Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
DRAVEN
Draven wants to be hiding in a corner somewhere, watching the depravity lazily from the shadows.
Yet instead, he is forced to be standing at complete attention, alone with his father on the northern balcony, overlooking the spectacle of colored ballgowns and sleek suits as they whirl around the obsidian dance floor, so glossy, it looks like a sea of glass beneath the partygoers’ feet.
“What do you think of the ball?” his father asks from beside him. “King Erasmus went to great lengths to make this year’s Winter Solstice celebration extra lavish.”
Draven spares him only a quick glance. “And I wonder who has the ear of our King.”
Tynan chuckles. “A dangerous thing, wondering.”
“Indeed.”
Draven grips the balcony’s railing with both hands as he scans the ballroom.
From his vantage point, he can see Gray Nightenjoy being cornered by two women, one of which is draped in a terribly gaudy dress, looking past them and across the room where the drinks are being served.
Draven follows his line of sight and spots Marcella at the beverage table, catching her mid-drink as she throws back an entire flute of wine.
He sees Finlay next, looking broody and more miserable than usual as he pretends to be entertaining a conversation with some girl with sleek silver hair.
Draven knows his brother well enough to know from his body language he isn’t the least bit interested.
To Draven’s absolute dismay, he finds Rhea at the center of the dance floor, dancing with Huxley fucking Rangard.
What the hell is she thinking?
Draven’s grip on the railing tightens as he makes a note mentally to have a conversation with her after this event. To explain to her how deplorable—how absolutely despicable—Huxley Rangard is.
As the memory of what he said to Lyra sweeps through Draven for yet a second time tonight, he finds an intense anger flickering within his chest, causing his magic to stir.
Draven rests his eyes and stretches his neck left, then right, willing the hungry thing to still. He doesn’t need his father noticing.
“Having troubles, are we?”
Internally, Draven grits his teeth and winces. Externally, however, he shows not even a sliver of a reaction. “I don’t know what you mean.”
The corner of Tynan’s lip curls. “Of course not.” He turns his attention back onto the ballroom floor. “How is your wife-to-be this evening? I can’t help but notice you have not spent much time with her since arriving.”
Draven’s stomach churns at the words wife-to-be. “Right. Because you always spent so much time with my mother at events like this.”
Tynan only hums.
He is dressed in a rather nondescript manner for such a formal celebration—his jacket removed, instead electing only to wear his trousers, black silken waistcoat, and dress shirt.
His mask is large and covers most of his face with the outline of a panther.
Draven’s mask holds a similar design—his father’s decision—but in a much more subtle fashion.
“When I announce your engagement to Arden this evening, thus announcing the joining of House Dalmar and House Larking, I expect you to do your part and create a visual display which will please the people of Erandor. Make them support your union.”
Draven wants to protest. He wants to fight, yell, scream—do anything to get himself out of a loveless engagement. Yet he can’t. Because to do so would be to forsake the future of the person he cares for more deeply than he will ever be adequate enough with words to express.
So he hollows himself out, setting his mind on the bigger picture: continuing his search across the continent for Lyra and building her a secure future to come home to, despite how much it makes his heart cry knowing he can’t ever be a part of that future.
But at least he is guaranteeing she will have one. That is all that matters.
Gods, how he misses his sweet girl. How he wishes he could hold her against his chest. Expand on all the words they wrote in their letters face-to-face.
What Draven wouldn’t give to lay his eyes on her.
To see her magically appear through those doors, so he could take her hand in his and ask her to dance like any normal man would ask of the woman he adores.
To just…exist with her. Even if it could only last for the duration of a single song.
“As you wish,” Draven replies, silencing his deepest desires.
Tynan studies him for a good moment; Draven lets him.
Eventually, seemingly amused with some piece of knowledge he decides not to let Draven in on, he says, “I am inclined to believe tonight will be filled with a series of surprising turns. In truth, I think you will really rather enjoy some of them.”
Draven tries to mask his accompanying expression at the words, yet he fails, his brows still pinching together as his face scrunches beneath his mask. “Why do you think such a thing?”
“Call it my intuition. Call it a gut feeling. Call it a practical deduction. Truthfully, call it whatever you like—my predicted outcomes won’t change.”
The words feel like both a warning and a riddle in some way, and Draven knows his father well enough to know he does not say such words without a reason.
He sets the full weight of his attention on Tynan. “What are you scheming? What fucked up plan have you set into motion here tonight?”
Tynan smiles at him.
The sight makes Draven’s skin crawl.
“All will be revealed in due time. For now, enjoy this beautiful ball with your beautiful fiancée. Though, perhaps you may find more enjoyment elsewhere this evening. Who knows.” He clasps his hands behind his back and shrugs, the gesture practiced. “What you do will be your decision entirely.”
Draven narrows his eyes on him. “I know you are trying to tell me something.” He takes a step closer to Tynan, keeping his shoulders relaxed and his body language as casual as he can manage, seeing as the entire party can gaze up at the balcony and see them.
“For once in your gods–damned life, be man enough to tell me directly what you’ve done. ”
His slithering smile broadens. “Now where is the fun in that?” He holds Draven’s eyes with delight for a heartbeat longer, until he sighs and turns his back to the party.
“I find myself in need of a drink paired with a moment’s reprieve.
” He gives Draven a quick, final glance over his shoulder.
“Do enjoy what happens in my absence, will you? Consider it my engagement gift to you.”
Before Draven can question what the hell he means further, Tynan strides into the shadows, leaving him alone on the balcony.
Draven turns back to face the spread below him, again gripping the railing.
This time, though, he allows himself to hunch over slightly, letting just a fraction of the unending exhaustion he feels slip free.
He is lost in his listlessness—barely clinging to the persona he must maintain on this balcony—when the large southern doors push open and a lilac-haired girl wearing a plunging, off-white gown strolls into the room.
Time stills. The music dims, until it fades away entirely, leaving nothing but the ghostly hums of a familiar voice which once wrapped around his skin so sweetly.
For a moment, Draven is paralyzed, transfixed at the sight of the impossible.
His brain sifts through the possibilities flashing through his mind, trying to rationalize what he sees before his heart swells with an optimism that will inevitably leave it broken.
Until he sees piercing amethyst eyes glance up at the very balcony he is standing on, seeming to glow behind their silver mask filled with twisting vines and adorned with glittering jewels resembling flowers.
He goes rigid, his lips parting in tune to his shock.
“You,” he breathes, leaning forward over the balcony to get a better look at her.
Both ecstasy and relief knock the wind from him, acting as a hammer to his weakening knees. His heart tumbles from beneath his ribcage and deep into the pit of his stomach, accelerating like an unfolding avalanche.
He doesn’t know how it’s possible, but there, strutting through a room of shadows as the only beacon of light, stands his heart. There lies his home. Half his soul. His entire salvation, alive and breathing and so gloriously, brilliantly unharmed.
So for right now, Draven does not try to understand it. Does not attempt to hide the sudden urgency fueling his movements as he pries himself from the balcony’s railing and runs down the stairwell, daring any person to stand in his way.
As he moves, he hears echoes of words from long ago—words which embedded themselves into the very materials of his heart, a permanent stitch sewing broken pieces of himself together.
You are not a monster.
Draven runs to her, ready to return home at last.