Chapter 36 #3
Lyra was not just instructing him not to marry Arden as some request or desperate plea—not after Kiran telling her everything, being fully aware of her fate within Solaya.
It was her way of telling him he didn’t have to marry her.
A message within the message. That’s why there was resignation on her face.
Why she seemed to go back with Casimir so willingly, like she wasn’t putting up a fight at all.
She doesn’t ever plan on coming back.
She thinks to save Draven from a loveless future written by his father, she has to stay away. And even if Draven is wrong, and it truly is Casimir forcing her to remain by his side—he doesn’t care. The circumstance doesn’t matter to him.
For the first time in a long, blurry haze of uncertainty, Draven has found his clarity.
“I’m going after her,” he says, resolve unbreakable as Arellian steel. “Tonight.”
“You will do no such thing.”
All of them turn at the sound of that too-polished voice.
Tynan stands no more than a few steps away, hands clasped behind his back. He strides to Draven, ignoring the rest of the group entirely.
Draven grits his teeth, pushing his tongue into his cheek as his magic flares in anger just at the sight of the man.
Tynan observes him like an insect in need of dissecting. “I heard what I needed to hear. You will not be going anywhere after that girl. You will not leave Erandor in its time of need, nor will you frolic about like some ignorant fool after your engagement has been publicly announced.”
“I will not,” Draven growls.
His father assumes his full height. He is a tall man, well-defined though not overly so. Just enough to be intimidating to his enemies and lethal to his foes. “I will not speak my demands again, boy. You will submit. You will obey what I have said. You know the consequences if you don’t.”
He does. She is standing a small ways across from him, well within the reaches of his protection right now. Is now a student at Bathara, protected—though in a precarious manner—from the clutches of Tynan Dalmar.
Tynan is not a man of errors, but he perhaps made his gravest one the moment he allowed Rhea to attend Bathara Academy. Allowed her to be so close to Draven once more. It will allow him to adapt his plans to include Rhea. To ensure her safety from Tynan.
From the corner of his eyes, Draven sees Gray bend down and pick up a discarded dagger not far from them. He studies it, a peculiar expression pinching his face together. Draven realizes it was the dagger Lyra was holding.
Gray’s eyes snap up, something like hope brimming within them. He gives Draven a silent, exacerbated look. A near pleading look, actually.
Tynan demands the full weight of his attention. “Come,” he says. “We need to show face in the aftermath of such destruction and address those who remain.”
Draven doesn’t budge an inch. “I’m not following you—I will be following after Lyra.”
Tynan’s face remains eerily expressionless. “In spite of the consequences? You will go, knowing that I will seek retribution for your disobedience? Knowing all that I’m capable of?”
Draven catches the underlying implication of his tone. He is referring to the murder of his mother. The murder of a bookshop owner who was like a father to him. To the first girl to ever make Draven experience the flutters of love.
Rhea’s family; Draven’s family.
All slaughtered by Tynan.
“Fuck you and your threats.” Draven spits the words he has so desperately wanted to say for years in his father’s face.
He does not miss the way Kiran, Finlay, and Rhea all blanch at the sight of it.
“I’m done being your lapdog. I’m through with following your orders.
Through with House Dalmar. I. Am. Done.”
Tynan chuckles, a crooked smile tugging at only a portion of his lips. “Let’s say you find her. Where will you go, hm? How long can you hide until the Tani’s Shadows find her and haul her away to stand trial?”
Draven remains silent, not deigning to indulge Tynan in the games he so loves to play.
That crooked smile deepens. “You’ll be bringing her back to a world that wishes her in chains.”
“Then I will build her a better one with my bare hands.” Draven’s rough voice does not waver. “One where she can laugh freely. Can finally be afforded a life she deserves.”
“Sentimentality is not your color.” Tynan’s upper lip curls.
“In fact, I find it rather revolting.” He leans forward to whisper in Draven’s ear, “And you will only be done when I allow it. Remember that, boy.” Tynan pulls away from him, studying him a few seconds longer, his hands remaining clasped behind his back.
His smile morphs into something like a serpent’s grin.
“Your next actions are your own, blatantly against what I’ve demanded of you.
” He lifts his shoulders with calculated measure.
“You cannot blame me for what comes next.” Tynan turns to Gray, who still holds the recovered dagger between his fingers.
“And neither can you, Lion of the Heart.”
To Gray’s credit, he does not flinch beneath the weight of the stare. Not an inch.
Tynan fixes them all with an inscrutable parting look.
Then, he simply turns and walks away, heading over to a small huddle filled with a few Jurafen and high-ranked nobles, a few remaining rebels held captive and in chains behind them.
Audwin is there as well, not so much as glancing in the direction of Finlay to see if he’s alright.
Draven watches them for only a heartbeat longer, feeling in his bones that his father just made a cryptic promise.
He can not find it within himself to care one fucking bit.
He turns his attention to Gray. “Tell me what you’ve realized.”
“This dagger,” he answers, stepping closer to Draven and holding it out for them both to inspect. “Where did it come from?”
Draven’s throat constricts then bobs as he pictures the oozing slice dripping blood down Lyra’s arm. “Lyra had it. I suspect it was Casimir’s. Why?”
Marcella steps forward, peeking her head into their conversation, not saying anything, but clearly not wanting to remain in the dark, either.
Gray steals a look at her then reorients his full attention back to the item in his hand. “The material composing the hilt and blade,” he muses, gliding a thumb along the camel-brown substance. “It’s not found in Solaya.”
