Page 8 of Blood and Thorns

Snorting softly, I continue down the corridor and enter my chamber. It’s spacious, with soaring ceilings to accommodate my wings, and decorated in subdued luxury: black drapery, plush rugs, a large bed carved from obsidian wood. Tucked against one wall, a tall bookshelf houses tomes on war strategy, accounts of old battles, treatises on ancient magic. On a table by the window rests a half-written scroll—my ongoing notes regarding the dark elf city’s vulnerabilities and the rumors of an underground insurgency.

I shed my leather jacket, letting my wings expand slightly in the dim candlelight. The tension in my body eases a fraction. Sometimes, the demands of maintaining an air of unflinching composure weigh on me. Not that I would ever admit it aloud.

Crossing to the bed, I sit at its edge, unfastening the buckles on my boots. My mind drifts back to Valeria’s face, the determined set of her jaw. The way her voice never quavered, even when fear laced her words. I picture that fleeting moment of connection, when her eyes met mine and I glimpsed something raw and alive.

I allow a small smile. She’s intriguing, no doubt. Perhaps I’ll enjoy this more than I expected. Because while humans might be fragile, they possess a remarkable capacity to cling to hope—sometimes enough to challenge their betters. If harnessedproperly, that hope can become a blade aimed precisely where one’s enemies are most vulnerable.

And in the realm of Protheka,power isn’t given; it’s seized.If Valeria can help me seize it, I will make sure she tastes a life beyond mere servitude. Not freedom, exactly—she’ll always be at risk in this savage world—but a purpose she can cling to.

With a sigh, I lie back, staring at the vaulted ceiling. The candlelight dances across the stone, shadows forming abstract shapes of wings and fangs. Tonight, House Draeven has acquired more than a tribute. We’ve possibly acquired a weapon in the making.

I close my eyes, letting the hum of distant magic and the faint echo of wind lull me. Tomorrow, the real test begins. I don’t have any intention of failing my mother, nor do I plan on losing this intriguing new piece to the cruelty of the dark elves. My ambitions stretch far, and I suspect Valeria’s future is entangled with mine more than either of us realize.

I am Vaelorian Draeven. The words echo in me with quiet certainty as I drift into a light, vigilant rest.And power—true power—will be ours if we have the nerve to seize it.

3

VALERIA

Iwake to the faint glow of a single candle perched on a side table, its wax dripping into a dish fashioned from polished obsidian. My surroundings come into focus—stone walls carved with arcane patterns, a narrow arched window letting in slivers of predawn gloom, and a canopy bed draped in black velvet. The events of the previous night rush back to me: being chosen as tribute, meeting Vaelorian Draeven, and feeling certain I’d be little more than a blood source for him to drain.

Yet he didn’t feed on me. Instead, after some cryptic words, he had me taken here, to a guest chamber in the western corridor of House Draeven. My thoughts churn, confusion twisting through my chest. I’ve lived my entire life anticipating the moment a powerful being—be it a dark elf master or, in this case, a Vrakken—would decide I was disposable. The way Vaelorian looked at me, with careful, penetrating attention, still haunts me.

I sit up, pressing a palm to my forehead as though I can calm the spinning questions there. The bed’s velvet canopy shifts overhead. Everything about this room is designed to remind me I’m in a place of wealth and danger: the tapestries depictingominous, batlike creatures swooping over landscapes; the braided rugs that feel too soft under my bare feet, like illusions of comfort in a world that’s anything but.

A tentative knock at the door startles me. I draw a quick breath, crossing the stone floor. Before I even reach the handle, the door creaks open. A female attendant—clearly Vrakken from her ghostly complexion and elongated canines—enters, carrying a folded pile of clothes. She doesn’t look me in the eye, which is surprising. Usually, Vrakken regard humans with either apathy or mild disdain.

“You are to prepare yourself,” she says, voice subdued. “Lord Vaelorian has requested your presence in the south wing.”

My heart jolts. “Now?”

She gives a curt nod. “You have half an hour. Put these on.” She lays the garments at the foot of the bed. “I’ll wait to escort you.”

I exhale and glance down at the clothes. The fabric is surprisingly fine—a tunic in deep maroon, embroidered at the cuffs, and leggings of supple black material. My old garments reek of the dark elf estate and carry the stains of my captivity. Even so, this abrupt generosity feels like a trap.

“Thank you,” I manage, trying to keep the suspicion out of my tone.

The attendant inclines her head and motions for me to dress. She steps back, giving me space. It’s awkward, but I learned a long time ago not to balk at such intrusions. Privacy is a rare commodity in a world ruled by creatures who see humans as tools.

I slip into the fresh attire. The tunic is a bit snug across my shoulders, but the fabric is softer than anything I’ve worn before. The attendant then hands me a pair of dark boots that fit decently well, if slightly tight at the toes. A final glance ina mirror—tarnished at the edges, yet still reflective enough—reveals I look almost like a free woman in these clothes. Almost.

When I finish, she nods, signing me to follow, and leads me into the hallway. The fortress corridors are narrow here, lit by wrought-iron sconces flickering with eerie greenish light. My gaze travels over the faintly pulsing runes carved into the walls. I suspect they’re wards meant to deter unauthorized magic or infiltration. Every shadow seems to breathe with possibility.

We pass several other Vrakken—some in sleek uniforms, others wearing elegantly draped robes—but they pay me no heed beyond a cursory glance. The hush in this wing is uncanny, broken only by our footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Eventually, we reach a tall wooden door reinforced with black iron.

The attendant pauses, knocking twice. A low voice from within beckons, “Enter.”

She opens the door and stands aside, letting me step in first. My stomach knots, but I force myself forward.

It’s a spacious room, larger than I expected, with a high ceiling and a grand window overlooking the fortress courtyard. Shelves stuffed with scrolls and leather-bound tomes line two walls, and a massive circular table occupies the center, strewn with maps, loose parchment, and a single black quill set in an inkpot. A tapestry depicting a swirling night sky dotted with monstrous silhouettes hangs to the left.

Vaelorian stands near the table, broad-shouldered and impossibly poised. In the morning light seeping through the window, he appears almost sculptural: that pale skin, hair as dark as midnight, wings folded neatly behind him. He’s in a similar style of attire as last night—sleek black leathers, bracers at his forearms, and a plain silver clasp at his collar. It’s understated compared to what I’ve seen some Vrakken wear, but it only amplifies the lethal grace he radiates.

He glances up, those black eyes focusing on me with unnerving precision. “Valeria,” he says, voice low.

I swallow, inclining my head in what I hope passes for respectful greeting. His gaze travels from my face down to my boots, and an odd tension thrums in the air.

“Leave us,” he orders the attendant without looking her way. She dips her head and exits, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

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