Page 80 of Blood and Thorns

I exhale, picturing the fortress’s rumored layout—a labyrinth of labs, prison cells, and wards. “If we can find a direct route to the cells, we free them first. If the fortress alarm triggers early, we sabotage the labs so they can’t harness any prisoner’s blood. Then we break out with as many survivors as possible.”

A hush ensues, thick with fear and determination. Each of them understands the risk. We’re possibly condemning ourselves to a suicidal mission, but letting the dark elves run amok is worse. I let the moment weigh on them before continuing. “I won’t force any of you to come. If you wish to abandon this fight, do so. No shame in it.” My wings flex, acknowledging that we owe them no illusions of glory. This is pure survival and vengeance.

They exchange looks, but no one steps back. The dark-haired woman crosses her arms. “Helrath believed in you. If he were here, he’d be the first to volunteer. That’s good enough for me.”

A solemn nod ripples through the others. My throat tightens with gratitude and sorrow. Helrath’s memory galvanizes us. “Then let’s be about it,” I say, voice cracking. “We leave within the hour. Travel light. The fortress is a few days’ journey if we keep to hidden paths. We gather illusions from the caches, then strike.”

Valeria stands beside me, tension thrumming in the space between us. She’s my partner in this, no longer my subordinate. The realization steadies me, forging a sense of unity.I will not treat her as a tool. We do this side by side, equals in every sense.

When the meeting concludes, the soldiers disperse to gather gear. I linger near the broken statue, running a hand over its chipped features. Once, it depicted one of my House’s founding warriors. Now the face is half gone, the old runes scoured away. A potent metaphor for what House Draeven has become. My wings droop, eyes burning with unshed tears.I never thought I’d forsake my lineage so completely.But I can’t let sorrow paralyze me.

A light touch alights on my shoulder. Valeria stands behind me, quiet concern in her gaze. “You all right?” she asks softly, voice echoing in the still tower.

I swallow the lump in my throat, turning to face her fully. “I will be,” I say, voice thick. “It’s just… the finality of it all. Giving up House Draeven. Letting the Council brand me a traitor. I spent centuries believing I’d one day lead them to glory.”

Her expression softens. “Sometimes the only way to save what matters is to let go of what doesn’t.” She hesitates, then places her hand on my chest, over my heart. “You’re forging a path free of their corruption. That might be the real glory, Vaelorian.”

A surge of warmth washes over me. She’s right. I’m forging something new—a destiny built with my own hands, not bound by archaic laws or manipulations. And if it means severing from the Council, so be it. My wings lift in a faint show of renewed determination. “Thank you,” I whisper.

Her hand lingers. We stand in silence, letting our eyes convey a fragile sense of camaraderie that’s blossomed despite heartbreak. A flicker of memory returns me to that feral moment in the catacombs, the mixture of pain and ecstasy. My cheeks heat. Her lips part, and for a second, I think she might mention it. But she closes her mouth, stepping back, clearing her throat. We both know we can’t dwell on that now.

Outside, the group calls for us. The hour is up. It’s time. We exchange a final look, each reading the other’s mixture of fear and resolve. Then we walk from the tower, side by side, ignoring the pang in my chest that wonders if we’ll ever see these lands again.

The soldiers have readied a pair of half-broken wagons, salvaged from old stocks. They’re not built for stealth, but we plan to abandon them once we approach Xathien’s domain. For now, they carry our minimal supplies, extra illusions carefully stowed in crates. Two battered horses stand harnessed to the front. Their eyes roll with nerves, sensing tension in the air.

I help Valeria climb onto the driver’s seat of the first wagon. A male soldier volunteers to handle the reins. I climb in beside them, wings tight to avoid jostling the others. The second wagon, manned by the rest, follows. No fanfare, no banner. We leave the tower as quietly as we arrived, forging east on a rutted track that leads away from House Draeven’s heartland.

The journey stretches, day turning into night, night into day again. We keep hidden, traveling narrow trails, resting only when absolutely necessary. Valeria’s leg wound recovers slowly, thanks to the medical kit. She manages short illusions whenever scouts pass, shielding us from stray dark elf patrols. The soldiers are on constant watch, paranoid about assassins or monstrous beasts. I realize with a pang that we might be safer among the beasts of the forest than the Vrakken Council or the dark elves.

