Chapter 1 

Valeria

I stand in the narrow corridor, the torchlight flickering against damp stone walls that gleam a sickly gray. My heart pounds in my chest, but I keep my face impassive. If I show fear now, I’ll only feed the dark elves’ amusement. The stale, metallic scent of blood clings to the very air I breathe, like a constant reminder of what it costs to be human in this world.

I can hear muffled whimpers from a room behind me—some other poor souls being disciplined or “trained.” My pulse races, but I exhale slowly, steadying my nerves. I have survived too many indignities to lose my composure on the day I am offered as tribute. Maybe it’s the final day of my life. Maybe not. Fear coils in the pit of my stomach, but I’ve learned to wear it like armor.

To my right, an older man tries to make himself smaller in the shadows. He is sallow-skinned, his cheekbones hollow from weeks—maybe months—of insufficient food and constant terror. We lock eyes for an instant. I see pity and resignation there. Dark elf guards shuffle around, occasionally giving us hateful glances, their pointed ears twitching with grim satisfaction.

I shift my attention to the grand set of double doors at the corridor’s end. They’re carved from ebony, etched with jagged runes that blaze a dull crimson, as though reflecting the blood spilled for centuries to maintain the dark elves’ lavish lifestyles. Beyond those doors lies the last threshold between me and whatever the Vrakken have in store.

A hush spreads among the line of slaves. We are being offered like livestock to House Draeven, the infamous clan of Vrakken rumored to have reemerged from obscurity. Most of us only know their name from whispers—fanged specters who feast on blood under moonlight, but I suspect the truth is more horrifying than any rumor. The hush thickens as the doors groan open, revealing a torchlit antechamber.

A single dark elf steps out, her black hair braided with silver threads and her slate-colored skin glowing faintly under the torchlight. She’s draped in robes of midnight blue, embroidered with swirling patterns reminiscent of arcane sigils. Her eyes narrow as she scans our line of trembling bodies. Then she lifts a haughty chin and raises one slender hand, long nails painted a glistening onyx.

“This group”, she gestures at me and four others, “will proceed to the receiving hall. Move quickly. Our Vrakken guests do not like to be kept waiting.”

She looks at me last, eyes lingering with a sneer as if she finds the sight of me offensive. I clench my fists at my sides but lower my gaze, feigning submission. I want her to believe I’m broken. It’s safer that way.

A guard jabs me between my shoulder blades with a blunt baton. “You heard her. Move.”

I step forward, joining the four men and women singled out for this offering. As soon as I cross the threshold into the antechamber, I’m assaulted by an overwhelming sense of dread. Tall pillars line the walls, each adorned with sculpted creatures—some appear to be monstrous dragons or serpents, others twisted humanoid forms. The flicker of torchlight casts their shadows in grotesque shapes that dance across the floor.

A new wave of hush swallows all sound. My companions and I stand in a row, heads bowed, while high-ranking dark elf officials lounge on raised seats to either side. Their expressions betray nothing but cold curiosity. At the end of the chamber, an ancient dais stands with elaborate steps leading up to a pair of gilded chairs. Those chairs remain empty, which can only mean one thing: the Vrakken have yet to arrive.

I keep my eyes lowered but not closed. If you want to live, you learn to be a weapon. That lesson pounds in my mind like a mantra. Slaves like me seldom have the luxury of illusions about freedom, but I’ve found that knowledge is as sharp as any blade. I memorize details quickly: the number of guards, the angles of the exits, the positions of every possible threat.

A female voice breaks the silence. “Welcome,” it purrs, each syllable dripping with that eerie arrogance typical of dark elves. “The offering begins now.”

A tall figure steps from behind a pillar, gliding across the polished floor as though weightless. Her presence demands attention. She’s dressed in a voluminous black gown with spiderweb lace across her shoulders. Intricate jewelry dangles from her slender neck, each gem pulsing faintly with enchanted light. She must be one of the dark elf high nobility.

“We gather here to present these tributes to the Vrakken,” she announces. “Our honored guests will choose as they see fit. The rest—” She shrugs, and a few dark elves chuckle with cruel amusement. “Shall be returned to Lowtown or repurposed as we see necessary.”

