Chapter 44
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
DRAVEN
Draven crouches down, pressing his fingers into the warm markings grooved deep into the sand.
“There’s no doubt about it,” Finlay says, bending down beside him, his fingers tracing the humming semi-circle. “This is a ward. And judging from the amount of magic I can sense from it, it is a damn strong one.”
Gray pinches his chin. “Do you think it’s enchanted to keep whatever is behind the barrier concealed?”
From beside Gray, Rhea snorts. “I certainly don’t think there is a random magical dome out here just to protect sand.”
The corner of Draven’s lip quirks up, a much needed reprieve from the onslaught of his other raging emotions. He rises, assessing. “We’re going to have to break it.”
“I don’t suspect that will be easy,” Finlay muses, standing upright as well.
He rubs at the back of his neck, squinting against the brightness reflecting off the lightened sand around them.
His feet tread forward three steps, and he outstretches his hand, uncurling his fingers from his palm and laying it flat against the invisible barrier.
Within seconds, his eyes flare and he jerks his hand away.
“Correction: I don’t think it is possible. ”
“It can be done,” Draven says, grateful that his voice sounds a hell of a lot more sure than he feels.
“We’re powerful, Draven,” Finlay says. “But we’re no match for whatever old magic this is. I felt it. It is…raw. Charged. There is a thread of something different woven through it. I haven’t felt anything quite like it before.”
Draven says nothing, instead only folding his arms over his chest.
Finlay flexes his jaw, pushing his tongue into the side of his cheek. “Look, we might have to accept the possibility that this is what you were sensing. Not Lyra. She might not even be behind the ward for all we know.”
“She is.” Draven steps toward the barrier, a faint shimmer pulsing from its boundary. “We’ll have to figure out a way to weaken the magic enough to where you and I can overpower it.”
Gray clears his throat, gaining the attention of both Draven and Finlay. With one arm folded over the other, he points to his left. To where Rhea is standing with a hand propped on her hip and a wicked smirk on her face.
“Sounds like you need a Nullifier.”
“Alright, so that’s the plan. Any questions?”
Rhea lifts her hand, and Draven swallows down the bubble of irritation as it rises up his throat, knowing it is completely unwarranted. The heat, travel, and lack of a full meal has been getting to him. Not to mention everything else wrong with his mind right now.
“Yes, Rhea?” he asks.
“Do I have to be paired with Finlay?”
Draven rubs at the skin above his brow. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because as soon as you have nullified as much of the barrier as you can, he needs to step in with his magic to take advantage of the weak points.”
“But why can’t you do that?”
“I will be doing that,” he answers tersely. “From the other side of the barrier.”
“But—”
“Rhea,” Draven warns, stretching his neck side to side. “Please.”
“Since Draven will be the first one to enter the space and we’re not sure what to expect on the other side, I need to be closest to him to shield him with an illusion,” Gray offers, his voice far gentler than Draven’s had been.
“And the ward appears to be too large for all of us to remain localized at one point. If this is going to work, the pairings really are necessary.”
Rhea slices Draven with a look, then nods. “Thanks, Gray.”
He smiles in return, and Finlay clears his throat, far louder and more aggressive than necessary. Gods, if they were in any other circumstance, Draven would probably laugh at his brother’s helplessness.
“If we are going to do this,” he muses, voice stiff, “then let us do this without any further delays.”
“Agreed,” Draven says. He approaches Rhea, resting a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently.
“If anything goes sideways, you run. I don’t care what you see.
I don’t care if I have five blades through my chest. You get the hell out of here, and you keep your nullifying magic armed and surrounding you at all times. Okay?”
She holds his stare, staying quiet.
“Rhea,” Draven presses. “Please. I can’t have anything happening to you.” The strings in his heart tighten, and his mouth curves gently. “Suzumi would rise from the grave just so she could kill me herself if I let you get hurt.”
“You don’t let me do anything.” Despite her words, her eyes are soft and filled with nostalgia as she, too, dips into her memories of the past. Of a time where Suzumi was still alive, lecturing both her and Draven when they sparred too roughly.
Reprimanding Rhea when she acted too recklessly—which was a lot.
“I can’t promise you I’ll run,” she murmurs. “But I promise you I’ll be smart.”
Draven moves his jaw side-to-side, conceding with a nod.
“She’ll be with me,” Finlay offers, taking a protective step toward Rhea. “I’ll watch out for her.”
Draven studies his brother, noticing the way he’s positioned himself to Rhea. “I know you will.” He sucks in a loud breath, turning to sweep his eyes over everyone. “Okay, then. Let’s split up and bring this ward down.”
Sounds are muffled. The world is fading. There are only screams and blood and pain. Memories brought to life, given cruel forms in brandished shadows and crimson light.
“Draven!” he hears a male voice call out to him from somewhere outside himself. “You’re losing control. Draven!”
But those are not the only voices he hears as his palms are pressed against the barriers of the ward.
As his skin burns against the magic of it.
As the ancient force imbued into the ward ravages him with cruel visions of a time long ago.
Pours venom into his deepest scars. Twists the present with the past, putting Draven in a near state of psychosis.
It is the hums of his magic, eager to welcome him, he hears.
Eager that Draven was already vulnerable to their invasion from the slips over the past few months.
From how frequently he’s been digging deeper and deeper into his well of resources.
From already being worn from the intense conditions of traveling the Wastelands. From being desperate.
They sink their claws into him as easily as slicing melted butter, where they hook into place.
More memories eviscerate him. Bodies pinned against a wall, blood trickling down like a shadow. His mother strapped to a table, the word whore burned into her skin.
You are my greatest accomplishment, she says.
I am your greatest failure, he thinks.
His father holds a dagger to a small girl’s throat as she attempts to hold her sobs in her chest.
On your knees, boy.
I own you now.
I own you now. I own you now.
“We own you now,” the magic hisses inside his head. “Become us. Accept us. Let us in—all of us.”
He doesn’t have a choice. He is drowning, forced to stare into a looking glass which only replays for him the deepest forms of his misery.
Come in, Draven thinks, nothing more than a leaf swept up in a hailstorm.
The full weight of his magic presses upon him. It is like an eclipsed sun. Never in all of his years has his magic been such a thing.
He sees Lyra, surrounded in a sea of Abdites.
They are back at Bathara, the battle between them raging.
Within a blink, she is the version of herself where she is desiccated by her own magic, breaths barely coming, only wet and rattling when they do.
He sees his fallen comrades at his feet, blood pooling from their lips, skin curdled and strange from the corrupted magic eating at them.
Abdites charge at her. Madness splits the air.
He blinks again, and Lyra is whole once more.
But the Abdites form a circle around her—they wish to attack. They are the enemy.
I can save her this time, Draven thinks.
You can save her this time, his magic agrees, giddy with anticipation.
He will not let the Abdites destroy her again. He will not.
He will save her.
Save her.
Save—
Warmth floods him, and the sensation of Lyra in his arms makes him pause. Sage wafts into his nostrils, and he swears he can feel her thumb gliding across his cheek.
When the world fades black, Draven is smiling.