Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
GRAY
Gray wanders down the long corridor, out the door and through the courtyard, heading for the greenhouse to search for some herbs to put into a tea for Marcella.
His chin is pinched between two fingers as he drowns in his thoughts, attempting to unpack the day’s events—which he knows are more nuanced than meets the eye.
Why was Tynan Dalmar in attendance at the briefing today?
Better yet, why was he stirring up thoughts of conflict while operating under the guise of peace?
Gray had spotted the gleam in that man’s eyes when he was lecturing the emissaries on amicability.
The speech was nothing more than smoke and mirrors.
A plea to look left, while everyone should really be looking right.
His father made damn sure he would always be capable of spotting motives like that, and Gray would have been nothing short of a blind fool to have missed it then. He is certain Tynan is up to something, but…
Gray hasn’t the slightest clue what it is he’s trying to accomplish.
Then there is everything else.
First years are going to be dispatched on missions with their aggregates.
Bathara is going to conscript wielders for the first time in history because of the wielder shortage.
And then there is the matter of that girl, who is perhaps the most powerful Nullifier Gray has ever seen.
For a while, she was nullifying Captain Fjolla’s magic like it was no impressive feat whatsoever—not to mention the way she was going blow-for-blow with him in combat.
Normally, Gray would feel comforted in knowing Bathara has gained such an asset. Yet his stomach sours as the image of Draven Dalmar squeezing that girl in his arms like she was the center of his gravity burns through him.
Gray has never been one to jump to conclusions, but it is a well known fact that Draven is the only offspring Tynan Dalmar has. So, it’s not like Gray can rationalize the sight by simply chalking it up to her being his sister.
He feels a dark flicker in his magic as he is forced to imagine the agony sure to destroy Lyra if Draven ever turned his back on her like that.
As he imagines what he would do if Lyra is left to experience such a betrayal after opening her scarred heart, finally dropping the walls she built so high around herself.
Gray has to clench his jaw against the mere thought of it, balling his hands into fists at his sides.
If he finds out Draven has truly acted so selfishly, by the gods, he will make it his life’s mission to discover what illusion he can cast upon Draven to make him suffer most. To make him bleed from an internal wound cutting far deeper than any wound his actions would cause Lyra.
Gray approaches the greenhouse doors and blows out a sigh.
He flattens his palms against the cool glass and bows his head for a heartbeat, allowing the chilled breeze to sweep through his hair as browning leaves rustle behind him.
Since knowing her, he has never been away from Lyra for this long, and he misses her to the point of physical pain.
He worries for her. He longs to embrace her and hear her laugh.
He wants to know if she’s okay—alive and breathing and fed.
If the nightmares have stayed away, or if they cling to her more viciously wherever she is.
If Casimir has upheld his promise and allowed her to keep his shirt.
Has she worn it? Has it brought her even the smallest sense of comfort?
Has she found what he hid within it…
With an ache now throbbing in his chest, Gray pushes the doors open and steps inside. He rounds the corner and freezes. Laying on the ground, leaning up against one of the glass panes, he spots a body.
Draven Dalmar rests with his head tipped back against the arched window, one leg outstretched while his arm drapes loosely over his other leg, bent at the knee, a jug of wine clutched loosely in his fingers.
His eyes are closed, and though one would think he must surely be at peace in this moment, his pinched expression instead tells a story of pain.
Gray waits a few seconds, and when Draven still doesn’t acknowledge him, he clears his throat.
“I already know you’re there,” Draven says without opening his eyes, sounding exhausted.
Gray folds his arms over his chest. “Be that as it may, I think the better question is why you’re sitting there.” He nods in his direction for emphasis, even if Draven can’t see the gesture—his eyes remaining closed.
“Because it smells like her,” he murmurs so gently, it catches Gray off guard. Draven brings the jug of wine to his lips and takes a long, hearty pull.
Gray furrows his brows, unable to reconcile what he’s witnessing. “What?”