I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to snap at them for speaking about us like livestock. But I hold my tongue. One outburst might cost me my head, or worse, incite some twisted curiosity from a dark elf looking for a new toy.

Suddenly, the chamber doors behind the dais swing open. My entire body tenses. A heavy silence falls again, thick enough to choke on. Two silhouettes emerge, backlit by torches in the corridor beyond. Even though I’ve never seen a Vrakken before, I know immediately who they must be—something about the graceful, predatory posture sets my nerves on edge.

They enter the chamber without a sound. Both are tall, their skin bleached white as bones, but each carries themselves with a presence that shames even the regal poise of the dark elves. One is female, her hair tumbling to her waist in silver waterfalls. She moves with languid grace, each step echoing with lethal confidence. The other figure stands slightly behind her, face partially in shadow, an imposing figure with a fluid, panther-like gait.

I can’t tear my gaze away. My lips part, but I force them shut, remembering my place. Their arrival alone is enough to stoke goosebumps along my arms. Something about them is otherworldly—like predatory sculptures animated by living darkness.

The tall female stops in front of the dais. With a flick of her slender hand, she beckons. “Let us see your offerings.”

A dark elf official motions for me and the other four tributes to step forward. We do so, heads lowered, uncertain how to address these creatures.

One of the new arrivals, the male, surveys our group. I feel his gaze pass over me. It’s fleeting, but it sears, like a brand. He towers over everyone in the room. His hair is long, dark as midnight, forming a stark contrast against his pale skin. Though I keep my head bowed, my eyes flick upward, trying to catch the shape of his face. What I see is not comforting: an angular jaw, lips so pale they nearly blend with the rest of his face, except for the faintest tinge of color that might be leftover from feeding. Two obsidian-black eyes track us with cold apathy. Yet behind that apathy, I sense a controlled lethality, a coil wound tight and ready to strike.

The female Vrakken, who must be the one in charge, glances around the chamber. She speaks in a voice smooth as a lullaby and yet edged with threat. “I am Brinda Draeven, Matriarch of House Draeven. We have come for the tribute promised to us. You, dark elves, will be well compensated. But do not overstep.” Her lips curve into a half-smile that never touches her eyes. “My son, Vaelorian, and I will decide which tributes suit our House’s needs.”

Her son, then. I manage a quick sidelong look at him. Vaelorian. That name carves itself into my mind.

Brinda’s gaze lingers on the five of us. One of the male tributes steps forward, trembling with forced courage. “I—I am at your service.” He lowers himself to a shaky bow.

Brinda’s eyes narrow, and she lifts an unimpressed brow. Her attention slides off him like water. “Next?”

We move to present ourselves one by one. I try to ignore the creeping dread in my veins as I watch each tribute before me attempt to look appealing or at least worthy of selection. One woman, Lillith, tries to plaster on a simpering smile. Another man can barely stand without quaking.

Then my turn arrives. I step forward, chin high enough to show I have some pride, but I do not challenge them. I bend my knee in an approximation of a formal bow. The movement is something I learned during my time serving the dark elf nobility—I aim to strike a balance between humility and defiance.

Time seems to slow as I hear the faint scrape of Vaelorian’s shoes against the floor. He closes in on me. My muscles lock. For a heartbeat, all I sense is him: the quiet shift of leather, the nearly imperceptible hiss of air as he inhales, the faint hum of power in the space around him. I don’t dare look up fully, but in my peripheral vision I glimpse broad shoulders draped in black, slender hands at his sides, and the slightest shimmer behind him that suggests folded wings.

“Your name,” he says, voice as still as an undisturbed lake.

I swallow. “Valeria,” I answer, my voice steady, if a bit hushed.

He circles around me slowly, like a predator inspecting prey. “Stand.”

I rise carefully, shoulders squared. My heart thunders; it feels like every eye in the chamber is on me. Vaelorian studies me, those obsidian eyes revealing nothing.

