6. Valen

6

VALEN

T he shadows embrace me as I move through the chaos of the dark elf celebration. My footsteps are silent against the damp forest floor. Screams pierce the night – both of revelry and terror. The dark elves' laughter mingles with the desperate cries of their prey a short distance away. It's a reminder of the night my world turned to ash and blood, the night the dark elves took everything from me. My hand tightens around the hilt of my sword, the blade thirsting for vengeance.

"Please, we have a child!" A man's voice breaks through the darkness, followed by the wet sound of steel meeting flesh. My keen eyes observe the man and woman’s heads tumbling to the ground several yards ahead of me.

My fingers flex against the hilt of my sword once more. Not yet. The timing must be perfect.

Suddenly, a woman sprints past me, her eyes wide with desperation. "Rhea, I'm c—" Mari's voice is cut short, replaced by a gurgled scream. I turn just in time to see a dark elf guard plunge his sword through her chest. Her body crumples to the ground, her eyes frozen in shock.

I follow the trajectory of Mari's last gaze and spot the cause of her desperate run. Just beyond the treeline, a young woman lies wounded, her hazel and gold eyes reflecting the stark terror of the hunted. Her breaths come in shallow, ragged gasps, and a makeshift bandage on her leg is soaked through with blood.

My heart, long since stilled by centuries of solitude, beats once more—a war drum echoing the rhythm of her struggle. I see more than just a marked tribute. I see the echoes of my past, the shadows of my sisters' pain etched into her every labored breath.

The dark elf guard who dispatched Mari with such cruel indifference now saunters toward Rhea, a sickening grin spread across his face. "A fighter, are we?" he taunts, nudging her with his boot. "This will be entertaining."

Every instinct within me screams for retribution. I've honed my skills in the arts of death and shadows for centuries, waiting for moments like this—moments when I can strike a blow against the dark elves' tyranny. But this is different. This is personal.

As the guard raises his sword, ready to deliver the killing blow, I step from the shadows, my every movement a silent promise of death. "Leave her," I command, my voice a low growl that carries the weight of my centuries-long vendetta.

The dark elf turns, surprise registering on his face as he takes in my imposing form. "And who might you be?" he asks, trying to mask his fear with bravado.

I don't bother with an introduction. Instead, I advance toward him, my every step radiating the promise of violence. "Your death," I reply, drawing my sword with a sound that makes his eyes widen.

He lunges at me, his sword swinging in a wide arc. I sidestep his attack easily, my own blade finding its mark.

The dark elf's scream is a symphony to my ears, a testament to my deadly precision. His severed hand hits the ground with a sickening thud, and I revel in the moment of his realization—the knowledge that his life is forfeit. My sword sings through the air, and with one swift stroke, I separate his head from his shoulders. His body crumples, and I step over it without a second glance.

My focus narrows once more to the woman lying there wounded. Rhea, they call her. Her scent—a mix of fear, resolve, and something uniquely her—cuts through the metallic tang of blood in the air. I scoop her into my arms, her body now limp and compliant. Her head lolls against my chest, and I can feel the shallow rise and fall of her breathing.

"Hold on," I whisper, the command more of a growl. Her hazel eyes flutter open for a brief moment, and I see recognition there, a flicker of trust that ignites something long dormant within me.

I plunge into the shadows, my speed and strength a product of my Vrakken heritage. The darkness cloaks us, a familiar mantle that shields me from prying eyes. Behind us, the forest erupts in chaos as the dark elves discover their fallen comrade. Their shouts are a distant echo, irrelevant to the singular task at hand.

Rhea's breath hitches in her throat, a soft, pained sound that would be inaudible to human ears. I pull her closer, my arms a protective barrier against the world that has shown her nothing but cruelty. Her head falls back, and her body goes slack as unconsciousness claims her.

The woods are alive with the sounds of pursuit, but I navigate the terrain with ease, my every step calculated and precise. I've spent centuries honing my skills, perfecting the art of guerrilla warfare. The dark elves are powerful, but they are not invincible—a lesson I've been all too eager to teach them.

I hear the crunch of leaves underfoot and the low murmur of voices drawing closer. The dark elves are on our trail. Their pride is wounded by the audacity of my interference. I tighten my grip on Rhea, my determination a steely presence in my chest. They will not have her. Not while I still draw breath.

I weave through the ancient pines, my Vrakken speed turning the forest into a blur of shadows. The unconscious woman in my arms weighs nothing to my supernatural strength. Her pulse thrums against my chest – weak but steady.

"Find them!" A dark elf commander's voice echoes through the trees. "The tribute cannot escape!"

I shift direction, cutting east through a stream to mask our scent. The icy water splashes around my boots. Behind us, the sounds of pursuit grow fainter.

"Lord Caelith will have our heads if we lose them!" Another voice carries on the wind.

A smirk tugs at my lips. Let them chase shadows. I've spent centuries perfecting the art of disappearing. The forest is my domain now, not theirs.

I leap over a fallen oak tree, landing without a sound. I look down at Rhea and notice that the wound on her leg has stopped bleeding. But I worry that infection could set in if not treated soon.

"Almost there," I murmur, more to myself than her.

The pursuing dark elves' voices fade to nothing as I take a circuitous route back to my lair. Their arrogance makes them predictable – they'll search the obvious paths, never considering that their prey might double back.

I pause briefly at the base of a cliff face, listening. Nothing but the whisper of wind through dead leaves and the distant cry of a night bird. They've lost our trail completely.

Perfect.

The entrance to my sanctuary lies just ahead behind a curtain of vines, invisible unless you know exactly where to look.

As I approach the mouth of the cavern, I glance down at the woman in my arms again. Her chestnut hair is matted with sweat and dirt, her breathing ragged but steady. I step into the sanctuary of my hideout, the cool, still air a stark contrast to the bedlam we've left behind.

I lay Rhea down on a makeshift bed of moss and furs. Her wound is severe, a deep gash that bisects her calf muscle. I retrieve a flask of Vrakken blood—a potent elixir with miraculous healing properties. I pour a generous amount over her injury, watching as the skin knits itself back together. The angry red flesh slowly fades to a soft, healthy pink.

As I work on gently bandaging her healing wound, I can't help but study her face—the delicate arch of her eyebrows, the stubborn set of her jaw, the way her lips part slightly as she breathes.

I soon sit back and wait for her to wake up. I watch her chest rise and fall with each breath, the rhythm steady now that the healing has taken effect. The firelight plays across her features, casting shadows that dance across her pale skin. She's different from the other humans I've encountered – there's a fire in her that reminds me of myself.

"You're safe now," I murmur, more to myself than to her sleeping form. My fingers flex instinctively, wanting to brush a strand of hair from her face, but I hold back.

The scent of her blood still lingers in the air, stirring something primal within me. But it's not hunger I feel – it's an inexplicable need to protect. To shield her from the darkness that's consumed my own existence for centuries.

Her brow furrows in her sleep, and she lets out a small whimper. Without thinking, I move closer, my presence seeming to calm her. The connection is... unsettling. I haven't felt drawn to protect anyone since my sisters.

"Rest," I command softly, my voice rougher than intended. "You'll need your strength."