Page 66 of Blood and Thorns

Relief slams into me so hard I nearly stagger.He’s alive.My eyes burn with sudden moisture. Helrath claps my shoulder. “Told you he’s hard to kill.”

I release a shaking breath, chest tight with a complicated rush of gratitude and lingering anger. “Where—where is he?”

The scout gestures. “A few miles up the ridge. They’ll likely reach us by full night.”

Nodding, I turn away before emotion overwhelms me. He’s safe. Our entire effort isn’t in vain. I swallow the sob threatening to rise and focus on helping Helrath coordinate a hidden campsite. The freed captives deserve rest, and we have urgent news to share with Vaelorian once he arrives.

Night falls, and we find a small clearing tucked between rocky outcrops. Helrath organizes watch rotations while I help distribute meager rations. The air is cold, starless clouds hiding the moon. A low campfire crackles, its flames carefully shielded behind a boulder to avoid detection. The rescued Vrakken huddle close, trembling from exhaustion and trauma. Their presence is a grim testament to the dark elves’ cruelty.

Time drags. Every minute, I expect dark elf scouts to descend upon us. Each rustle of wind or snap of a twig sets my nerves on edge. But no one appears—at least not from that direction.

Finally, the crunch of gravel alerts us to approaching figures. My heart leaps. Helrath signals caution, but a moment later, Vaelorian steps into the fire’s glow, supporting a limping House Draeven soldier. My chest constricts at the sight of a fresh gash on his forearm, blood staining his coat. Yet he’s alive, expression grim but fierce as ever.

He meets my gaze across the flickering firelight. Relief, anger, unspoken emotion churn in my gut. I stand, hands shaking. He passes the wounded soldier to Helrath’s care and heads my way, eyes never leaving mine.

“You made it,” I whisper, voice clogged with more feeling than I’d like.

He dips his chin, exhaling. “We lost a few good men. But yes. We stalled the reinforcements long enough to escape.”

I notice fresh bruises on his jaw, dirt smudging his cheek, a tear in one wing membrane that’s already scabbing over. My heart aches. “Are you—hurt badly?”

He shakes his head. “Superficial wounds. I’ll manage.” He glances at the ragged circle of freed prisoners. “Looks like you got them out.”

I nod. “Thanks to you and Helrath. They’re shaken, but alive.”

His shoulders sag slightly, relief threading through his posture. “Good.” Then his gaze flickers with renewed tension. “We need to talk.” He gestures away from the camp, ensuring privacy. “Please.”

I swallow, recalling the scout’s report that an entire dark elf army pursues me. My terror, fury, and confusion swirl anew. Still, I find myself following him beyond the low ring of light cast by the fire.

A short distance from camp, we stand under the shadow of towering pines. The night is black except for the faint glow of starlight. Vaelorian turns to me, face half-hidden in darkness. The tension is palpable.

He speaks first, voice soft but urgent. “The dark elves who followed us… I overheard some of their shouts. They specifically want you, yes, but not just for experiments. They plan to use your half-blood status as a catalyst—a demonstration of power. If they capture you, they’ll parade you as a triumph, a new dawn for dark elf magic. They’re rallying their armies around that concept.”

My stomach lurches. “So I’m a… trophy?”

“Worse,” he says. “They’d dissect you publicly, perhaps feed the rumor that half-bloods exist in greater numbers, incite fear among Vrakken. They’d use your suffering to fracture our alliances.”

I choke on a wave of revulsion. “Gods. How can they be so monstrous?”

He reaches out, almost touching my arm, then withdrawing. “Not all are. But the ones loyal to Xathien? They’d do anything to harness your unique blood. They see it as a key to controlling Vrakken essence, bridging a gap in their magic. We can’t let them take you.”

Tremors course through me, tears burning my eyes. “I’m so tired of being everyone’s tool. Why can’t they just—” My voice cracks, and I suck in a ragged breath. “The Vrakken Council calls me an abomination, the dark elves want me as a trophy for war. I’m cornered on all sides.”

Vaelorian’s expression twists with sympathy and guilt. “I’m sorry. Truly. If I could carry that burden for you, I would.” His tone trembles with sincerity that pricks my heart. “But we have this proof now—those captives. Once we bring them to House Draeven, we might unite enough Vrakken to stave off the dark elf armies.”

My anger bubbles up again. “And then what? The Council might still execute me if they decide it’s politically expedient. If they think handing me over to the dark elves will avert war, they might do it.”

He shakes his head fiercely. “I won’t allow it.”

I laugh bitterly. “You keep saying that, as if your will alone can stop them. Are you prepared to fight the entire Council, your own mother included?”

His jaw sets. “Yes. If that’s what I have to do.”

The raw conviction in his voice stuns me. We lock eyes, a crackle of unresolved emotion passing between us. My mind reels with the weight of it all—fear that the world wants me dead, fury at how I’ve been manipulated, and a traitorous longing for Vaelorian’s assurance.

Tears gather at the corners of my eyes. I blink them back, voice trembling. “I’m scared.”

He steps closer, so close I smell the faint tang of blood on his coat, the musk of sweat and dust. “Me too,” he admits, voice low. “But we stand a chance if we unite these rescued Vrakken with House Draeven, then rally other clans. The Council thrives on power—if they see we can undermine the dark elves’ new weapon and you’re vital to that success, they’ll relent.”

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