Chapter 11 #3
“Then I’m afraid Lyra’s future is sealed.
She either remains where she is, living or dead.
Or she returns and is incarcerated for the rest of her life.
There are no other options.” He tilts his head, as if reconsidering that last part.
“Well, I suppose she could go on the run and have both the Jurafen and the Shadows chasing her until she’s caught, providing her a few more years of freedom at best—if you consider such a thing to be freedom at all. ”
Draven’s lungs struggle for air as his chest practically caves in on itself. “There must be something else I can offer you,” he murmurs, feeling desperate but doing his damn best not to show it.
“There is nothing else I want from you.”
Draven rakes a hand through his overgrown dark locks of hair.
This is not the first time his father has attempted to arrange this marriage with Arden.
Of all the marriage proposals thrown his way, House Larking is the only one his father has ever entertained.
For what reason, he doesn’t know—most arrangements are strategic, and House Larking’s powerful bloodline of light wielders is entirely at odds with House Dalmar’s dark magic.
Which means Lord Larking must possess something his father wants.
Still, Draven was able to escape all his father’s previous attempts to arrange their marriage in a way that never jeopardized Rhea.
Once upon a time, he even talked to Arden directly about it—though, the circumstances leading up to that conversation were a bit messy, to say the least.
Fucking wine.
But now….
Now he doesn’t see another option. He either refuses this offer outright, preserving the integrity of the choice his heart has already made, damning the girl his heart yearns for to a life of miserable captivity as a result.
Or he accepts, securing the safety of the girl who stirs his soul, and damns his heart to a life where it will forever yearn to bleed the color lilac once more.
In the conversations between their training sessions—amongst a sea of questions Draven couldn’t stop asking, desperate to know anything Lyra would offer him—she once told him that the thing she wants above all else is her freedom.
Her right to choose her own path for herself.
And during a brewing storm where chaos consumed the air—Abdites banging on obsidian walls and screams echoing in the distance—Draven once attempted to wordlessly show her through his gaze that all he desires is a life with her.
That his thoughts, emotions, flesh—it all belongs to her, for reasons far deeper than she is even aware.
But now the very things they each want the most cannot be realized simultaneously. He cannot have her while she has her freedom; she cannot have her freedom while he has his life with her. It is the exact sort of twisted thing his father relishes in—accepting one fate and forsaking another.
Draven releases a sigh from deep within his chest. As much as it hurts—as much as it will always hurt—he will do as he must to preserve a future for the girl who deserves to experience the world in the shades she chooses.
For Lyra, he will do this. For her dreams of freedom, he will submit—will shackle himself.
For her, he will burn. Just as he said he would.
Draven lifts his chin. “I have terms to this agreement.”
Tynan leans back in his chair, his small smile a portrait of unconscionable delight. “I’m listening.”
In fear of prying eyes, Draven stays to the shadows as he walks down the corridor.
He takes a hard right when he reaches the opening with an arched, stain-glassed window. There, a door leading to the back entrance of the gardens awaits.
Throwing a veil of darkness around him just in case, he slips through the threshold, taking care to shut the wood gently, not wanting the underused hinges to squeak.
The crisp breeze is a balm to his battered senses, and he rests his head gently against the stone, pressing his palms into the rough surface, desperate to feel something other than the slashing sensation overtaking his chest.
He shuts his eyes, and he takes a long, shuddering breath. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs.
The broken sound of his voice is enough to make his lips quiver.
He grits his teeth and pinches his brows together in…grief?...pain?...heartbreak? He can’t even isolate a feeling. It’s all bitter. All broken.
He squeezes his eyes tighter, flashes of a long ago memory playing in his head. A guard. Swollen bruises and dribbling blood. An eruption of chaotic power. A small yet brave girl—far braver than Draven ever was, even at such a young age.
You are not a monster.
She has no idea how that simple sentence carried him through the years.
How hard it was for him when he saw her again—their bodies matured and faces aged—not to immediately approach her and tell her how tightly he clung onto that seemingly inconsequential sentence.
How, alongside a list of other things, it saved him from being lost to the darkness entirely.
Simple words from a stranger—from a girl he thought he would never see again.
Only, he did.
“I at least did right by you this time,” he whispers, letting all the emotion slip out of him in this temporary moment of isolation.
He concentrates on the forming colors in his head, seeing himself standing in a corridor with cracked paint and chipped walls, nothing more than a young boy who was still helpless to the cruel whims of his father.
His chest clenches with guilt for not fighting harder for a lilac-haired girl who was about to have her memories of their first encounter stolen away from her.
Draven reopens his eyes and looks up to the dimming sky. He stares at it absently for a long, long time.
Would he ever even get the chance to tell her? Why hadn’t he told her sooner? Why had he always just dodged her questions with the same answer?
A story for another day.
He has no justifications to offer himself.
Draven’s eyes fall from the sky, instead grabbing onto a swirl of twirling leaves swept up in the wind.
There is a rogue petal tangled up in the mix.
It reminds Draven of something, and he slides his hand into his pocket, tugging free a sea glass pendant.
He stares at the smooth, glistening surface as it lays heavy in his palm.
Not yet, Draven thinks.
He slides the pendant back into his pocket, his hand finding its way to his chest after. Draven clutches at his heart, digging his fingertips into his skin as he rests his head against the stone wall. “I miss you, Lyra,” he whispers. “Everything feels dull again.”
A sound rustles in the distance, and Draven drops his hand from his chest and stands at attention, waiting with still movements as he sends his magic to sense if anyone is coming. Once he’s sure no one is, he decides he needs two things: a drink and someplace better to consume it.