Page 91 of Blood and Thorns

“When I was a child,” I murmur, letting the memory come unbidden, “my mother would stand me atop House Draeven’s tallest spire. She’d point to the horizon, saying one day the entire land would bow to me. I believed her. I never questioned the cost.” I trace a finger along the ridges of stone under my feet. “Then I met you. Everything I thought I knew—about power, about legacy—crumbled under the weight of what we endured.”

Valeria’s gaze flicks over my profile. “It cost you your home, your title, your family.”

“It gave me something else,” I say, pulse hitching. I face her, wings half-furled behind me, the wind ruffling the edges of her tunic. “I have you, and a band of exiles who share a vision that doesn’t revolve around the Council’s cruelty or the dark elves’thirst for conquest. That might be more precious than all the spires of House Draeven.”

Her eyes glimmer, a tear threatening but never falling. She nods, lips curving in a small, poignant smile. “We can never go back to what we were, Vaelorian. But maybe we don’t want to.”

I tilt my head, letting the wind blow across my face. She’s right. The final battle—when we burned the fortress and left the Council’s domain for good—marked the end of every old tie. That’s what a beautiful ending is, I suppose: looking back at the ashes and deciding how to move forward.

As we stand, out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse a small group of outcasts gathering near the stream below. Daron and a few others—former knights, half-blood runaways, renegade archers from broken houses—are dividing supplies or planning a scouting trip. They glance up, noticing Valeria and me, offering a respectful nod. Once, such a gesture would have swelled me with pride. Now, it warms me in a different way: these people follow me and Valeria not out of forced fealty, but mutual choice.

Valeria shifts, and I see the slight strain in her leg. The bruise on her thigh is still healing from the final push against the fortress guards. Concern flickers in my chest. “Let’s head down,” I suggest. “We can walk along the ridge, see if the others need anything.”

She hesitates. “You sure you want to leave this view? You seemed lost in thought.”

I give her hand a gentle squeeze, weaving our fingers together. “I can reflect on how far we’ve come while we walk. I want to see everyone. Make sure they’re well.”

Her mouth curls in that half-smile, the one that never fails to kick my heart into a faster rhythm. Together, we descend from the rocky outcrop, illusions swirling faintly around Valeria’s ankles to balance her steps. I find myself savoring each footfall, each breath, because for the first time in what feels like forever,I’m not bracing for an ambush or scanning the horizon for dark elf shapes. We’re free—for however long the gods allow.

We reach the gentle slope where the outcasts have established a rudimentary settlement, maybe half a dozen tents and lean-tos clustered around the stream. A few cooking fires burn low, smoke drifting in thin wisps. One of the renegade archers greets us with a quick bow, though we remind them for the hundredth time that we’re no lords or ladies to be bowed to. Old habits die hard, apparently. Valeria offers a reassuring nod, her calm presence a salve to these exiles who once saw me as an aloof prince.

Daron emerges from behind a tent, carrying a small crate of foraged roots and tubers. He’s tall, with scars across his brow, but his posture is more relaxed now than during the war. “My lord,” he starts, then corrects himself, “Vaelorian. We’ve scouted half the valley’s perimeter. No sign of patrols. The Council must be busy licking their wounds, and the dark elves… well, they have bigger problems after losing that fortress.”

I nod. “Good. And how are rations?”

He shrugs. “Scarce, but we’ll manage. We might need to send out a hunting party soon, or see if any local farmers are willing to trade.” His gaze flicks to Valeria, an unspoken question about her wound. “You all right?”

Valeria lifts her chin, a hint of pride in her eyes. “Healing well. Thank you.” She glances around at the tents. “We have enough bandages and herbs for everyone else?”

Daron confirms, then heads off to distribute the gathered roots. I watch him go, remembering how he once served Helrath in House Draeven’s guard. Now, we lead him—and he seems content with that. The memory of Helrath’s sacrifice still aches, but we honor him by pushing onward, forging a new empire, if you will, from the pieces we’ve salvaged.

“Empire.” The word crosses my mind as we pass a group of exiles repairing a battered cart wheel. The notion once meant armies, palaces, the seat of absolute power. Now, it signifies something else to me—a place where half-bloods and outcasts can live without fear, where illusions aren’t used to oppress, but to protect. Maybe we can never replicate the grandeur of House Draeven’s citadel, nor would I want to. Something simpler, more genuine. A sanctuary, if not an empire.

Valeria catches my pensive expression. “What are you thinking about?” she asks, voice low. She rests a light hand on my arm, guiding me away from the main camp toward a quieter corner near the stream. Water gurgles over smooth stones, reflecting the sky’s pale morning light.

I hesitate, then smile wryly. “I was thinking of how I once believed House Draeven was the pinnacle of power and heritage. How I wanted to reclaim its glory. Now I stand here, content with a handful of tents and a valley we can call our own for a while. I wonder if that’s the beginning of a new empire—our empire, forged from free hearts, not forced allegiance.”

She studies me. “You’ve changed a lot.”

I breathe a laugh, wings shifting behind me. “So have you. I recall the terrified human concubine you pretended to be, back when we first met, and now look at you—a half-Vrakken warrior leading sabotage missions, forging alliances with exiles, standing up to the Council’s archaic laws. And me? I was a proud prince who believed the Council had all the answers.” I shake my head, marveling at the transformation.

She tilts her face to the sunlight, letting the warmth caress her cheeks. “It’s surreal sometimes, how drastically everything’s shifted. But I’m… grateful. I used to think I’d die as a captive, or as a pawn in someone else’s game. Now I see a horizon open to possibility. Even if it’s uncertain, it’s ours.”

An ache of tenderness swells in me. I reach, clasping both her hands in mine. The rush of the stream underscores the hush between us. She steps closer, searching my eyes, her half-blood senses likely reading the subtle illusions that swirl around me—illusions that reflect my mood. Hers are calmer, a faint shimmer like quiet starlight. The synergy of it nearly steals my breath.

“I can’t promise we’ll never face war again,” I admit softly. “But I promise I won’t run back to the Council or compromise my beliefs to appease them. I’m done wearing false crowns. I want to stand with you, forging something new—maybe an empire by our definition, not theirs.”

She exhales, a trembling note in the sound. “I want that too, Vaelorian.” Her voice carries raw sincerity that cements my resolve. She leans in, pressing her forehead to mine. “We can shape a future that doesn’t revolve around enslaving half-bloods or enforcing cruel castes. Maybe it’s just a dream, but it’s worth chasing.”

I let my wings fold around her in a gesture of intimacy, ignoring the onlookers who might pass by. After everything we’ve survived—burning dark elf fortresses, fleeing the Council’s wrath, nearly dying in each other’s arms—this closeness feels like a gift. “We begin here,” I whisper, “with these people who believe in us. This valley can be our starting point. We gather resources, build trust, and see where it leads.”

A rustle from the bushes draws our attention. One of the outcasts, a woman in battered leathers, approaches hesitantly. “My lords,” she starts, catching herself, “I mean, Valeria… Vaelorian. We found a damaged orchard a ways north. Might have fruit if we clear the brambles. Could help with our rations.”

Valeria smiles, eyes bright. “That’s perfect. We’ll organize a work party after midday to see what we can salvage. Thank you for telling us.” The woman nods and retreats, leaving us alone by the stream again.

I chuckle at the exchange. “They still call us ‘lords,’ even though we keep saying we’re just exiles like them.”

Valeria shrugs, amusement lighting her eyes. “Maybe they need titles to ground themselves. Some are used to following a chain of command. For now, if it helps them feel secure, let them call us what they will.”

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