Draven studies the object more closely. “Is it not just leather and steel?”
“No,” Gray answers. “Feel it and take a closer look.” Draven does as instructed, and Gray continues on.
“I read a book once about the origins of the Arellian trade ports. I wanted to learn more about the history of an Arellian forged sword. Apparently, before creatures overtook what is now known as Creature’s Bay, Arellia used to use their ports to travel to and from the Arid Wastelands because only the peculiar sands from the Wastelands could be smelted and forged into such high-quality blades.
Yet when the neighboring waters became impassable due to the appearance of the sea creatures, they were no longer able to collect sand from the Wastelands.
It’s why Arellian blades are so rare nowadays—why they’ve basically become a myth.
Because nobody will risk traveling through the treacherous strip of land passing through the Elwood Forest, and the journey to the Wastelands is now virtually controlled by Halfin’s port—a city which is not on good terms with Arellia. ”
“Get to the point, Gray,” Marcella pushes.
“Right,” he says. “Sorry. My point being, this blade is most certainly forged like Arellian steel, but you can tell by the folding and the temper line that it is not Arellian-made. That, coupled with the leaf fibers composing the grip of the hilt being made from what I believe to be the foreign Heri plant, can only mean one thing.”
Gray has the full attention of everyone in their group. They blink absently at him.
He sighs. “If this truly is Casimir’s dagger—which, given the make and materials, I suspect it has to be—then they’re in the Arid Wastelands.
I know it was one of the first places we ruled out as a possibility because we thought it was largely uninhabitable, but that has to be where Casimir has been hiding.
I can’t be sure how they’re surviving the barren climate or where in the Wastelands they’re located, but I’d wager it’s why Lyra was at such a loss when attempting to decipher where she was being kept.
All she could really tell us was that the sun shined differently.
” He pauses for effect. “The Arid Wasteland’s sun is red and pressing—is fabricated and doubled behind a mirage created from the heat.
I’m confident it’s where he’s keeping her; it’s the only thing that makes sense. ”
The revelation washes through Draven like a tidal storm. Meanwhile, Marcella takes Gray’s face in her hands and kisses his cheek.
“You’re a genius,” she says. “A gods-damn, history-loving genius.”
His cheeks flush, though he says nothing. Instead, he locks his eyes on Draven. “You’re going after her?”
He nods. “I am.”
“Then I’m coming with you.”
For a heartbeat, Draven considers protesting the matter. Until he realizes it would be a futile thing. Plus, he can’t really deny Gray the request, considering how much Draven knows he cares for Lyra, as she does him.
“I’m leaving tonight,” Draven tells him instead of arguing the matter. “I’m not wasting a single second more than I already have.”
Gray nods, not at all daunted. “I have a small pouch of coin on me. We can buy supplies as we go and pay for inns to forge our plan through the nights.”
Draven turns to Rhea. “You’re coming with me.”
She shrugs. “Figured.”
Draven almost cracks a smile. Leave it to Rhea to be so nonchalant about defying Tynan’s orders, putting both their lives at risk, and traversing to an overheated continent to track down a centuries-old prince and a girl Draven would burn the world for.
“I’m going too.” Finlay steps forward, and Draven and Rhea shoot him a curious look at the same moment. Though the nature of their expressions seems to be entirely different.
“Why?” she hisses. “Your presence is not needed. In fact, I’d say it’s not even wanted.”
“I disagree” he shoots back. “You are going to a continent filled with such high temperatures, civilization has all but abandoned it entirely. You know why? Because our bodies are not meant to withstand that level of heat. Are not meant to be encased in such dry air, our throats feel barren and pressed by razor blades. I can prevent all of you from overheating. Can secure water and comfort with my ice magic. You will need me if you hope to succeed.”
Draven observes his brother. He’s right—they would benefit greatly from having him. Yet volunteering to go on a rescue mission for someone not titled nor who is assigned directly to him as a mission is far outside his brother’s usual behavior. Why is he willing to help now?
“Who is to say your magic will even work the same there?”
Though Rhea means it as a jab to Finlay, it makes everyone pause. She’s also right. There is no guarantee magic will move the same in the Wastelands. Though it changes nothing about Draven’s plan to go, it is a consideration nonetheless.
“I will stay,” Kiran says, breaking the silence. “And I will monitor the situation here in Solaya. I have a feeling Bathara is not going to take kindly to two of its captains disappearing the moment an uprising against Erandor is brought into the light.”
Marcella looks conflicted, but ultimately sighs. “I’ll stay, too,” she says. “Kiran’s right—we need people here to keep an eye on all sides of things.”
Draven’s eyes slide across all the faces before him. His family. Lyra’s best friends. He nods at the lot of them. “Then it’s settled.”
Marcella turns to Gray, and Draven almost feels the need to turn around and offer them privacy at the heaviness passing between them.
At the intimacy of their gazes. She again cups his face with her hands, this time different than the last. Her touch is now tender and soft.
Unguarded and without humor. “You bring our girl home,” she whispers, the earnest words filled with fight.
Gray drops his forehead to hers, letting his eyes fall momentarily shut. “I will,” he promises.
When they pull apart, her eyes—now glassy—linger on Gray for only a moment longer before she redirects them onto Draven. “You too,” she says. “Bring her back to us.”
Draven does not waver. “I swear to you I will. No matter what.”