Draven inhales sharply through his nose and finally opens his eyes, that strangely colored gaze of his finding him with ease. “I’m not fond of repeating myself, Nightenjoy, so you shouldn’t make a habit of asking me to.”
Gray glides his tongue along the grooves of his teeth, a flicker of irritation passing through him.
“Fair enough,” he mutters. It feels odd talking to Draven while towering over him—hell, it feels odd talking to Draven like this at all.
Still, Gray plops himself down on the ground, folding his legs beneath him. “Are you talking about Lyra?”
Draven glances at him, rolling his head in the opposite direction as his gaze shifts onto something in the distance. “I am.”
Gray’s lips twitch with a smile. Though he, himself, hasn’t exactly thought about it, this greenhouse does smell a lot like Lyra’s normal scent. One glance at the corner across the room tells Gray why. There are rows and rows of sage growing upright in terracotta clay pots.
A bit of sage. A note of something earthy as it mingles with subtle floral undertones. A hundred percent Lyra.
“You’re right,” Gray agrees through a helpless smile.
“It does.” He looks back to the Dalmar Heir, studying him closely.
His eyes snag on the endless black lines snaking up Draven’s arm and into his neck, looking like an elaborate tattoo.
After seeing the markings up close the day Draven and Kiran sparred in the hills, Gray has always suspected the entirety of the design is his wielder’s mark.
And if Gray is guessing correctly, he’d wager Draven paid someone to ink over certain parts of it to make it look more like a tattoo in some areas, confusing wielders as to what belongs to his mark and what doesn’t.
Which, if that is true, would mean Draven Dalmar possesses a well of magic far greater and more terrifying than the average wielder can even fathom.
Gray still isn’t sure if he feels comforted or unnerved by such a man having his eyes set on Lyra.
“You know,” Gray begins, “you could always take a bundle of sage and keep it in your chambers. Maybe even clip some flowers and plant them in a pot of soil. You’d basically get the same smell.”
Draven’s eyes are hollow as he continues staring off into the distance. “I know.”
Feeling protective over Lyra and needing to carve out an opening to discuss that girl Draven held in his arms, Gray pushes further. “So why rest in the greenhouse? Unless you’re hiding from—”
“I’m not hiding from anything,” he refutes in a lifeless tone wrapped in thorns.
Draven cuts him a sharp look, and Gray notices the debate weighing in his eyes as he stares at him.
Whatever conclusion he arrives at, however, has him banishing the threat in his gaze back to the shadows and releasing a deep sigh after.
“I’m having a really bad fucking day and I’m buzzed, so that is the only reason I am going to say this to you, Nightenjoy.
And if you were anyone else—if you weren’t so damn important to Lyra—I would have already blackened your eye for disturbing me. ”
Though on some level Gray feels his male ego rise in protest at the challenge, he silences it.
Draven can say and do as he pleases in this moment.
Because fuck his own pride and ego. For Lyra, Gray will cast them both aside so he can make sure Draven Dalmar is actually someone worthy of having her.
Of receiving her love and being offered the gift of her heart.
Because that girl is scarred and bruised and battered, but she is also resilient and beautiful and deserves the entirety of the night sky strewn together on a string.
And Gray is going to make damn sure that is something Draven can offer her.
The sky bleeds crimson as the sun descends behind rolling hills stretching outside the greenhouse windows. Gray notices the copper tones in the dimming horizon first.
He glances back at Draven, setting his jaw. “Well then, I’m all ears.”
Draven’s lips twitch before setting in a thin, hard line.
He lets his head fall back against the glass panes once more, and he closes his eyes.
“I come to this greenhouse every evening, at every sunset, and I lay in this exact spot and rest my eyes, allowing the smell of her to envelop me so I can pretend she’s still here, in my arms, just like she was before I let her go.
I try to imagine her warmth and how good it felt when it seeped into my skin.
I picture her smile. Remember the spark of her touch.
” When he reopens his eyes, his gaze has darkened into something cold and distant.
“I come here—where she first kissed me—and pretend like I didn’t fail her. That I was enough to save her.”