Page 84 of Blood and Thorns

Hanya narrows her eyes, then flicks a glance at my partially exposed wings—my half-blood nature. Surprise flares. “What are you, half-breed?” she murmurs, not entirely unkind. “Did the Council chase you out?”

A pang resonates in my chest, recalling how the Council nearly demanded my execution. “Yes,” I say simply. “They would kill me if they could. But my lineage gives me a chance to see illusions better than most. That’s how we wrecked the dark elves’ convoy.”

She and her companions exchange significant looks. One cocks his head, scanning Vaelorian. “You don’t look like a typical traitor prince from House Draeven, do you?” the man says, a mocking edge to his voice.

Vaelorian’s face shutters, a flicker of pain behind his eyes. “I was a prince, once. The Council betrayed me as much as I betrayed them. We stand on our own now. And we want to gather outcasts who see the Council’s corruption. If you help us, we can strike the dark elves further.”

A hush. Hanya sets her jaw, studying me, then Vaelorian, measuring the truth of our words. Daron and our outcasts step forward, illusions dropping, revealing their battered gear. Some murmur quiet greetings. Recognition flickers in Hanya’s eyes—she does know Daron. Her posture relaxes a fraction. “So. You propose an alliance. What do you have to offer us besides a bigger target on our backs?”

I clench my fists. “The dark elves expand daily, capturing or slaughtering outcasts. The Council stands idle or betrays its people. Join us, and we fight back—sabotaging Xathien’s fortress, freeing any captives, denying them the essence they crave. We have illusions, runic bombs, knowledge. We can give you weapons. We can protect each other.”

Hanya’s gaze flicks to a younger outcast at her side—possibly her second-in-command. They exchange a silent conversation. At last, she sheaths her dagger, exhaling. “If we do nothing, eventually the dark elves find us, or the Council hunts us. Better to strike first, on our own terms.” She jabs a finger at Vaelorian. “But if you double-cross us, I’ll slit your throat in your sleep.”

Vaelorian dips his head, acceptance shining in his black eyes. “No double-cross. We are beyond illusions of House Draeven’s loyalty. You can hold me to that.”

She nods, turning to her group. “We can talk more by the fire. You look half-dead. We have meager rations, but you’re welcome to share.”

Relief washes over me. Another small victory—a new band of outcasts forging pacts with us. We gather around the campfire, illusions relaxed, though we keep watchers posted for roaming dark elf scouts. The night air is cold, but the fire crackles warmly, and for once, we can breathe. I settle near the flames, leg throbbing. Hanya passes me a bowl of thin stew. It’s salty and bland, but I’m grateful.

As we eat, we recount the downfall of House Draeven, the sabotage at the supply camp, our plan to eventually strike Xathien’s fortress. Hanya’s eyes flash with a mixture of curiosity and hope. “Xathien has destroyed or enslaved countless outcasttribes,” she says bitterly. “If you really plan to cripple his stronghold, count us in.”

Her second-in-command, a lean Vrakken with a missing ear, lifts a brow. “We’ll need more than illusions. We need numbers, or a cunning infiltration. Xathien’s fortress is said to house hundreds of elite warlocks. They’ll sniff us out if we bungle the approach.”

Vaelorian meets my gaze, and I sense the synergy of our thoughts. “We gather outcasts across the region,” he says aloud. “There are many who hate the Council, many who fear the dark elves. We unite them under the promise of freedom from both. With enough sabotage, we can bring Xathien’s fortress to its knees before they muster a counterattack.”

Hanya smirks. “A tall order. But I like your ambition, Prince.” She spits the last word with irony. Vaelorian’s lips tighten, but he gives a slight nod, accepting the jibe. That he shows no anger impresses me—he’s changed from the arrogant scion who once believed in House Draeven’s supremacy.

I lean forward, the heat of the fire banishing some of the night’s chill. “We start small. We sabotage more supply lines, gather more outcasts. Once we’re strong enough, we coordinate a strike on the fortress. If we survive, we fade away to a place no one can follow.” The last words tumble out, resonant with longing for a quiet life. A pang hits me, recalling how Vaelorian promised we’d vanish together, forging a life beyond war. That dream seems distant, but the thought spurs me onward.

