Page 87 of Blood and Thorns

Finally, we rig the bombs to a single detonation trigger. I gather everyone near the door, illusions swirling. “We prime it, then run,” I say, heart pounding. This is the final act that breaks Xathien’s fortress. Our entire band of outcasts steels themselves.

Valeria flips the trigger. “Now!” she shouts. We bolt, illusions flaring. The corridors ring with echoes of our footfalls. The fortress shudders with partial collapses, fire licking at the tapestries. We pass corners strewn with dark elf bodies or barricaded doors. The entire place has become a war zone.

Behind us, athoomresonates, shaking the stone underfoot. A second later, an explosion rips through the corridor, sending arcs of greenish flame as the alchemical contents combust. Screams echo from warlocks left behind. We don’t look back. Through illusions and rubble, we fight our way to the courtyard. The gate stands wide open, outcasts flooding out in retreat. The fortress’ final wards collapse in a swirl of purple sparks overhead, revealing the moonlit sky.

We emerge into the night air, battered but victorious. Flames engulf the fortress’s lower levels, smoke pluming in thick columns. The walls crack. My wings tremble with exhaustion, illusions dissipating from mental strain. Valeria leans on me, half-collapsing as we cross the threshold to open ground. Soldiers from both sides either lie dead or flee into the wilderness. The fortress belongs to no one now, consumed by fire. Our mission is complete.

A hush blankets our group. We gather in a ragged circle beyond the walls, illusions flickering from the last bombs or spells. Daron’s face is streaked with ash, his arm clutched against a wound. A handful of outcasts slump to the ground, checking injuries. We’ve paid a steep price. But the fortress labsburn behind us, taking with them Xathien’s immediate chance at forging new horrors.

Valeria sags against me, breath ragged. “It’s done,” she whispers, voice trembling. “We actually did it.”

I hold her, chest heaving. My gaze drifts to the inferno devouring the fortress, my wings aching with the memory of flight and battle. “Yes,” I echo, heart pounding with a mixture of triumph and sorrow. “It’s done.” And in that moment, I realize we’ve severed the final ties to House Draeven’s claims. The Council will never forgive us for destroying a fortress they might have wanted to capture. They’ll label us traitors, criminals. My mother is gone, lost in the chaos of the war. The citadel that was once my birthright is lost, replaced by the savage unity we found among the outcasts.

Daron staggers up, saluting me with a bloody grin. “Vaelorian. Valeria. The fortress is… ours. Or no one’s, really.” He laughs darkly. “The Council’s men might call you a demon for this. They’ll say you let a valuable fortress burn instead of reclaiming it for them.”

I meet Valeria’s eyes, reading the same bitterness. “Let them say what they will,” I mutter, pulling her closer. “We’re beyond their judgments.”

She nods, a slow, weary acceptance. Our synergy has led us here—to the literal ashes of our old world. But we hold each other up, forging a new identity from the wreckage. The illusions that swirl faintly in the night air feel like the last vestige of the old Vaelorian. Now, I belong to a new cause: the cause of freedom, half-blood acceptance, and outcast unity.

A hush falls as we watch the flames climb, sparks dancing into the star-strewn sky. For an instant, sorrow weighs heavy: we’ve lost House Draeven’s citadel, lost any chance to reclaim a normal life in these lands. But we’ve gained each other, and the knowledge that we thwarted Xathien’s immediate threat.Countless captives might be spared, or future half-bloods never discovered by these labs.

Valeria shudders with exhaustion, burying her face in the crook of my neck. My throat tightens with fierce protectiveness. I let my wings fold around her, ignoring the stares of the outcasts. This war is far from over, but we’ve won a crucial victory. The cost is steep: a battered fortress, our names smeared as traitors, and the weight of an entire realm’s enmities. But for one night, at least, we can claim we stood against darkness and prevailed.

The outcasts gather, illusions flickering, exchanging grim congratulations. Some slump to the ground, tears in their eyes for friends lost. Smoke chokes the air, but the stars glow overhead as if in defiance. My chest aches with fatigue. Valeria’s breath rattles softly, each exhale a testament to her unbreakable will. I brush strands of her hair back, whisper, “Rest if you can.”

