Page 68 of Blood and Thorns

He dips his head. A fleeting concern shadows his expression. “I’ll ensure you’re not disturbed. Try not to worry about the hearing.”

A short laugh escapes me, humorless. “Too late.” Still, I appreciate his intent. My life and existence hang in the balance, as does the destiny of House Draeven in the face of a dark elf invasion.

Hours later, I settle into a small suite near the fortress’s rear courtyard, assigned by Helrath for privacy. The weight of the approaching Council session presses on me. My head spins with the threat of an entire dark elf army mobilizing to snatch me, the Vrakken Council’s hostility, and the knowledge that my presence might tilt the war’s outcome.

I pace the room, replaying Helrath’s words and Vaelorian’s vow to shield me.He can’t fight them all if they decide to sacrifice me.My nails bite into my palms.But if I flee, I condemn them to facing Xathien alone—and risk being captured on the run anyway.

Torn between fury at a world that wants me dead for existing and the fragile hope that House Draeven might still stand with me, I sink onto the bed, burying my face in my hands. My chest constricts. I’ve never felt so helpless or so important at once.

A faint knock rouses me. I stand, cautious. “Yes?”

The door creaks open to reveal one of the rescued Vrakken—a younger man, bruised and haunted-looking. He bows awkwardly. “My lady. I… I wanted to thank you. We heard you risked everything to confirm our presence in that caravan.”

Tears sting my eyes at the raw gratitude in his voice.They view me as a savior of sorts.“You don’t owe me thanks,” I manage. “I just—did what was right.”

He lowers his gaze. “Still. If there’s anything I can do… I owe you my life.” His voice wobbles with emotion. “Please, don’t let the Council discard you. We need you. The world needs you.”

My breath catches.They need me.The notion resonates, feeding an ember of courage. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I’ll do my best.”

He departs, leaving me alone again. But his words echo in the hush:We need you.This battered Vrakken, once a victim of the dark elves, sees me as hope. That flips my fear into a fierce resolve:I’m done letting them chase me into corners.If half the world wants me dead, I’ll fight to prove they can’t break me. Not the dark elves, not the Council.

I stare at the reflection in the room’s small mirror, repeating the thought:They will not break me.The hours tick by, each breath a step closer to facing the Council’s scrutiny. My hands tremble at the idea of them labeling me an abomination. Yet my heart steels with a grim vow.I’ll stand my ground. If they want me dead, they’ll have to see me first—and see the future I represent.

At last, a guard summons me: the Council is ready.This is it.With a final inhale, I sweep from the suite, meeting the guard’s stiff bow. My fate and of House Draeven collide tonight. Fear still hammers in my veins, but so does anger. I clench my jaw, striding down the corridor toward the Council chamber, prepared to face every condemnation they hurl my way.

14

VAELORIAN

Istare at the double doors of the council chamber, heart pounding like a war drum in my chest. Every muscle tenses in anticipation of yet another confrontation, but I remind myself that Valeria is counting on me. If I falter now, she faces a world of torment from both Protheka’s dark elf fanatics and our own paranoid Council. My pulse thrums in my ears as I push open the doors.

Inside, a hush settles over the circular room. Torchlight casts dancing shadows along the carved walls, which depict battles of centuries past—Vrakken clashing with orcs, with dark elves, with monstrous beasts. Rows of seats rise in tiers, each occupied by House Draeven’s influential nobles, matriarchs and patriarchs of lesser lines, and a smattering of elder advisors. At the head, naturally, presides my mother, Matriarch Brinda, regal in her formal robes. Her silver-white hair glints with the flames’ glow.

She surveys me with an unreadable expression. Normally, I can guess her moods by the tilt of her chin or the arch of her brow, but tonight she’s as closed off as a locked vault. After everything—the half-blood revelation, the rescued Vrakkencaptives, and the rumors swirling about an approaching dark elf army—this council session is meant to be an emergency measure. We need a united front. We need to decide how to face Xathien’s threat.

Yet as I stand there, wings tucked behind me, an odd tension prickles along my spine. Something’s off in the arrangement of seats, in the way certain councilors refuse to meet my eye. They murmur among themselves, hushed phrases that spark suspicion in my gut. My mother raps a staff on the stone floor.

“Vaelorian Draeven.” Her voice carries through the chamber, echoing under the vaulted ceiling. “We convene to address the infiltration mission’s outcome, the fate of the half-blood in our midst, and the dark elves’ mobilization. We trust you have intelligence to share.”

I stride to the center of the room, ignoring the stare of an older councilor to my left whose lips purse in disapproval. “My infiltration force successfully rescued multiple Vrakken captives from Xathien’s caravan. Their testimonies confirm the dark elves’ essence-harvesting plan, validating Valeria’s intel. We have enough proof to rally other Vrakken Houses—if we act swiftly.”

A shifting of bodies, a wave of murmurs. One council member—Lord Syrath, a venerable Vrakken with salt-and-pepper hair—leans forward. “That is encouraging news. We applaud the rescue. Yet we also hear rumors that the half-blood—” his mouth twists on the term, “—has drawn further dark elf aggression. An entire army mobilizes near our borders, specifically to capture her.”

I sense a trap in his tone. “Yes,” I say carefully, “the dark elves know about her. They see her lineage as a direct path to harnessing new magic. That is more reason we must unify. If they capture her, or any potential half-blood, they’ll only grow stronger.”

Brinda raises her staff again. “And yet the Council remains uneasy. An abomination within our walls?—”

Rage flickers inside me. “I object to that term. She is no abomination.”

A few voices hiss or scoff. My mother’s gaze narrows, and she inclines her head in a chilling calm. “We have ancient laws condemning half-bloods, Vaelorian. The Council cannot disregard them lightly.”

I clench my jaw, scanning the assembly. I see Helrath lurking near the periphery, arms folded. He gives me a subtle nod, urging caution. Valeria stands at the chamber’s edge with a guard, posture tight and defiant as she meets the cold stares. She won’t flinch. My chest constricts at how alone she must feel, a swirl of half-lidded scorn from so many Vrakken. But I can’t let them savage her in a knee-jerk condemnation.

“You argue tradition,” I say, forcing a calm tone, “but tradition also demanded we remain underground, away from the surface, centuries ago. Times change. Xathien’s threat dwarfs any archaic fear of half-breeds. Valeria is the reason we have living proof of the dark elves’ atrocities. She saved lives. She is an asset.”

Lord Syrath scowls. “And also a beacon for the dark elves, who march upon us. Some whisper that handing her over might spare House Draeven from a costly war. That the dark elves want her above all else.”

An immediate wave of protest stirs from some council members—others, however, remain silent. My fury sharpens.Handing her over?Over my dead body. “That would be a catastrophic mistake,” I retort, voice echoing. “They’d only be emboldened to strike further once they gleaned every secret from her blood. We must deny them that advantage and unify Vrakken Houses to repel their incursion.”

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