Page 55 of Blood and Thorns

“I… I’m truly sorry,” he says, voice thick with remorse. “I know that doesn’t fix it. But you have to believe, at least for a moment, that I never wanted to hurt you.”

My throat tightens. I can’t form a reply. I push the door open, stepping into the corridor. There’s a guard at the far end, discreetly pretending not to notice my exit. The hallway’s lanterns cast dancing shadows on the walls, reflecting my inner turmoil.

I don’t go straight to my suite. The thought of returning to that lonely space suffocates me. Instead, I wander the fortress corridors, aimless. My mind replays the confrontation with Vaelorian.He used me,I remind myself, stoking my anger. But beneath that fury lies confusion—he seemed genuinely remorseful, almost desperate for my forgiveness.

Eventually, I find myself in a secluded courtyard where the night air bites at my skin. A single torch flickers near an archway, illuminating the patch of cobblestones and a small fountain. I collapse onto a stone bench, pressing my hands to my temples.

“How did my life become this?” I whisper aloud, tears falling unbidden. Once, I was just a human concubine escaping dark elf cruelty. Now, I’m half Vrakken, tethered to House Draeven’s politics, locked in a twisted dance of love and resentment with its prince.

A rustle of wings startles me. I jerk upright, wiping my face hastily. But the figure that lands lightly on the courtyard floor isn’t Vaelorian—it’s a female Vrakken guard, her wings folded neatly behind her. She offers a faint smile, stepping out of the shadows.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” she says quietly. “Just checking the perimeter.”

I exhale, relieved it’s not another ambush. “You’re fine. I was… just thinking.”

She nods, eyes keen. There’s no hostility in her posture—House Draeven’s guards have heard rumors, but none of them seem eager to confront me with accusations. “We all heard about the fiasco with that Sharath noble,” she says gently. “You handled yourself well. He was a fool.”

I twist my hands together. “It was more complicated than that.”

She nods. “These gatherings often are. The important thing is no one doubts your place here now.”

I want to laugh.My place?“Do you see me as half monster, or half ally?”

Her eyebrows lift, but she doesn’t flinch. “I see you as a person Vaelorian trusts enough to defend House Draeven. That’s all I need to know.” She shrugs. “The rest? Not my concern.”

A shaky breath leaves my lungs. “Thank you.”

She inclines her head and takes flight again, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Her words echo in my mind:I see you as a person Vaelorian trusts.So even the guards realize how closely Vaelorian has tied me to the House. He’s staked his reputation on me. My heartbreak tangles with pity for him—he must have known this fiasco could blow up in his face.

Slowly, I rise, ignoring the chill in the air. If I stay out here, I’ll freeze. If I return to my suite, I’ll fall into an endless spiral of questions about my father, my powers, Vaelorian’s motives. But I can’t keep wandering aimlessly all night.

Back in my suite, the emptiness aches sharper than before. I sink onto the bed, burying my face in my hands. My anger hasn’t vanished, but it’s cooled into a raw sense of betrayal layered with reluctant understanding.He might have used me, but he also genuinely wants me safe. Or so he claims.The worst part is, I believe him, as much as I hate it.

I tear off my boots, unlace my tunic, then stop, staring at my reflection in the polished mirror leaning against the wall. My eyes look haunted, shadows beneath them. My hair hangs in disarray. If I tilt my head, I can almost imagine the faint trace of Vrakken features in my bone structure—the sharper angle of my cheekbones, the slight point of my ears. I never noticed before. Or maybe I’m just seeing illusions.

“Who are you?” I whisper to my reflection. “Valeria Thorne, half-human, half-Vrakken. An outcast no matter which side claims me.”

The reflection offers no comfort, just a lonely, exhausted woman who can’t outrun her heritage. Maybe Vaelorian is right: in this savage world, House Draeven is my only shield. But it’s a shield that has barbs of its own.

Sighing, I strip down to an undershirt and slip beneath the sheets, fully expecting another night of restless half-sleep. Mymind churns with images: the dark elf courts, Vrakken illusions, the memory of Vaelorian’s hands on my body when we gave in to that night of desire. Heat flares in my chest, quickly replaced by a wave of rage.How dare my heart still flutter for him after he used me?

Eventually, exhaustion weighs my eyelids. Darkness claims me in broken intervals. I dream of shadowed labs where dark elves strap me to a table, draining my blood drop by drop. I try to scream for Vaelorian, but he stands behind glass, watching with detached fascination, a scholar’s quill in hand. The dream shifts, and he’s the one strapped down while I stand with fangs bared—no, that can’t be right—tearing into his throat. I gasp awake, heart pounding.

Dawn breaks like a silent promise, pale light creeping through the window. I lie there, drained, too spent to face another day of House Draeven politics. But the fortress never sleeps, especially not now, with Xathien’s threat looming. So I drag myself out of bed, wash my face in cold water, and pull on standard training attire: fitted trousers, a loose dark tunic. If Helrath expects me to join drills, fine. Better to unleash my aggression on a practice dummy than stew in self-loathing.

I exit my suite, nearly colliding with a stoic guard. He steps aside with a bow, as if I’m some high-ranking official. It’s bizarre to realize House Draeven’s staff now sees me as Vaelorian’s personal retainer.A retainer who’s half Vrakken.The hush that follows my footsteps attests to the swirling rumors.

In the courtyard, I find Helrath running a session with fresh recruits. He beckons me over, tossing me a wooden blade. We lock eyes, and I can tell he’s gauging my emotional state. I nod, stepping onto the training square.

We start slow: a series of footwork drills, pivoting, blocking. My body aches from tension and lack of real rest, but I press on. Each time Helrath lunges, I parry with barely contained fury. Heups the pace, forcing me to pivot so quickly my vision blurs. My breath hitches.

“Focus,” he mutters. “Don’t let your anger blind you.”

I grit my teeth.Better anger than despair.I twist aside, spin behind him, and swipe low. He blocks with a grunt. We engage in a fierce exchange of blows, the crack of wood on wood echoing through the courtyard. Recruits watch with wide eyes, likely alarmed by my aggression.

Finally, Helrath knocks my weapon aside, seizing my wrist. My reflexes flare. I jerk free, surprising him with a sharp elbow to his ribs. He doubles over slightly. The recruits gasp, but Helrath’s lips curve into a wry smile.

“Good,” he wheezes, straightening. “That’s the fire you need. Just channel it properly.” He lowers his voice, stepping closer. “Though if you keep aiming to injure me, I might think you’re imagining I’m someone else.”

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