Hanya’s group exchanges murmured agreement. They’re tired of running, tired of losing. This bold plan offers a sense of agency. The lines around Hanya’s eyes soften. “All right. We’ll throw in with you. On one condition: no Council interference. You try to rejoin them, we walk.”

Vaelorian nods solemnly. “We won’t return to the Council. They branded us traitors as thoroughly as they did you.” Heglances at me, letting me confirm it with a firm nod. The Council has no place in my future.

The conversation shifts to practical matters: vantage points for scoping the next dark elf caravan, potential hideouts if we’re pursued, how best to weave illusions in group combat. While the outcasts speak, I wrap my arms around myself, exhaustion sinking in. Vaelorian notices, gently brushing a hand over my shoulder. A flush rises in my cheeks, but I let him keep it there. The synergy between us feels electric, even in this fragile respite.

At last, the group disperses to set watch. Hanya shows Vaelorian and me a battered tent near the edge of their camp, offering it for us to rest. The tent is small, the canvas patched in multiple places, smelling faintly of old leather, but it’s private enough. I sink onto a rolled blanket, hissing at the ache in my thigh. Vaelorian kneels beside me, rummaging for fresh bandages. My heart skitters—the closeness always stirs conflicting feelings. I hunger for his warmth, but a sliver of bitterness remains from the old betrayal, never fully extinguished.

He carefully unwraps the soiled cloth, wincing at the sight of dried blood. “I wish we had a real healer,” he murmurs, voice laced with regret. “But for now, let me.”

His deft fingers apply a salve one of the outcasts gave us. Pain flares, but I bite back a cry. “It’s fine,” I grunt, tears prickling my eyes. “Could be worse.”

He finishes, tying the bandage snugly. Then, with a gentleness that catches my breath, he lays his hand over my knee, meeting my gaze. “You’re strong, Valeria,” he says softly. “I hope you know that.”

My throat constricts. “I do,” I manage. “But sometimes I wonder if I push too hard. If I’m forging this path just to prove I’m no victim.” I exhale shakily. “I can’t deny how… good it feelsto stand on equal footing with the dark elves now, to fight back. Is that monstrous?”

His eyes shine with empathy. “It’s not monstrous. You’ve lived your entire life under their shadow, or the Council’s. Embracing your power doesn’t make you cruel. It makes you free.” He shifts closer, wings rustling behind him. The tent’s cramped space presses us together. My heart flutters.

I swallow the knot in my throat. The lines between necessity and affection swirl again. Without thinking, I raise a hand to his face. The flickering lantern outside the tent casts a faint glow over his features, revealing the worry lines etched there. I let my thumb graze his cheek, noting how he stills at my touch.

“Vaelorian,” I whisper. “I… appreciate you saying that.” Memories of that desperate coupling we shared in the catacombs burn in me, igniting a wave of mixed longing and guilt. We can’t keep dancing around this. But the war looms, sabotage missions and outcasts forging pacts, leaving us little space for anything else.

He covers my hand with his, eyes searching mine. “I’m yours to command,” he murmurs, raw sincerity in his voice. “No illusions, no manipulations. We walk this path together, or not at all.”

Emotion wells up, leaving me speechless. Instead of speaking, I lean forward, pressing my forehead to his, letting the warmth between us ease the lingering ache in my chest. For a moment, we just breathe, the closeness electric, our synergy as potent as any illusions. My half-Vrakken senses pulse, reading the faint swirl of magic around us, the steady cadence of his heartbeat. We fit, even if the world stands against us.

Eventually, I pull back, shuddering. “We should sleep,” I say, voice husky. “Another caravan to sabotage tomorrow, or the next day, and then… we lead these outcasts to unify more. The fortress infiltration looms.”

He gives a small nod, reluctance shadowing his eyes. He helps me lie down on the rolled blanket, adjusting a tattered cloak for a pillow. Then he settles beside me. We don’t fully embrace—the line between necessity and affection remains faint, but we’re both raw from the night’s sabotage, from forging alliances with new outcasts. Instead, we lie close enough that our hands touch, letting that contact speak volumes we can’t put into words.

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