Page 83 of Blood and Thorns

I press my hand to my thigh, wincing at the fresh blood staining the bandage. “We might need a real healer soon,” I murmur, voice taut. “This wound refuses to fully mend.”

Vaelorian’s eyes gleam with concern. “We’ll find one. For tonight, let me redo the bandage.” He kneels before me, rummaging in his pouch for fresh wrappings. My entire body tenses with the memory of how I once resented his touch when he feigned betrayal. Now, in the hush of this clearing, I see only earnest care in his eyes. The lines of necessity and genuine affection blur again.

He begins to unbind the soiled cloth, ignoring my hisses of pain. His hands are gentle but decisive. The other outcasts hover, giving us space, though I sense them stealing glances—they know we share something more than mere partnership. My cheeks warm, recalling the catacombs’ desperate union.Even now, battered and exhausted, I feel a frisson whenever Vaelorian’s fingers brush my skin.

“You fought well,” I say quietly, voice edged with weary admiration. “That wing strike was something else.”

He huffs a short breath of amusement, not quite a laugh. “You did all the heavy lifting on the illusions. We might have triggered every alarm if not for your half-blood senses.”

I swallow, heart pounding. My half-blood identity no longer feels like a curse. Instead, it’s a potent advantage, something that keeps me and others alive. “It feels good,” I admit, voice breaking with honesty. “I used to hate what I am. Now I’m… proud. This power is mine, not theirs to use.”

Vaelorian glances up, eyes dark with emotion. “I’m proud too.” A beat passes. “Proud of you.”

I lower my gaze, heat flooding my cheeks. For so long, I resented him for his manipulations. Even now, there’s a wound between us that might never fully heal. Yet hearing him express genuine pride stirs a swirl of longing. We share a synergy I can’t replicate with anyone else, a sense that we’ve carved out a corner of this war for ourselves. I let my hand drift to his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze in thanks.

Daron coughs, stepping forward. “So, what now? The sabotage was a success, but the dark elves might track us deeper into the forest. We can’t stay put.”

Vaelorian finishes tightening my bandage, stands, and turns to the group. “Agreed. We’ll move at first light, keep to hidden paths. Our next aim is forging alliances with more outcasts—like you—who see the Council for what it is. We build a network. We keep striking Xathien’s supply lines until we gather enough to launch the real infiltration on his fortress.”

One of the outcasts, a wiry male with scars across his left wing, frowns. “Where do we find these outcasts? We’re already outlaws. The Council will brand any who join us traitors.”

Valeria must see the flicker of doubt in them. She clears her throat. “There are pockets of Vrakken who’ve refused the Council’s rule for decades. Some dwell in the high mountains, others roam border regions. We’ve heard rumors. They might harbor grudges against the Council or the dark elves. If we approach them carefully—offer proof we’re fighting for freedom, not personal gain—they might stand with us.”

I nod in agreement. “Exactly. Our sabotage tonight proves we can strike effectively, no matter how small our numbers. That’s a message outcasts can rally around.”

The outcasts exchange thoughtful looks. Daron speaks again, tone carefully respectful. “We’ll follow you. Helrath believed in Vaelorian, and you, Valeria, you saved us from the illusions back there. But be warned: some outcasts might be as hostile as the dark elves. The Council’s persecution has driven them to madness.”

Vaelorian’s lips press into a grim line. “We’ll handle it. We have no illusions about the dangers. But if we do nothing, Xathien’s fortress stands unopposed, forging new atrocities from Vrakken essence. War is unstoppable, but we can shape its course.”

A hush settles, heavy with the weight of our situation. Slowly, nods ripple around the circle. The forest hums with nighttime insects, the occasional hoot of an owl reminding us dawn is still hours off. We can’t risk a fire, so we bed down in the undergrowth. Vaelorian positions watchers on rotating shifts, illusions laid across the clearing to hide our presence.

