensity in her eyes. From a purely aesthetic standpoint, she’s undeniably attractive. Most humans who make it to adulthood beneath dark elf rule are malnourished or broken in spirit, but she possesses a different quality, some hidden resilience.

“You are Valeria,” I say, my voice low. I already know her name, but I want to hear her confirm it.

She lifts her chin, just enough to meet my gaze. The flickering torchlight accentuates the curve of her jaw. “Yes,” she answers, voice controlled. She doesn’t stutter like the others.

I let silence linger, studying her. “You understand your place here?”

Her eyes narrow, but her features remain outwardly calm. “I’m told I’m an offering,” she says. “Your House can do with me as it sees fit.”

Those words come out with a bitterness that she struggles to hide. I find myself both amused and intrigued by the attempt at composure.

“Indeed,” I reply, pivoting slightly so she must follow my movement or risk turning her back on me—a foolish choice in Vrakken territory. I direct her down a hallway leading deeper into the fortress. As we walk, the air grows colder, the stone walls lit by spaced torches. My footsteps are nearly silent on the polished floor. I hear the faint catch of her breath.

“If I’m just a piece in your House’s game,” she ventures, voice echoing softly off the stone, “why personally oversee my preparation?”

My mouth lifts in a subtle smirk. She’s perceptive. “I’m certain you’ve realized that House Draeven chooses its... acquisitions with care. We don’t waste resources on meaningless trifles.”

Her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t respond. I continue, “My mother sees something in you. As do I.”

She shoots me a quick sidelong look, clearly suspicious. Her lips press together, as though she wants to ask a thousand questions but dares not.

We arriveat a set of ornate double doors carved from dark walnut. Intricate patterns swirl across the wood, depicting nightmarish creatures locked in eternal battle. I push them open, revealing a modest receiving room with a high ceiling and a tall window framing the evening sky. Candles flicker along a table in the center, where a silver pitcher and two goblets rest.

“Sit,” I instruct, gesturing to a curved chaise upholstered in crimson velvet. The color is reminiscent of fresh blood, a detail that doesn’t escape my notice. Valeria hesitates, then complies, perching carefully on the edge of the seat, as though ready to spring away at any sign of danger.

I close the doors behind us, dismissing the guard with a brief nod. Only the crackle of the fireplace disrupts the quiet now. My wings rustle faintly as I cross the room, taking a seat in a high-backed chair angled opposite her.

This vantage allows me a clearer view of her every movement, every subtle shift in expression. She’s changed from the moment I saw her at the gates, but not drastically. She keeps her spine straight, hands folded in her lap, a vision of forced serenity.

“Tell me,” I begin, resting my forearms on the chair’s arms, “how did you end up in the dark elves’ possession? You don’t appear to be from the typical slavestock that Lowtown churns out.”

Her gaze flicks to the dancing flames in the fireplace, as if she’s gathering her thoughts. “I was born in their territory. My mother was a captive, so I became one by default.”

I note a flash of pain cross her features. “And your father?”

She hesitates. The movement is slight, but her lips tighten. “I never met him. The dark elves told me he was killed.”

Tension coils between us. I drum my fingers against the carved armrest, considering. The typical story of a half-orphaned human in Protheka, but something about the way she says it feels incomplete.

“That might explain your resilience,” I say slowly. “Children of darkness often adapt—or perish.”

She lifts her chin, a defiance smoldering in her eyes. “I’ve learned how to survive.”

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