Page 81 of Blood and Thorns

We return to the small camp, instructing the soldiers to rest in shifts. Tomorrow night, we strike. My nerves are taut as a drawn bowstring. Even though exhaustion gnaws at me, my mind spins with visions of illusions and sabotage. Valeria sits across from me at the fire, carefully re-inspecting her illusions. The flicker of light plays over her features, revealing lingering heartbreak I can’t fully assuage.

Eventually, we bed down, each soldier forming a ring around the dimmed coals. I settle near Valeria, who wraps a cloak around herself, eyes hooded. The tension between us is palatable. My heart aches to offer comfort—some gentle touch or reminder that we’re not alone—but I hesitate. We’ve shared desperate intimacy, but the rift is far from healed. She’s the one who breaks the silence, voice low in the hush of midnight.

“I’m scared,” she admits, so quietly I almost miss it over the rustle of the breeze. “Not just of the fortress. Of what comes after. If we do succeed and run… we’re wanted by everyone. The Council, the dark elves, maybe even the orcs if they catch wind. Nowhere will be safe. We might be exiles forever.”

My throat closes. “Better exiles together than prisoners of a corrupt system.” I shift closer, letting my shoulder brush hers. “And maybe we find a place so remote, no one thinks to look. The world is vast, larger than we realize. Let them chase illusions if they want.”

She gives a fragile half-laugh. “A place of quiet… it sounds impossible.” Yet a flicker of yearning warms her tone. “I guess we’ll see.”

Gently, I curl a wing around her back, offering meager warmth. She tenses for a moment, then leans into my side, eyes drifting shut. My pulse races at the intimacy. This is not the frenetic collision of the catacombs but a softer closeness, weighted by sorrow and a glimmer of uncertain hope. I press my lips to her temple. She doesn’t recoil. For now, that’s enough.

We drift into uneasy sleep, the crackle of illusions at the edge of our hearing, the fortress’s malice looming beyond the ridge. I dream of stepping through shattered gates, runic bombs lighting up arcane labs, Valeria standing at my side, unstoppable in her fury. Maybe it’s a prophecy, maybe just my fevered imagination. But I cling to it.We will do this. We will break Xathien’s stronghold and carve out a future that belongs to us alone.

Dawn breaks, pale and somber, clouds thick in the sky. Our group rises, finalizing gear for the night’s infiltration. Tension thrums in each face. We do last-minute illusions practice, ensuring everyone can cloak themselves for a short duration. We confirm bomb triggers, carefully packing them into sturdy satchels. Valeria restocks her runic tokens, her leg wound stiff but scabbing over. She moves slowly, grimacing with each step, but her eyes gleam with iron resolve.

At midday, we rest again, storing energy for the final approach. My stomach churns, appetite gone. I watch Valeria doze under a gnarled tree, her brow furrowed as though even in dreams, war haunts her. My wings ache with the longing toprotect her from all this. But she is no fragile ward—she is half Vrakken, a fierce operative who’s proven her worth many times over. The days of me deciding her fate alone have ended.We share this path, or we don’t walk it at all.

The sun dips westward, turning the sky bruise-purple. The air grows heavy with the tang of oncoming rain. Perfect cover for infiltration, I note grimly. We pack camp in silence, each soldier lost in thought. Then, with illusions readied, we begin the final march around the ridge to Xathien’s fortress gates. No banners, no heralds—just a small band of outcasts forging into the heart of an enemy stronghold.

As we descend the ridge, the fortress comes into full view—a monstrous silhouette carved against storm clouds. Lights flicker at parapets, illusions crackle overhead in arcs of violet lightning. My chest tightens at the scale of it. The swirling wards are almost visible to the naked eye, radiating a hum that prickles my spine. Valeria’s breath stutters at my side—her half-blood senses must be screaming under such potent magical pressure.

We stop at a ravine that cuts across the fortress’s outer moat. Dark water flows beneath, reeking of stagnation. I glance at Valeria, heart pounding. “We’re at the threshold,” I murmur. “No turning back.”

She nods, face set. “No turning back,” she echoes.

We stand side by side, illusions shimmering over us, runic bombs weighing heavily in our packs. The men gather behind, grim and ready. I let out a slow breath, remembering the vow we made: sever ties with the Vrakken Council, strike the dark elves, then vanish. This is the moment that vow becomes reality.

My wings lift in a quiet gesture of finality. “Let’s do this,” I say, voice trembling with suppressed adrenaline.

Valeria’s eyes meet mine, a flicker of shared conviction passing. Despite the heartbreak and betrayal, we walk forward together, illusions rippling around our forms. One crisis ata time, one shared mission to sabotage Xathien’s fortress. Afterward, we vanish into a world that may never want us, but at least we will have chosen our own fate.