I force myself to meet his gaze briefly, adrenaline spiking in my veins. I can’t read him. He could tear my throat out right here, and none of these dark elves would so much as flinch.

For a moment, I recall every humiliating moment I’ve endured—every backhand across my face, every sneering guard who pawed at me like I was their personal plaything. The memory ignites something in me, a core of rage I’ve kept buried. But I clamp down on it. I cannot afford an outburst.

Vaelorian’s nostrils flare, just a bit, as if he’s tasting the tension in the air. Then he steps back with a languid grace that hints at immense control. “Interesting,” he murmurs. “Mother.”

He tilts his head in Brinda’s direction. Her gaze zeroes in on me, lips curved in the faintest smile. “Yes,” she says softly. “Very.”

I maintain my posture, refusing to quiver. The chamber remains unsettlingly quiet until Brinda finally speaks again. “We’ll take her.” She points to me with a razor-sharp nail. Then she picks two others, the trembling man and a woman with bruises on her neck. “The rest, do as you wish,” she tells the dark elves with dismissive finality.

A wave of tension ripples through the onlookers. The chosen tributes—myself among them—are corralled off to the side. The two unfortunate souls left behind sag with relief or terror, uncertain of what fate the dark elves have planned for them. Our immediate destiny is clear: we belong to House Draeven now.

Another hush sets in as Brinda addresses the entire gathering. “You have upheld your end of the arrangement,” she tells the dark elves. “House Draeven appreciates your... cooperation. We trust this will maintain peaceful relations between us. For now.”

Her words bristle with subtext: The Vrakken are not to be trifled with, even by those as sadistic as the dark elves. I notice the dark elves on the dais tense subtly, but they don’t argue.

Vaelorian crosses the chamber to stand beside his mother. His silhouette towers in the flicker of the torches, those dark wings faintly visible behind him. I can’t stop my gaze from drifting there. That’s all the confirmation I need—Vrakken truly have wings. It’s not just a rumor or legend. A forbidden tingle of apprehension and awe slides up my spine.

Brinda gestures for the newly chosen tributes, including me, to follow a small contingent of Vrakken guards toward the entrance by which they arrived. I expect to hear the dark elves sneering or congratulating themselves, but the moment is eerily silent. Perhaps even they are unsettled.

I exchange a final glance with the older man I saw in the corridor. He stands pressed against the wall, eyes full of sympathy—and helplessness. He knows none of us are coming back.

Then I feel a push from behind. A black-robed Vrakken guard steers me forward without a word. My new life, if I can call it that—begins now.

We are led through a labyrinth of corridors, the flicker of wall sconces illuminating every passing second in harsh, coppery light. My senses are on overload—whispers of Vrakken guards, the rustle of heavy robes, the suffocating hush that signals we have no place in these halls except as property. My fellow tributes, the man and the bruised woman, walk like automatons. They clutch each other’s hands, exchanging fearful looks whenever the guards aren’t watching.

I focus on controlling my breath and monitoring each step I take. ‘If you want to survive, you learn to be a weapon.’ My mind repeats that phrase like a prayer. I can’t afford the luxury of despair. Observing, learning, adapting—that’s how I remain alive.

At last, we emerge into a wide courtyard open to the night sky. I glance up, half expecting to see storms brewing or some ghastly phenomenon. Instead, I see only stars—cold, distant lights. Several sleek carriages stand waiting, each harnessed to lean, black-scaled creatures that look like mutated horses with elongated muzzles and glistening red eyes. I stifle a shudder.

Brinda and Vaelorian approach a carriage at the head of the line. I notice her gown trailing behind her, tendrils of dark fabric swirling like living shadows. Vaelorian follows at a measured pace, every movement crisp and deliberate. Their auras, so thick with arcane power, feel like invisible chains pressing down on me.

Brinda turns her head slightly, addressing the guard holding me by the elbow. “Put them in the second carriage. Keep them separated from the rest. I want no... complications.”

The guard inclines his head. “Yes, Matriarch.”

