Page 60 of Blood and Thorns

I nod. “At dawn. We’ll finalize the illusions we’ll use to cloak our strike team. We aim to intercept Xathien’s next transport in the pass.”

“Fine.” She lowers her head, then lifts it again, voice quieter. “Vaelorian… thank you for defying the Council. I know it’s not easy.”

Heat flares in my chest, a rush of unexpected relief. “I’d do it again.” I open my mouth, wanting to say more—about how I regret hurting her, how she’s more than an asset—but the words tangle. Instead, I step aside, letting her leave the training yard unimpeded.

She brushes past me, each footstep echoing across the stone. The torchlight slants over her face as she passes, revealing the glimmer of unshed tears. Then she’s gone, merging with the shadows near the fortress wall. I swallow the ache in my throat.She’s still furious, still wounded. But she’s staying—for now.

I spend the rest of the night in restless motion, patrolling corridors, checking in on guard rotations, re-reading intelligence reports. Anything to keep me from dwelling on the heaviness in my heart. The fortress is never truly silent, but in the late hours, it quiets enough that my footsteps carry through the hallways like lonely drumbeats.

At some point, I climb a narrow spiral staircase leading to an observation turret. The night sky stretches overhead, a tapestryof stars and the faint glow of the moon. A crisp breeze ruffles my hair and the membranes of my folded wings.

I stare out over House Draeven’s walls, imagining the future if I fail.If Valeria’s discovered by dark elves or if the Council enforces an execution order… would I truly wage war against my own House to protect her?The thought is unsettling. But my resolve is unyielding.I won’t hand her over. Not after everything we’ve shared and everything she’s accomplished.

A flutter of wings disrupts my thoughts. One of our scouts, perched on the turret’s ledge, nods to me in silent acknowledgment. I return the gesture, not trusting my voice. The possibility that I could be forced to choose between my mother’s authority, my House, and Valeria’s life weighs on me like a boulder.

Brinda’s words echo:“You’re letting sentiment cloud you.”But is it purely sentiment? Yes, I care for Valeria more than I’ve cared for anyone in a long time. She’s fiery, determined, and surprisingly compassionate for someone thrust into war. But my decision to protect her also aligns with the logic that half-blood powers could be crucial. I just can’t deny the personal intensity fueling my stance.

Eventually, the sky pales at the horizon, announcing dawn’s approach. I descend the staircase, heading to the war room. Another day of planning, of bracing for the strike on Xathien. The morning chill nips at my face, urging me awake after a night of little rest.

At dawn, the war room bustles with subdued energy. A map of the mountain pass is pinned to a board, notes scribbled across it. Helrath stands near the table, sorting through stacks of runic tokens that represent illusions or wards. Several of our lieutenants whisper among themselves. I keep my expression neutral, trying not to think about how I parted with Valeria last night.

The door opens, and Brinda sweeps in, flanked by two advisors. Everyone falls silent. She addresses the room, summarizing our plan: infiltration by a small vanguard, illusions to mask our presence, a swift ambush once the caravan is confirmed to carry living Vrakken captives. The discussion moves quickly, each officer detailing their portion of the operation.

I remain near the head of the table, directing the conversation. My mother occasionally chimes in with refinements, but she doesn’t question me about Valeria in front of the others.A strategic move.She knows pressing that issue publicly might fracture unity.

Halfway through the briefing, the door cracks open again, revealing Valeria. She enters quietly, scanning the group. Her gaze lands on me. I nod, beckoning her closer. Though a flicker of tension crosses her face, she steps forward.

Helrath gives her a respectful nod. “You’ll join the infiltration team,” he reminds the room. “Your illusions and heightened senses will help us confirm the cargo before we commit forces.”

One of the lieutenants clears his throat. “I still question letting a… human handle illusions, but Vaelorian vouches for her.”

Valeria doesn’t flinch, though I sense the slight stiffening of her spine. “I’ve mastered enough illusions to remain hidden. And I can detect false wards better than most.” Her voice rings firm.

I cast the lieutenant a warning look. “She’ll do what’s needed. Let’s continue.”

The conversation resumes, detailing scouting positions on the ridge, the route the caravan is likely to take, and potential fallback points if we’re outnumbered. My mother stands slightly removed, observing with her usual cold poise. I sense herevaluating Valeria’s role carefully, as though testing whether I’m truly right to trust her.

When the meeting adjourns, the officers depart in small clusters, discussing final arrangements. I linger, scribbling notes on the map, verifying a final detail with Helrath. Valeria hovers at the edge, uncertain whether to approach. I catch her eye, and a silent understanding passes between us: we have to coordinate, even if the personal wounds are raw.

She steps closer, ignoring the curious stares from a couple of straggling soldiers. “We leave tomorrow night, yes?” she asks quietly.

I nod. “Yes. We’ll ride to the outskirts of the pass by dawn, then set the ambush. The illusions will be cast at midday, right when we expect Xathien’s convoy to crest the ridge.”

Her throat bobs as she swallows. “I’ll be ready.”

My mother watches from a distance, arms folded. The tension is palpable.She wants to see if we can function despite the storm swirling around us.I stand straighter, forcing the anger and longing inside me to remain hidden. “We’ll finalize your infiltration gear,” I tell Valeria. “Helrath says you’re proficient with the new runes he provided?”

She nods curtly. “I practiced last night. They’re advanced illusions, but I can manage.”

“Good.” My voice softens. “Thank you.”

A flicker of emotion crosses her face—residual pain, maybe. Then she simply turns, heading for the door, footsteps echoing across the chamber. I swallow the ache that spikes in my chest. She’s here, cooperating, but her walls are high, and I can’t blame her.

The day passes in a blur of final preparations. I review supply lists, confirm troop formations, and dictate a handful of coded messages to allied Vrakken Houses. Word has spread that we’re mobilizing, though we keep the true target secret. Mymother oversees the logistics for fortress defense in our absence, ensuring no opportunistic foe strikes House Draeven while we’re away. Tension hums in the halls; soldiers sense the significance of this mission, the chance to cripple Xathien’s vile experiments.

Late in the afternoon, I retreat to my personal quarters for a short reprieve. My head throbs with the weight of endless strategy. The moment I enter the dim room, I sense my own frayed state: wings tired, shoulders knotted. I strip off my coat, letting it slump over the arm of a chair. The fortress hush outside my window beckons me to rest, but my mind spins with unrelenting worry—about the mission, the Council, my mother, and Valeria.

Crossing to a side table, I pour a small measure of spiced liquor, hoping it might dull the edge of my anxiety. I down it in one gulp, wincing at the burn. My reflection in the tall standing mirror nearby catches my attention. I see the tightness around my eyes, the severity in my stance. I look every inch the ruthless prince I was raised to be, yet I can’t shake the swirl of emotion Valeria triggers.

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