Chapter 9
Draevyn
Draevyn stood at the base of the dais, arms crossed tight over his chest. His jaw clenched so hard it ached.
The line of Lephyrin’s citizens stretched down the length of the throne room, each one waiting their turn to kneel before their king and present their offerings of whatever scraps they could spare.
Jewelry passed down through generations, finely woven fabrics, crates of food they likely couldn’t afford to give away.
The king barely spared them a glance, nodding at some, waving others off like flies if they didn’t bring something he deemed worthy.
Draevyn was disgusted. He could see it in their eyes—the hollow look of people who had nothing left to give. People who knew that refusal wasn’t an option, that withholding even the smallest trinket would bring consequences.
Now, you’ll understand what it’s like to be helpless, and you’ll question how you thought you and your king could live so lavishly while giving so little to your people. Esmyra’s words from the night of the ball rang through his mind. His fingers twitched, the muscles in his neck tightening.
On the opposite side of the dais, his brother stood in rigid silence, expression hard as stone. But Draevyn knew that beneath Atlas’s carefully composed mask, there was unease.
Draevyn had spent his whole life trying to ignore what the crown really was. Had excused it, justified it, turned away when it was easier to pretend he didn’t see.
But not anymore.
The king sat upon his throne, feigning indifference as yet another trembling man approached. An older fisherman, his back hunched from years of labor, held up a pearl necklace with shaking hands.
Atlas took the necklace from the man and brought it up to the king. He took it, examined it for barely a heartbeat, then let it slip between his fingers to clatter against the stone floor.
“Not enough,” the king grumbled, waving the man away.
The man’s face paled in horror.
This fucking bastard.
Something in Draevyn snapped, and he took a step up the dais, heat simmering in his palms.
“You sit there and take from them as if you’re entitled to their suffering,” he bit out, his voice low enough so only they would hear.
His father barely turned his head. “Next!” he announced.
The fisherman was still kneeling, his face drained of all color as he scrambled to collect the pearls that had scattered down the steps and across the floor.
Guards flanked him on both sides and hauled him to his feet as the man whimpered, before dragging him back down the line and toward the doors.
Draevyn’s chest tightened. “You say they owe you a tithe, but for what?” He gestured to the broken man being hauled away, to the people in line who clutched their offerings with fearful hands.
“Protection? Safety? You steal from them and leave them with nothing. How long do you think they’ll endure this before they break?
Your behavior will cause a fucking uprising! ”
The king let out a slow, tired sigh. “Mind your tongue.”
Flames licked at Draevyn’s fingertips. “Or what?” He scoffed. “You’ll throw me back in the dungeons? Kill me like you did—”
“Enough,” Atlas warned through clenched teeth. His expression was carefully neutral, but the look in his eyes seemed to be pleading for Draevyn to stand down. “This is not the time or place for this discussion.”
Draevyn turned to his brother, breath heaving. “Then when is? When do we talk about how he rules with greed and cruelty? About what he’s done and continues to do?”
Shocked whispers rippled through the line, and the guards all unsheathed their swords as they ordered them to hush.
Varis let out a low whistle from where he stood beside the king, his grin smug as ever.
Atlas took a step toward Draevyn, his voice barely above a whisper now. “If you want to live long enough to do something about it, then for the love of Irah, Drae, shut the fuck up while you still have your tongue.”
The words cooled some of Draevyn’s rage, if only because he knew there was truth in them. His jaw clenched as he forced himself to step back, letting the fire simmer instead of unleashing it.
The look in their father’s eyes, however, made him question whether it was worth the risk.
King Rowe let out an impatient sigh and leaned forward on his throne. “Are you all godsdamn deaf now? I said next!”
Shifting armor sounded, and the guards brought an old woman forward, her thin frame trembling beneath a heavy, tattered cloak.
She moved slowly, her gnarled hands gripping the folds of the fabric.
The murmurs in the hall quieted as the courtiers leaned in, intrigued by the frail figure now standing before the dais.
Draevyn’s eyes narrowed on the woman, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end the closer she stepped toward them.
“Well? Speak, crone,” the king demanded. “What have you brought for your tithe?”
The woman raised her head, and beneath the shadows of her hood, her eyes gleamed. A slow, eerie cackle rattled from her, and everyone in the room exchanged wary glances, as if they too felt what Draevyn did.