He directs me toward a carriage near the back, and the other two tributes are ushered elsewhere. My pulse spikes. Why am I being singled out? My mind scrambles with questions, but I keep them contained. I can’t reveal my panic.

Before climbing the carriage steps, I catch a glimpse of Vaelorian glancing in my direction. Our eyes lock for a fraction of a breath. His face is unreadable, but my stomach twists at the awareness I see in that fleeting moment. He’s studying me, analyzing my every move. I feel like a butterfly pinned under glass, thoroughly scrutinized.

The inside of my assigned carriage is sparse: a small bench, steel reinforcements along the windows, and the pungent hint of old blood. My stomach roils as I slide onto the bench. The door slams shut behind me, enveloping me in cramped darkness. A bolt locks from the outside.

I sense the carriage lurch forward. My hands tremble in my lap. I clamp them down. Fear is a weapon—if I let it rule me, I’m as good as dead. So I force myself to breathe slowly, in through the nose and out through the mouth, until the worst of my panic subsides.

Time blurs as we roll along. The wheels clatter over uneven cobblestone, and I feel every jolt rattle my bones. My thoughts wander to all the stories I’ve heard about the Vrakken. The rumors I gleaned from hushed conversations behind locked doors or from slaves whispering in the kitchens. They spoke of unstoppable predators with wings like living shadows, of vampires who devour flesh as eagerly as they drink blood. Yet in their cruelty, they’re dispassionate. They break you, but they don’t revel in it like the dark elves do. A small distinction, but it might mean the difference between living and dying.

Eventually, the carriage slows, then halts. My heart thumps. I hear the driver speak in hushed tones to someone outside. Then footsteps approach. The bolt slides back, and the door opens, revealing a single guard’s silhouette. “Out,” he orders.

I step down onto a gravel path illuminated by pale moonlight. My shoulders ache from tension, but I keep them raised, refusing to display vulnerability. The guard motions for me to move along a torchlit walkway leading to a towering structure of black stone and jagged spires. It’s a fortress—unmistakably. The walls rise high overhead, and I pick out glimpses of turrets in the distance. Everything is designed for intimidation, reminding me exactly where I stand in this new hierarchy.

As we pass under an archway carved with monstrous gargoyles, I catch the acrid smell of sulfur. My mind tumbles through possibilities. Strange magical wards? Or just the lingering presence of centuries-old curses? Knowing the Vrakken, either could be true.

Once inside, the corridors are grand in scale: vaulted ceilings, intricate murals depicting battles and arcane rituals. My wide-eyed fascination creeps in despite my wariness. This place is a labyrinthine palace, different from the dark elf estate.

We turn a corner and come to a set of double doors, smaller than the main entrance but still impressive. Two Vrakken guards step aside at our approach, and the guard escorting me nudges my shoulder. “Inside. Now.”

I push through the doors into what appears to be a receiving room—less imposing than a throne hall, but still formal. A tall window lets moonlight spill across the floor, revealing furniture carved from glossy ebony and upholstered in deep crimson velvet. An array of tall candelabras flickers with an unsettling light. The entire space screams wealth, power, and danger.

Standing near a broad table is Vaelorian. He’s alone, arms folded behind his back, posture immaculate. He slowly pivots to face me, black eyes reflecting the candlelight in a way that makes me think of polished obsidian. Everything about him—his measured stance, the faint press of lips—radiates an air of lethal calm.

The guard who brought me here bows stiffly. “My lord, your mother has retired. She requests that you handle... preparations.”

Vaelorian dismisses him with a curt nod. As soon as the guard leaves, the door creaks shut, leaving the two of us in tense silence. My pulse hammers. The second I try to quell it, it only intensifies.

I hold my ground, refusing to lower my head as far as I should in front of a powerful master. Something in me rebels at the thought. I’m tired of groveling, and although fear gnaws at my insides, I can’t find it within myself to cower. Not anymore.

He arches a brow, taking a step closer. “Valeria,” he says, voice low. “I trust you’re not foolish enough to try anything ill-advised this evening.”