She lifts her face, eyes shining with tears and triumph. “I never thought… we could truly beat them. But we did.” She hesitates, then presses a trembling kiss to my jaw. Heat floods me, an ache far deeper than any wound. In her voice, I hear gratitude, love, sorrow, and relief, all mingled. The lines vanish between necessity and genuine affection have vanished, replaced by something far more profound.

I exhale, kissing the top of her head. “We did.” And quietly, I add, “I love you.” The words spill out unbidden, surprising even me. But I can’t deny them. This war stripped me of illusions, left me raw and battered, and in that rawness, I see my feelings for her clearly.

Her body trembles against mine. Her lips part, searching my gaze. Slowly, she nods, tears escaping. “I… I love you too,” she manages, voice raw. “Even after everything.”

Emotion spears through me, a dizzying cocktail of pain, joy, exhaustion. We cling to each other, ignoring the stares. If we’retraitors to the Council, so be it. We have each other, and we have a cause worth fighting for. The fortress crumbles in the background, flames dancing across the stone. The dark elves might recoup eventually, or Xathien might rear a new plan, but for now, we’ve seized our destiny with both hands.

In a hush broken only by crackling fire, we stand victorious—wings battered, illusions smoldering, half-blood power blazing. The Council brands us traitors, our home citadel is lost, yet we rise from the ashes as something new. And as the final stones collapse into the inferno, I realize this is what true freedom feels like, won by blood and tears. Valeria’s body pressed to mine, her half-Vrakken strength matching my illusions, is the only citadel I need.

19

VALERIA

Istand on the lip of a rocky ledge, watching the sun sink into a horizon of rolling hills dotted with verdant forests. The harsh winds of the northern wastes have finally given way to a gentle, warm breeze. In the far distance—across leagues of terrain that once belonged to dark elves or wary Vrakken clans—there’s nothing but open sky and quiet. It’s almost too peaceful to be real.

Behind me, a secluded valley spreads out, hidden on three sides by craggy mountains. A narrow pass leads here, easily guarded by a handful of watchful eyes. Our exiled companions remain there, posted in small groups. They set up a modest camp along the slope where a freshwater spring trickles, providing a steady supply of clean water and fertile ground for foraging. Since we fled the smoldering ruins of the dark elf fortress, we’ve all needed rest—and perhaps even a place to call our own, however temporary.

I take a breath that expands in my chest like new life. The air tastes of pine and lingers with the scent of late-summer wildflowers. The ache in my left thigh—my persistent injury—reminds me how close we came to losing everything. But it’shealing at last, the bandages changed daily by a rudimentary medic among our ranks. There’s no sign of the Council’s mercenaries or dark elf scouts. According to our lookouts, no one has ventured near this valley in ages.

It’s a startlingly serene landscape. A hush of twilight hushes the birds overhead, and the faint chorus of crickets signals the day’s end. This hush almost seems to cradle me, as though urging me to let go of war’s memories and breathe in something new: hope, perhaps.

My pulse quickens at the sound of footsteps on gravel behind me. I don’t tense. I know that stride by heart—half-lithe, half-commanding. The illusions that always swirl around him are faint now, barely a ripple in the air. We no longer have to cloak ourselves in secrecy, not in this haven. Besides, we’re exhausted from weeks of sabotage and fighting.

Vaelorian steps up beside me, wings half-furled. The last rays of sunlight catch in his dark hair, highlighting the faint silver at his temples, a reminder of everything he’s endured. In the dying glow, his eyes shine near-black, reflecting a mixture of relief and a tender warmth that sends butterflies scattering through my stomach.

“How is the leg?” he asks, his voice low yet echoing slightly in the open air.

I rest a hand on the linen wraps beneath my tunic, pressing lightly. “Better,” I say. “A little stiff, but the infection is gone.”

He exhales, the tension in his posture easing. For weeks, he’s worried about me—bending illusions, procuring rare herbs from meager outpost towns, anything to keep that wound from festering. I can see the residual guilt in the lines of his jaw. Sometimes I catch him staring at me in the camp, as though marveling that I’m still alive.

“Your wings?” I counter softly, stepping close enough to trace a fingertip over the faint tear in the left membrane. “Are they healing?”

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