Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Over the next passing weeks, they were all inseparable.
Draven and his mother practically resided at the Brooksley’s bookshop.
They even slept over a few times, falling asleep in front of the burning hearth while Atlas read them stories.
There had been laughter. So much laughter.
More than Draven had ever heard in his lifetime.
He soon realized that he never wanted it to end.
This life with his mother, Atlas, Rhea, and Suzumi.
Yet life was nothing if not cruel, and his wish went unanswered.
He was upstairs in the loft with Rhea and Suzumi, teaching them combat moves in case those boys—or anyone else, for that matter—attempted to circle them ever again.
His mother was downstairs near the fire, humming to herself while knitting him a sweater for the upcoming change in seasons.
Her song drifted up the bannisters to them, circling around Draven’s bones like the warmest hug he had ever received.
Somewhere around two weeks ago, under the guise of offering Draven and his daughters full access to the loft area, Atlas had moved his desk downstairs near the hearth.
Now positioned against the back wall, he worked facing Draven’s mother, stealing glances at her when he didn’t think she was looking.
Though Atlas thought he was being sly with his stolen looks, Draven noticed. He always noticed.
Which meant he also noticed when his mother would do the same in return, subtly watching Atlas when his tongue was sticking up from the corner of his mouth while he scribbled madly on his pile of parchments.
Atlas lost himself to his words and his books; his mother lost herself to the newfound song she hummed everyday.
Both were lost in each other, neither willing to openly admit it to the other.
Though Draven supposed it was complicated. Besides, who would ever truly be mad enough to impede on his father’s property? Because at the end of the day, as bitter as it made Draven feel, both he and his mother were regarded as just that: Tynan’s property.
Draven had just finished showing Rhea how to dislodge her attacker when he felt the parchment he always kept tucked in his boot burn against his ankle.
He stiffened at the heat of it—only Finlay or Kiran would use their Ever-Know Quills to reach him like this.
And they would only do so if it were important.
Without explanation, Draven turned and backed away from Rhea, reaching down to grab the rolled parchment.
“Hey,” Rhea protested. “Don’t you know it’s rude to just turn your back on people?”
Draven ignored her, unable to put his focus on anything other than the incoming message. He dropped to his knees and unrolled the worn sheet, spreading it out on the floor. Then, he waited.
“Hellooooo,” Rhea drawled with no small amount of attitude.
“Rhea,” Suzumi chastised, stepping between her and Draven. “Give him a second.” With his back to her he couldn’t be certain, but he swore he felt her eyes on him.
Draven drew in a grounding breath in an attempt to settle the small wave of anxiety rolling through his chest. He stared at the parchment, until a red-sizzling light appeared and the message came through.
Draven,
Your father now searches for you and your mother.
He has grown restless with your absence.
Fin and I infiltrated another of his meetings with one of his hounds, Eri Valenwood, after we caught wind of his sudden unease.
The King of Rivara hosts a celebratory ball in Keziah to commemorate the recent trade partnership propositioned and personally brokered by your father.
The entirety of House Dalmar is expected to attend as the guests of honor.
As you can imagine, Tynan is less than thrilled at the prospect of receiving such an invitation without his wife and heir by his side.
So now, he has unleashed his dogs to find you both.
Please know, brother, I do not write these next words lightly. Yet I fear I must.
Gather your mother and return home to Tylderon at once.
I fear the repercussions if you don’t.
Your brother,
Kiran x
Draven found it hard to swallow. His throat had become unbearably dry—his muscles unthinkably heavy.
Yet despite the sudden weight slung around his body, he found the willpower to rise from his knees, parchment in hand.
He needed to move quickly if he was going to show his mother the letter—the sizzling red words would soon disappear, as all words did when sent through the magic of an Ever-Know Quill.
He descended the stairs as if in a daze. His mother noticed something was wrong with him the moment she saw him.
“Draven?” she asked, her voice rising in pitch. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” The urgency in her tone told Draven she already knew whatever he was about to show her was something serious.
“I…I…” He couldn’t get the words out. They were stuck in his throat, as if they didn’t want to come out.
He didn’t want to go back to Tylderon.
He did not wish to see his father again. He…he…
He was already home in the place he currently stood.
He was at peace when inside the warm walls of The Polished Bookery.
Yet he knew his father would stop at nothing to find them now.
He had need of them. He wanted to show face amongst the people of Solaya.
There would be no stopping him—no hiding from him.
Not when there was something he wanted from them.
They were disposable to Tynan—until he needed the realm to believe they weren’t.
Feeling crushed beyond measure, all Draven could do was hang his head in defeat and hold out the parchment for his mother to take.
Wasting no time, she took the item from his hand and read. Then, she stared. Silent. Unmoving.
Eventually, Atlas approached them. His steps were slow. His words were gentle.
“Is everything alright?”
As if only just now coming back into herself, his mother slowly lowered the parchment from her face.
“Everything’s fine,” she said, using the voice Draven had now learned was entirely fabricated from a place of self-preservation.
“It’s nothing of concern. Draven and I” —she glanced at him, a look of pure sympathy brimming in her eyes— “we’ll just be departing from Príth sooner than we expected. ”
Atlas studied her. He had this look in his eyes—a warring conflict of sorts.
He seemed to be considering something, weighing the choice of push or pull.
Or maybe he was simply chewing on his words.
Regardless, Draven decided the silent debate raging within him was nearly as tangible as the parchment damning his happiness.
“I see,” he finally said in a tone that felt carefully neutral. “Will you…” Atlas cleared his throat. “Will the two of you return?”