His words drip with a quiet threat, yet I detect faint curiosity beneath the surface. Maybe I’m imagining it, but it spurs me to speak. “How could I?” I say, allowing a slight edge into my tone. “Surrounded by Vrakken, locked in a fortress. I don’t see any chance for sabotage.”

“Sabotage,” he echoes, eyes narrowing. “An interesting choice of words.”

My heart flutters, but I keep my spine straight. “I simply meant I’m aware of my position, my lord.”

His lips twitch at the corners, as if suppressing a smile that isn’t quite friendly. “Indeed.”

Silence stretches between us, oppressive and loaded. Now that I see him in better light, I notice details: the faint silver veins crisscrossing the black membranes of his wings, folded behind him like a cloak. The gentle slope of high cheekbones, too flawless to be purely mortal. He’s beautiful in the way a sharpened blade can be—mesmerizing, but only until it slices you open.

He lifts a hand, and I tense, wondering if he means to backhand me or something worse. Instead, he gestures me to follow. “Come,” he says, striding toward an arched window near the far side of the room. The moon casts a luminescent glow over the mosaic-tiled floor, reflecting in faint patterns. I step after him, pulse still pounding.

We stop by the window. Outside, I see part of the fortress grounds—a courtyard with rows of stone gargoyles and thick iron gates. Beyond that, empty plains under a sky full of stars. It feels isolated, a place where no help would ever come if I screamed.

“You’ll remain here,” Vaelorian states quietly, his tone more measured now. “But not as a concubine.”

I blink, confusion rippling through me. “Not as—then what am I supposed to be?”

He fixes that black gaze on me, searching, as if measuring how much to reveal. “That will be determined shortly. For now, know you are under my protection... or my wrath if you displease me.”

My spine tingles. Protection? From the others in his house, or from the dark elves? Is that even possible? I swallow, unsure of how to respond. Eventually, I settle on a single question: “Why protect me at all?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lets his gaze roam over my face, as though searching for cracks in my façade. Then he shakes his head once, almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps because I find you... useful.”

A flicker of frustration sparks in me. That’s not an answer that clarifies anything, but I sense pushing too hard could be lethal. “Then I’ll endeavor to be as useful as you need me to be,” I respond, forcing an even tone.

He inclines his head, the barest of acknowledgments. “Good.”

The hush that follows feels stifling. I wonder if he can hear my heart pounding. Something in the air between us crackles with uneasy energy, like tension pulled taut. I think of the rumors about Vrakken appetites—for blood, for submission, for everything in between. Uncertainty wrestles with the small kernel of anger I’ve carried for so long.

Vaelorian breaks the silence first. “You will be escorted to your quarters,” he says, turning away to signal a guard outside the door. “I suggest you rest. Tomorrow, we begin.”

“Begin what?” I manage to ask.

His gaze slides back, dark as midnight. “Your training. If you wish to survive under this roof, you will follow my instructions. Obey me, and you may yet earn the right to breathe on your own terms.”

My pulse jolts. Training? For what? I have this nagging urge to demand answers. Another part warns me to hold my tongue until I understand this place—and Vaelorian—better.

I dip my head in acquiescence, feigning calm. “Understood.”

The door creaks open, and a Vrakken guard steps in, inclining his head to Vaelorian. “My lord?”

Vaelorian gestures at me. “Take her to the suite in the west wing. Make sure she’s secured and provided for.” He hesitates, his obsidian eyes flicking to me once more. “Unharmed. Unless she chooses to be difficult.”

The guard nods, then waves me forward. I follow, a careful mask of compliance hiding the tempest of questions inside me. As I leave, Vaelorian remains by the window, his tall silhouette outlined by moonlight. His presence saturates the air, a gravitational pull I can’t entirely explain.

My last glimpse of him is a statue of predatory grace—silent, unyielding, and lethal. I don’t know if I’ll ever understand a creature like that, or if I’ll only ever be one more piece of property under his control. But as the guard leads me down a winding corridor toward the unknown, I cling to my hard-earned survival instincts.

I intend to be sharper than they ever anticipate.

And with that silent vow coursing through my mind, I let the darkness of House Draeven swallow me whole.