Page 64 of Blood and Thorns

We ride out under a sky that threatens rain. Our party is compact—two dozen warriors, including Helrath and me, with Vaelorian leading from the front. Brinda stays behind to manage fortress defenses. The clatter of hooves on the rocky trail echoes through the winding valleys. Mist clings to the foothills, ghostly shapes that swirl around the horses’ legs.

Nobody speaks much. We all sense the weight of this mission: find Xathien’s caravan, secure proof they’re transporting living Vrakken captives to harvest essence, and then strike before reinforcements arrive. Meanwhile, an entire dark elf army might be on the move somewhere else, searching for me. Fear gnaws my insides, but I keep it at bay, focusing on each step of the plan.

After hours of travel, we pause to water the horses and consult our maps. The terrain grows steep, with narrow passes flanked by jagged cliffs. The wind howls, carrying the scent of damp earth. My heightened senses pick up distant echoes—maybe tumbling rocks, maybe a distant patrol. My gut clenches.

Helrath pulls me aside, voice low. “We’ll split here. Vaelorian leads half the force around the ridge to set up an ambush. We take a smaller group, scale the cliff path, and watch for the caravan from above.”

I nod, adjusting my cloak. “You want me at the cliff edge so I can sense illusions around the convoy?”

“Exactly.” He gives me a tight grin. “No illusions slip by you, half-blood or not.”

A jolt runs through me at the term—half-blood. He doesn’t say it with scorn, more like resigned acceptance. I swallow my discomfort. “Let’s do it.”

Vaelorian calls a quick huddle. The plan is simple: my team climbs ahead, positions ourselves among boulders overlooking a narrow gorge. He and the others set traps at the far end. Once I confirm the cargo’s living prisoners, we spring the ambush. The entire operation hangs on speed and stealth.

Our gazes meet as he finishes explaining. My chest constricts with memories of the last time we planned infiltration together, but I bury them. This mission is life or death. I give him a terse nod, and he returns it, jaw set. Then our parties split.

The climb up the cliff path proves brutal. My horse remains below with the others; we scale on foot, clinging to slippery rocks. The wind intensifies, moaning around the peaks. Helrath goes first, forging a path. I follow close, muscles burning from the strain.

Eventually, we reach a precarious ledge overlooking the gorge. Four other warriors from House Draeven join us, crouching behind boulders. The pass below narrows to a choke point—exactly the place Xathien’s caravan must traverse if they stick to known routes. Helrath signals for silence, scanning the distance through a small spyglass.

Time stretches. The wind buffets us with each gust, scraping dust against our cheeks. My fingers ache from gripping rough stone. But the tension in my gut only grows.Any moment, the convoy could appear.I recall the rumors: Vrakken captives, shackled in wagons, driven by dark elf soldiers. If we rescue them, we might have the proof House Draeven needs to unify other Vrakken Houses.

I close my eyes briefly, focusing on my heightened senses. The wind’s rush dulls, and beneath it, I detect faint vibrations—footsteps or hooves, perhaps. A distant rumble. My heart leaps. “They’re coming,” I whisper to Helrath.

He nods, pressing his ear to the ground. Moments later, shapes materialize in the distance, small yet distinct. The caravan crawls along the winding pass: two heavy wagons, accompanied by a dozen riders wearing dark elf armor. My pulse lurches.It’s happening.

We crouch lower, watching. The wagons are covered in thick, layered tarps. My skin prickles—I sense illusions blanketing them, likely to mask the presence of living prisoners. I mouthThey’re cloaking something.Helrath nods. He motions for me to confirm.

Carefully, I inch to the ledge, pulling a small runic lens from my pouch. Peering through it reveals faint shimmering arcs across the wagons—illusion wards. My stomach knots with anger.They really do have captives.I can almost feel their muffled life essences, a sickening tangle of fear.

I draw back. “Confirmed,” I whisper. “Living beings inside, hidden by illusions.”

Helrath’s eyes harden. “Signal Vaelorian?”

I swallow, recalling the plan. Yes, once I confirm, we ignite a smoke signal to trigger the ambush. My heart squeezes painfully at the memory of Vaelorian instructing me—‘If you see conclusive evidence, let me know. We strike together.’Our entire plan rests on this moment. I rummage for the signal flare, a small container of enchanted dust.

But before I can set it off, a flare of movement below draws my attention. The dark elf riders halt. One dismounts, scanning the cliffs with an odd wariness.They sense something.My pulse quickens. If they spot us now, they’ll scatter or defend the wagons. We must act swiftly.

Helrath’s hand closes on my wrist. “Now or never.”

I nod, heart hammering. Popping the container open, I toss the dust into the air. It ignites in a burst of red smoke that drifts up the cliff.Vaelorian should see that from the opposite ridge.This is the sign: the cargo is real, illusions confirmed. We’re going in.

Below, the dark elves shout in alarm as they spot the plume. Helrath barks a command. We scramble down a hidden path carved into the rock face, weapons ready. My stomach twists; I’m no soldier, but I’ve fought enough to know fear is the only constant in a battle.

Chaos erupts the moment we reach the pass. Vaelorian’s party charges from the far side, warhorses thundering across the dusty ground. Arrows whiz, illusions shimmer, and the dark elves scramble to mount a defense. I catch a glimpse of Vaelorian at the forefront, wings flaring behind him as he leads the charge. My breath catches.He’s risking everything to secure this proof.

Helrath and I smash into the rear flank, tackling two stunned dark elf soldiers who never expected an assault from above. I parry a blade with my short sword, ignoring the burn in my arms as Helrath dispatches another soldier with lethal efficiency. The clang of metal on metal resonates, a brutal symphony of shouts and curses. Dust clouds swirl in the fray, stinging my eyes.

I spot the wagons, illusions flickering under the stress of combat.I have to reach them.If we free the prisoners, we confirm everything beyond doubt. With a guttural sound, I break away from Helrath, sprinting toward the second wagon. A dark elf soldier tries to intercept me, raising a spear, but I duck under it and slash across his thigh. He collapses with a cry. My heart pounds.I never wanted to kill, but these people want me dissected—I have no choice.

At the wagon’s side, illusions crackle, revealing thick wooden bars. Voices inside cry out in fear. A pungent smell of blood and sweat wafts from within. My fury ignites.They’re living beings.Another soldier lunges at me with a dagger. I twist, ramming my sword into his gut before he can strike. He slumps, eyes wide, blood staining the dusty ground.

My chest heaves.This is war,I remind myself. My eyes dart around. I need the key or some method to break the lock. Two more soldiers approach, but a swift figure drops from above—Vaelorian. He lands in a crouch, black coat flaring, wings extended. With a single slash of his spelled blade, he knocks both enemies aside. The sight of him, fierce and protective, sends a wave of conflicting emotion crashing through me. But there’s no time to dwell.

He sees me trying to force open the wagon lock. “Move,” he orders, voice taut. He raises his blade, chanting a quick runic phrase, and a burst of magic shatters the lock in a shower of sparks. The wagon door swings open.

Inside, half a dozen Vrakken—gaunt, eyes hollow—stare at us in fear. Bound with chains etched in dark elf runes, they look malnourished, battered. My heart clenches.This is the dark elves’ doing, the fate I might have shared if they caught me.One of them murmurs a broken “Th-thank you,” voice choked.

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