Page 4 of Condemned to Love

The vrakken don't have an interest in controlling everything like the dark elves. Or at least, they didn't. It seems that some things have changed. Centuries beneath the surface, stuck in tunnels and caverns with wings that can't be fully spread drove them to seek out one thing: defeating the dark elves.

So now the immortal race is on the surface.

I'v tried to make myself useful, helping wherever I could, learning their ways. Raziel and Selene have been kind enough, but it's clear they have their own struggles leading this new base.

So I train every day, pushing my body to its limits, honing my skills with weapons and learning about their magic from a distance. Waiting for my chance to finally strike and get my revenge.

But even among these strange allies, I feel out of place—a human among immortals, fueled by vengeance while they seemed indifferent to everything around them except their survival. Every night, I lay awake thinking about my family and wondering if I'd ever truly belong anywhere again.

Yet I refuse to give up. I'll find my place here or die trying.

Shaking off the memories, I swing my feet out of bed. I need to get moving before my memories entirely consume me.

My muscles ache from yesterday's training, but I push the discomfort aside. Pain is an old friend now, a reminder of what I fight for.

I pull on my worn leathers and lace up my boots, fingers nimble despite the early hour. The base is quiet, save for the occasional whisper of wings or the murmur of distant conversations. The vrakken are mostly nocturnal, but I've learned to carve out my own time in their world.

I head to the training grounds, a section of the wildspont that Raziel cleared for combat practice. The space thrums with magic, each breath invigorating and almost electric. I draw my dagger, its blade catching the faint light. It feels right in my hand — an extension of my will.

Every slash, every thrust, carries with it the weight of my past and the promise of my future. Sweat beads on my forehead as I move through drills, muscles straining and burning. The faces of my family flash before me with every strike. My father's proud smile, my mother's gentle touch, my brother's laughter.

"Faster," I mutter to myself. "Stronger."

My breath comes in ragged gasps as I push harder. There's no room for weakness. Weakness means death. Weakness means failure.

After an hour or so, when my arms tremble from exertion and my shirt sticks to my back with sweat, I switch to sparring with one of the vrakken guards. He's faster than any dark elf I've faced but less cruel. We trade blows in silence, each impact resonating through my bones.

"Not bad," he grunts as we break apart, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Not good enough," I reply, sheathing my dagger.

I wipe sweat from my brow and head to the small stream that runs through part of the base to clean up. The cold water is a shock to my system but refreshing. As I wash away the grime and sweat, I catch a glimpse of myself in the water’s surface — fierce green eyes staring back at me.

My reflection reminds me that I'm not just fighting for revenge; I'm fighting for survival and for a future where no one else has to endure what I did.

I dry off and grab a quick meal — some dried meat and bread from our supplies — before heading to take care of my chores. We all help out around the base, with hunting or farming or cleaning. It helps the new humans find a place and keeps us all on equal footing — at least that's why I assume Selene and Raziel assign us all positions.

This routine is what keeps me grounded amidst chaos and uncertainty. It’s what keeps me strong and ready for whatever comes next.

There’s no time to dwell on what was lost — only on what can be won.

3

ALDRIC

The tunnels stretch endlessly before me, their cool, damp air a welcome relief from the scorching chaos above. Each step echoes softly against the stone, a somber reminder of our hidden existence. The cavern beneath the mountain range yawns open to my right, its vastness dotted with the ghostly figures of vrakken flying in rhythmic patterns. Wings beat silently, like shadows in a dream.

I pause for a moment, watching them. They soar effortlessly, a dance of strength and grace. Not all have returned to the surface, I muse. Maybe not all ever will. The Council keeps sending us—scouts, warriors—yet they remain underground, rooted in their stone thrones.

My lips twist into a bitter smile. We're meant to train and prepare for a war that feels more distant with each passing day. The Council speaks of strategy and readiness, but their actions...they don't match their words. My hair's short now—a constant reminder of the battle lost above.

I push these thoughts aside as I approach the Council room. The entrance looms ahead, flanked by two guards who nod respectfully as I pass. Inside, the space opens up into a grandhall, every inch carved from the living rock. At the center sits Brinda, her fiery hair a stark contrast against the cold stone.

She sits at the center of a long table raised on a platform, her presence commanding and fierce. The other council members flank her, but it's Brinda's gaze that captures me.

Her green eyes narrow as she takes in my disheveled state. "Aldric," she begins, voice steady but laced with concern. "What has happened?"

"The dark elves launched a sudden attack on the surface base."

---