Power. It exuded from her in pulsating waves.
The woman stepped out of the guard’s hold, her eyes locked on the king. “What I bring is not gold nor trinket. Not pearl nor coin,” she rasped, her voice crackling like a dying fire. “I bring no tribute to a throne built on gluttony.”
The king scowled. “Enough of your nonsense!”
Draevyn’s attention was locked on the woman, unease threatening to suffocate him.
She went on as if the king hadn’t spoken, her voice rising and weaving through the air like a chant. “The sea remembers, and the tide has turned. And now the damned will drown as the rightful rise.”
A lump formed in Draevyn’s throat, his pulse hammering in his ears.
Sea. Tide. Drown. Rise.
The guards shifted uneasily, and the wary glances in the room turned into nervous whispers.
She lifted a gnarled hand and pointed a crooked finger at the king. “You steal from your people, feasting on what isn’t yours. Taking lives you were never owed.” The entire room seemed to pause at her words. “You sit on a throne of stolen bones, and the sea has sent its reaper!”
Oh, shit.
“You just earned yourself a one-way trip to the gallows, you beggar bitch,” the king snarled. “Guards, remove this—”
The woman threw her head back and laughed, the sound twisting into something otherworldly as its echo bounced off the walls. Everyone in the room took a hesitant step backward, and a chill slithered along Draevyn’s spine.
With a violent motion, she ripped off the hood of her cloak. A mist erupted, enveloping her entirely as small sparks of something resembling lightning skittered through its haze.
Then the first man screamed.
Several more rang out a second after, and the line in the room scattered. People tripped over one another, shoving past the guards and out through the doors as fast as they could as that power grew.
And when the mist finally cleared, Draevyn thought his heart stopped in his chest.
In place of the frail older woman now stood a figure of lethal, absolutely terrifying beauty.
The silver of her blue-rooted hair shimmered like a blade catching the moonlight, and the swirling tattoos along her arms pulsed with an eerie luminescence.
She wore a dark, sheer dress that barely left anything to the imagination.
It cascaded down from two shell-shaped silver clasps resting on her shoulders and spilled onto the floor, the double slits revealing sleek legs.
The dress cinched at her waist, showing glimpses of her skin, as chains studded with jewels draped down from her hips.
Glacial eyes locked on Draevyn, and his jaw fell open.
“Hello, Drae.” Her voice was a honeyed venom.
He could barely breathe.
It was Esmyra. Or at least, he thought it was her.
The woman in front of him resembled nothing of the woman he’d fallen in love with, until he noticed her eyes. Draevyn would recognize those blue irises anywhere. They were his first and last thoughts every day since he’d met her.
Courtiers screamed as guards scrambled to shield the king, and even Varis rushed out one of the side doors. But Draevyn could only stare.
He could’ve sworn his brother was shouting for him, but everything around him faded as his heart began to crack in his chest.
“You’re trapped in a room full of trained men,” the king spat at her as he stood from his seat, pointing a swollen finger at her.
“No,” Esmyra said sternly, taking a step forward. “You’re trapped in a room with me.”
All the guard’s grips tightened on their weapons.
“Go back to the hellish depths you came from, witch!” Atlas bellowed, and it snapped Draevyn from his trance.
Darkness exploded from Atlas’s outstretched hands, shadows slithering like living vipers through the air, curling and reaching for her.
“Wait, no! Esmyr—” Draevyn’s plea for her halted at the edge of his tongue as he watched.
With a flick of her wrist, water rushed up from the marble floor as if it had seeped through the cracks.
The tendrils of both liquid and shadows met midair, hissing as the two forces collided.
The impact sent a gust of energy blasting through the chamber, rattling chandeliers and snuffing out several torches.
Guards rushed to the king as he bellowed out nonsense from his throne, their swords drawn. She turned her gaze upon them and smirked. Then the air seemed to ripple with her unspoken command.
Water lashed out, wrapping around their bodies with the speed of a striking serpent. They were yanked back, their feet lifting off the floor as the liquid constricted around their limbs. Some choked, eyes bulging as they were unable to move.
“Holy Irah,” Draevyn whispered, finding himself rooted in place.
Screams continued to echo off the high ceilings.
“Now, now, boys. Let’s not get in my way,” she cooed. Her eyes drifted up the steps of the dais and toward the king.
Draevyn’s stare followed hers.