At intervals, we come across secret caches Helrath and I stashed years ago—sealed crates hidden under rotted logs or buried near unmarked boulders. Opening them reveals runic tokens for illusions, small bombs of arcane energy, potions for short bursts of speed or strength. The sight of Helrath’s handiwork floods me with grief, but also pride. He foresaw a time we might need these.We won’t waste his legacy.

Valeria helps distribute tokens to each soldier, demonstrating how to channel illusions without draining themselves. She’s adept at explaining the runes, cautioning them about potential side effects. Sometimes her posture sags, betraying her exhaustion, but she squares her shoulders, forging on. Our eyes meet often—silent encouragement passing between us. We have no one else to rely on but each other and these few loyal outcasts.

The path grows harsher the closer we get to Xathien’s domain. The land itself feels tainted—gnarled trees, a faint miasma that might be residual illusions from the fortress. At night, the wind howls, as though the magic saturating the area warps the very atmosphere. The men speak in hushed tones around the campfire, glancing warily at the shadows. Valeria’s half-blood senses prickle, warning us of subtle illusions drifting in the gloom. We refine our wards to keep them at bay.

On the fourth day, we crest a ridge overlooking the valley that cradles Xathien’s fortress. My stomach lurches at the sight: a massive stone structure perched on a black cliff, ringed by spiky towers that crackle with arcane power. The air around the fortress shimmers with illusions—a web of wards so dense it appears like flickering purple lightning overhead. A wide moat extends around the base, fed by a foul-looking river. Dark spires loom. Even from this distance, I sense the hum of raw magic, twisting the environment.

We make camp behind the ridge, in a gully that keeps us hidden from prying eyes or scrying spells. Dusk settles, painting the fortress in malevolent silhouette. In the dying light, we gather for a final council, tension crackling in the air.

Valeria stands near me, a runic scroll clutched in her bandaged hand. “We can’t brute force our way inside,” she says, voice carrying to the assembled soldiers. “They have illusions far beyond normal wards. We’ll need to slip past with a layeredcloak, find an internal weak point, and sabotage the labs from within.”

I nod, scanning the group. “We have enough illusions to cover all of us for a short time. Once we’re inside, we split into two teams: sabotage and rescue. Sabotage hits their essence labs—where they refine Vrakken blood into new spells. The rescue team checks the holding cells for captives. Once each team finishes, we regroup at the fortress’s northern gate. Then we retreat before the entire garrison mobilizes.”

The soldiers exchange grim looks. One asks, “What if we can’t find the labs? Or the illusions break?”

Valeria’s voice is sure. “Then we do as much damage as possible, any way we can. If illusions fail, we rely on stealth and speed. We can’t survive a prolonged siege. This is a strike—and-run mission. Understood?”

They nod, jaws set. My heart swells with pride at her composure. We truly lead together, no question of me overshadowing her. Even the soldiers, once uncertain about a half-blood, look to her for guidance. The flicker of torches illuminates her battered face, showing raw determination in every line. The memory of our catacomb union sears behind my eyes, reminding me how fragile we are. We must succeed or die.

Night deepens. The plan finalizes. We’ll approach on foot, illusions layered to render us near-invisible. We carry small bombs to destroy arcane equipment or labs. If we find captives, we’ll free them or at least kill the guards so no one else is tormented. My throat goes dry at the enormity of it.We are eight, challenging a fortress that might hold hundreds.Yet fear of inaction is worse, especially for Valeria.

She stands beside me, face turned toward the ominous fortress lights flickering in the distance. I rest a hand on her shoulder. Her breath hitches, but she leans against me slightly. “We can do this,” I say softly, trying to infuse conviction.

Her eyes reflect the distant glow. “We have to.” She exhales. “If we don’t, the dark elves keep building their monstrous weapon. More half-bloods, more Vrakken, enslaved or dissected. If I can stop that even a little, it’s worth the risk.”

I gently cup her chin, wings lowering in a sign of intimacy. She allows it, though a flicker of pain crosses her face—the memory of my betrayal still lingers. I swallow. “After this, we vanish. Let the Council rage or label us traitors. Let House Draeven rebuild or crumble without us. We live our own fate.”

She nods, tears almost forming but blinked away. “Yes. Together.” Her voice trembles on that last word, but the vow stands. A fragile thread of hope binds us. I vow silently never to break it again.

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