Page 56 of Blood and Thorns

My chest heaves.He’s not wrong.Each swing was aimed at a phantom wearing Vaelorian’s face. I release a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to get carried away.”

He waves it off. “We’re Vrakken. Getting carried away in a fight is half the point.” His gaze flickers over my features. “You all right?”

I let the wooden blade drop. My arms feel like lead. “No,” I admit, swallowing thickly. “But hurting you won’t fix anything.”

A faint grin touches his mouth. “At least you’re honest. Take a break.” He turns to the recruits, barking instructions for them to continue drills. Then, more quietly, to me: “Vaelorian wants you in the war room at midday. The final strategy for intercepting Xathien’s caravan will be discussed.”

My pulse flutters with anxiety. “Wonderful,” I murmur sarcastically. “More time spent in close quarters with him.”

Helrath lays a hand on me, gentler than usual. “You can’t avoid him. This is bigger than your feud.”

I know that. But that doesn’t make it easier.

Midday finds me in a cramped war room with high, narrow windows letting in beams of pale sunshine. A long table dominates the center, maps and tactical diagrams covering its surface. Vaelorian stands at the head, arms folded, while a handful of House Draeven’s key advisors murmur amongst themselves. I linger at the periphery, ignoring the spike in my pulse when Vaelorian’s gaze flicks to me.

He nods a greeting but doesn’t speak directly. A swirl of tension radiates between us, unnoticed by the others who assume it’s just the intensity of planning a crucial ambush. My insides churn with unresolved fury, and an ache that refuses to fade.

Brinda, the Matriarch, arrives with stately grace, her silver hair pinned up in an elaborate style. She glances around, acknowledging each person. Her gaze lands on me for a heartbeat, impassive. I force my face into polite neutrality. If she suspects my half-blood nature, she says nothing. Possibly, Vaelorian convinced her to keep silent—at least until after the caravan ambush.

The discussion begins. Maps are unrolled, showing the mountain pass where Xathien’s rumored transport is set to travel. Advisors debate positioning of House Draeven troops, possible illusions to mask our presence, or how best to confirm the cargo is indeed Vrakken captives.

I hover at the table’s edge, carefully listening. Vaelorian outlines a plan: a forward scouting party will lie in wait, observing the caravan from a ridge. Once we confirm the captives, we strike, capturing the transport. Another small team will handle illusions to disguise our approach. My role: infiltration, slipping close enough to sense if the cargo is indeed living Vrakken or illusions.

Brinda taps a slender finger on the map. “This must be swift. If any messenger escapes, Xathien will retaliate.”

Vaelorian inclines his head. “Agreed. We can’t risk a prolonged skirmish in the pass. The terrain is tricky. Our ambush must be surgically precise.” His gaze flicks to me, dark eyes revealing none of our personal discord. “Valeria will confirm the presence of living captives. She has a knack for detecting hidden illusions. Once she signals, we move in.”

I swallow.A knack, or my half-Vrakken blood at work.My chest tightens. Nonetheless, I manage a firm nod. “Understood.”

Brinda’s eyes narrow slightly, but she says nothing about my involvement. Instead, she addresses the group. “You have three days to prepare. Dismissed.”

The advisors file out in murmured conversation. I stay rooted, rummaging for my courage. Vaelorian stands by the table, rolling up the map with careful efficiency. Brinda glances between us, some unspoken knowledge in her gaze, then sweeps from the room, leaving us alone.

Silence. I shift, arms crossed. “Is that the plan, then? We do your infiltration, confirm the captives, and hope we don’t all die?”

He sets the map aside, turning to me. “It’s the best option. If it succeeds, we’ll have undeniable proof to rally other Vrakken Houses against Xathien. We can free those captives, maybe glean more about his operation.”

My anger flares again, remembering how he hid my heritage. But I keep my voice steady. “Fine. I’ll do it. I agreed to see this mission through.”

A flicker of relief touches his features. “Thank you.” He hesitates, stepping closer. “About earlier?—”

“I’m not ready to discuss it,” I say, voice tight. “We have a mission. Let’s keep it professional.”

His face registers hurt, but he nods. “As you wish.” After a beat, he adds softly, “I regret everything that brought you pain.”

I clench my jaw, refusing to let tears gather. “Regret alone doesn’t fix the damage.” Pivoting on my heel, I stride out of the war room, heart pounding. He doesn’t follow.

Over the next few days, House Draeven hums with activity as we finalize the ambush plan. I spend hours training with Helrath, practicing infiltration spells, illusions, and advanced weapon work. My half-Vrakken senses intensify—every time I tune into illusions, it’s like a lens snapping into focus. I can sense the magical threads, almost unravel them. It frightens me, but Helrath calls it “remarkable.” Another testament to my heritage.

Vaelorian keeps his distance, communicating only through official channels or quick, clipped instructions in group briefings. I sense the strain in his posture each time, as though he longs to pull me aside. But I hold him at arm’s length, consumed by my fury and confusion.

Some nights, after the fortress quiets, I wander the corridors, half-hoping he’ll corner me so we can scream at each other or find some twisted resolution. He never does. If he roams the halls, we don’t cross paths. The tension gnaws at me, fueling my nightmares of captivity and torn allegiances.

At last, the departure day arrives. A small strike team gathers in the fortress courtyard at dawn: half a dozen skilled Vrakken warriors, Helrath included, plus me. We’ll travel with minimal supplies, using illusions to remain hidden. Vaelorian will lead from the front, orchestrating the assault. Additional House Draeven forces will circle wide, ready to close the trap once we confirm the caravan’s location.

I stand by my assigned horse, adjusting the straps on a pack stuffed with infiltration gear. The morning air smells crisp, with a faint hint of rain. My heart thrums with anxious energy—I’vedone infiltration missions before, but never one so crucial, or so personally fraught.

Vaelorian emerges from the keep, clad in dark leathers, wings partially furled. He checks the harness of his own mount, giving instructions to a soldier. Our gazes meet across the courtyard, tension arching between us. We exchange a curt nod.We both know we can’t let personal drama undermine this operation.

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