Draven watched as his mother turned to Atlas, really seeming to look at him in that moment.
He couldn’t be certain, but as he watched unspoken words stream between their locked eyes, Draven developed a sneaking suspicion that just as he and Suzumi discussed the true nature of his and his mother’s identities, they had as well.
Which made him wonder what else they had discussed.
His mother’s eyes softened alongside her voice. “I certainly hope so.”
“Good,” Atlas replied with a small shake of his head, so much emotion behind that one word. “That is good.”
“Draven?”
Suzumi and Rhea stood behind him. Rhea already had tears brimming over her richly blue eyes.
Suzumi had painted an admirable mask over her features.
But after spending nearly every second together for the better part of two months, Draven saw the cracks in her facade.
The indent wedged between her wrinkled brows.
The tight downward curve planted firmly at the corner of her lips.
He was momentarily stunned by the overwhelming feelings rushing through him at the sight of their sadness.
He cared about them. Really cared for them.
Rhea had become like an extension of himself.
In a way, they were amusingly similar, despite also being vastly different.
Before he had even fully realized it, he was treating her in the same way he treated Kiran and Finlay.
And Suzumi? She was not like Kiran, Finlay, or Rhea.
She was air where there had previously only been suffocation.
She was light where there had only been darkness.
She was the perfect sea-kissed breeze. A fluttering warmth in the midst of the deepest winter.
And now he was supposed to just…what? Say goodbye to them?
Draven’s bottom lip quivered, and he shook his head against the devastating emotions threatening to shatter him. “I will come back,” he declared more for himself than them.
Rhea took a step forward, her lip pouted while tears trickled down her cheeks. “You promise?”
He slid a look at Suzumi, who was merely watching him, silent.
He nodded. “I swear it. The moment my mother and I are able to return, we will come back.”
As if showing her support, his mother stepped up beside Draven and gently rested a hand on his shoulder. She smiled down at him before turning her attention onto Rhea and Suzumi. “How could I not come back and see my favorite girls?”
Suzumi’s frown deepened as she visibly fought against her forming tears. Rhea charged at his mother, hugging her tightly around the waist—her ten-year-old head just barely reaching above his mother’s belly button.
“You have to come back,” she rasped, clutching the fabric of his mother’s dress tightly between her fingers. “You…you just have to.”
“I will,” his mother replied, smoothing the hair on her head in a repeated gesture. “I will return, my sweet, sweet girl.”
“Draven?”
He swiveled his eyes to Atlas, who jerked his chin toward the corner of the room, beckoning him over. With a slight furrow in his brow, he followed.
Atlas’s gaze lingered on Rhea and Draven’s mother before finally gliding to him.
He studied him for perhaps no more than a second, yet beneath the weight of that searching gaze, it carried the resonance of eternity.
Atlas sighed and knelt down, resting a gentle, but firm hand on Draven’s shoulder.
“Before you go,” he murmured softly. “I’d like to share this with you.
” Atlas reached into his back pocket and plucked a rolled up parchment, placing it in Draven’s hands.
He gazed down at it, an indent wedged between his brows. “What is it?”
“It’s detailed instructions on how to help your mother through her attacks.
” At the flash of surprise flickering in Draven’s eyes, Atlas offered, “After that day where you helped Rhea and mentioned she was suffering from something, I had suspicions. Your mother confirmed them for me the night you both first joined us for dinner. She and I stayed up talking, and when it came up, well…” He trailed off, a sort of pensive quality overtaking his tone.
“Let’s just suffice it to say I know about them now, and I’d like to help. ”
Draven was rendered silent; he couldn’t believe it. His mother had never spoken to another person about her attacks before. No one outside of him. For her to have told Atlas about them…
Draven couldn’t help but wonder if Atlas was even the slightest bit aware of how monumental such a seemingly insignificant thing was.
He suspected he did.
“That parchment contains a list of techniques, teas, and tonics—the “Three T’s” as the healer called them—to help her both manage and navigate any further attacks.
If you don’t mind me asking, I’d really like for you to study them, familiarizing yourself with all the details.
I had planned to go over all of it with you myself, but I fear that is no longer a viable option. At least not currently.”
Draven’s heart felt both heavy and light in his chest. He clutched at the parchment. “And this will help her? I mean really help her?”
With tender eyes, Atlas nodded. “It will,” he murmured.
Draven didn’t have words. What Atlas was giving him…it meant so much. For years, he wondered how he might help his mother. For years, he carried the quiet sadness of watching her struggling, helpless to aid her in any significant way. Now?
Now, Atlas was giving him the knowledge to no longer feel powerless to something he never fully understood. To something his mother had never been able to fully manage—not when it truly sunk its claws into her.
“Thank you,” Draven said, an earnest softness coating his words.
Atlas squeezed his shoulder a final time, a small yet undeniably genuine smile curving his lips. He rose, loosing a loaded sigh. “Perhaps when you return, we can learn more about these methods together?”
The question felt layered. No—the question was layered.
Though it was not manipulative nor being used as some strategic political game much like Draven had known layered questions to be.
His question felt more hopeful, but in a protective way.
As if to say, You will return—I know it, because it was what they both wanted to hear right now.
Yet saying it outright might hurt, forcing them both to face the undeniable truth that what they wanted was not a guarantee.
For they both knew life was nothing if not cruel at times.
So, Draven merely offered him a modest smile as he tucked the parchment into his tunic and said, “I’d really like that.”
Draven and his mother left that very night.