With that silent oath, we step into the gloom, the fortress looming ahead like a beast waiting to devour us. Yet for the first time, I feel a shred of freedom—not bound by the Council’s demands or the illusions of House Draeven’s unbreakable power. I walk with Valeria at my side, equal partners forging a new path. If we succeed or die, we do it on our own terms. And for now, that’s all that matters.

17

VALERIA

Icrouch in the dense underbrush, heart thrumming in my ears, scanning the dark elf supply convoy through a mesh of thorny vines. Behind me, Vaelorian waits in absolute stillness, his presence a steady warmth against the chill of midnight. The moon lies hidden behind thick clouds, granting our small band natural cover, but we cloak ourselves in illusions nonetheless. We’re close enough to the dark elf camp that I can smell the tang of metal and the faint stink of arcane residue lingering in the air—a testament to their twisted experiments.

The forest around us rustles with nocturnal life. Each creak of a branch or flutter of wings sends a spike of tension through me, though I force myself to stay calm. This is our first major strike since we turned our backs on House Draeven. The plan is simple: sabotage the dark elves’ supply lines before they can move out at dawn, crippling their ability to fortify Xathien’s fortress. If we pull it off, we’ll buy ourselves precious time to rally more outcasts—Vrakken just like us who reject the Council’s hypocrisy and the dark elves’ tyranny.

I suppress the flicker of rage that bubbles up whenever I recall my old life: a human slave, ignorant of my half-Vrakkenblood. So many months have passed since that blind terror I once felt, bowing to dark elf masters. Now, crouching here in the gloom, illusions rippling around me with each indrawn breath, I feel the raw power of my hybrid nature thrumming in my veins. I’m done being anyone’s prey.

Vaelorian’s hand brushes my shoulder, a subtle signal to hold. I glance at him, reading the question in his dark gaze:Are you ready?I give a short nod. My leg still aches from the wound I sustained during House Draeven’s downfall, but the bandages hold, and I’ve taught myself to fight through the pain. Adrenaline sharpens every sense, making me hyper-aware of the faint hum of illusions Vaelorian weaves around us and the low murmur of conversation drifting from the dark elf camp ahead.

Close behind us crouch five of our newest allies—disgruntled Vrakken outcasts who, like us, have either lost faith in the Council or never had it to begin with. They’ve joined Vaelorian and me in our mission to destroy the dark elves’ supply lines, forging a new camaraderie amid the wreckage of what we once called home. For them, the Council’s betrayal stings as deeply as House Draeven’s downfall stings for Vaelorian, and none of them wants the dark elves running rampant with fresh resources.

“The wagons are loaded with spell components, potions, steel for forging weapons,” Vaelorian murmurs, so low I only catch the edge of his voice. His wings remain tucked behind him, a sign of disciplined tension. “If we destroy them, we hamper Xathien’s fortress by weeks, maybe more. They can’t build their advanced illusions or arm their thralls so easily.”

I nod, letting my illusions settle. The swirl of magic around us flickers in my peripheral vision: faint sparks of color that only a half-blood’s senses might detect. I find myself relishing this new awareness. Where once illusions left me confused and defenseless, now I read them almost instinctively. The subtleweave of Vaelorian’s cloak merges with my own, forming a layered shield that keeps the dark elves from noticing us.All these gifts… I used to fear them.Now, I embrace them. The power is heady, a salve to the memories of cowering in dark elf courts.

One of our outcasts, a tall Vrakken named Daron, inches forward on his belly. He gives me a small hand signal—he sees about a dozen sentries stationed around the wagons, plus who-knows-how many inside the tented center of the camp. That’s more guards than we expected. My heart clenches.We can’t brute force this.If we try, we’ll be surrounded in minutes, illusions or not.

Vaelorian’s palm finds my shoulder blade again, warm through the fabric of my cloak. I steady my breath, letting the old fury course through me, sharpen me. For a moment, I think of how our synergy has grown. Since that night we fled House Draeven, parted ways with the Council for good, we’ve survived by forging a tight bond—both physically and in combat. My leg may still ache, but the electricity of Vaelorian’s presence fuels me.We stand as equals now,no longer master and operative, no more manipulations. The lines between necessity and real affection blur each time I catch his eyes, each time his hand lingers on my skin.

Daron slides back to us, face taut. “They have illusions patrolling the perimeter, possibly set to trigger an alarm if tampered with,” he whispers. “We can’t just slip in and light the wagons ablaze. The wards will sound an alert.”

I grimace. If the wards trigger, we risk being pinned down. “We must handle them silently,” I murmur. “Take down the wards from within, sabotage the wagons with minimal fuss, then vanish.”

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