I settle against a broad tree trunk, pain throbbing in my leg. Vaelorian sits a short distance away, wings half-furled, eyes flicking between me and the forest edges. For a moment, I want to beckon him closer, let him cradle me in that intangible comfort he sometimes offers. But rawness from our past lingers. Instead, I close my eyes, lulled by the distant whispers of ouroutcasts murmuring in the shadows. The synergy that spurred us to sabotage the dark elves binds us, but we each carry wounds deeper than physical cuts.

I managesnippets of restless sleep. At the first pale light of dawn, Vaelorian gently rouses me, his hand on my shoulder. I blink groggily, leg stiff. He gives me a faint smile of encouragement. “Time to move,” he says quietly. “Dark elves might comb these woods soon.”

Wearily, we gather our minimal gear. Our illusions remain frayed from heavy use, but some runic tokens recharge in sunlight, granting us partial coverage if we must hide again. We limp deeper into the forest. Vaelorian supports me, my breath hitching whenever I step wrong. Anger courses through me—the dark elves, the Council, the entire fiasco that forced us to become fugitives. But overshadowing it all is a fierce satisfaction that we’ve proved our strength. I’m done with being powerless.

We march all day, pausing only to rest in a hollow near midday. The outcasts glean edible roots and berries, sharing them. We speak little, the tension of potential pursuit thick in the air. My leg throbs, but I refuse to complain. The synergy with Vaelorian—our midnight sabotage—lingers in my mind. We’re forging a new identity together, one that merges my half-blood power with his illusions in a lethal dance.It feels electric.I suppress a wry smile, recalling how close we nearly came to oblivion. Yet we triumphed.

By twilight, we crest a ridge overlooking a narrow valley. Daron halts, scanning the dim horizon. “Smoke,” he murmurs, pointing at a faint column drifting upward. “Might be travelers or a small camp.”

Vaelorian glances at me, reading the question in his gaze.Should we investigate? Could it be more outcasts we can allywith? Or a threat?I shrug, bracing on my staff. “We could use more allies, but we can’t blunder into a trap.”

The group murmurs agreement. Stealth is our shield now. We decide to approach carefully, illusions readied. The smoke originates near a rocky outcrop by a stream. As we approach, I sense a faint aura—Vrakken, I think, or something close to it. My half-blood senses pick up the tang of power, though it’s not as strong as full-blood Vrakken or dark elves. Possibly lesser illusions? We press on, illusions swirling around us, each footstep carefully placed.

We find a rough camp nestled in a hollow. A handful of shapes move around a central fire, cooking something pungent. A ring of low tents, battered like they’ve been dragged across half the continent, surrounds the camp. My pulse quickens. A single glance at their silhouettes—tall, lean, with faint wings or partial wings—suggests they’re Vrakken, though clearly not part of any official clan. Outcasts.

Daron’s face brightens with recognition. “I know one of them,” he whispers. “Name’s Hanya. Left House Draeven years back, refused to pay Council taxes. She might be open to an alliance.”

Vaelorian signals us to remain hidden while he and I step forward under illusions. My heart lurches, recalling how precarious these negotiations can be. Outcasts are often skittish or hostile, suspicious of any who might betray them to the Council. But we have no alternative. We approach quietly, illusions flickering, revealing ourselves at the edge of firelight with hands raised in peace. The group whips around, startled. Weapons appear in an instant—daggers, short swords, battered but deadly.

A woman with ragged wings and a scar across her cheek steps forward, eyes blazing. “Who in the void are you?” she demands.

Vaelorian speaks calmly, wings folded. “We mean no harm. We’re fugitives from House Draeven, outcasts like you. Heard rumor of your band, Hanya. We come to propose a pact against the dark elves.”

She hisses. “Fugitives from House Draeven? That’s bold talk if you’re Council stooges.” Her suspicious glare sets me on edge.

I step forward slightly, letting her see the worn bandages on my leg, the grime from days of travel. “We sabotaged the dark elf supply lines last night. We’ve severed ties with the Council. They consider us traitors. We share a common enemy in the dark elves—and possibly in the Council’s tyranny.”

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