Chapter Forty-Three #2
Draven presses the tip of his blade deeper into Eri’s skin, drawing blood. “Call her a whore one more time,” he warns. “And I will slice your neck without so much as batting an eyelash.”
“It’s what she is !” Eri shouts, like he can’t believe he’s having to explain this.
Draven cocks his head. “That’s close enough.” He moves, prepared to slide the dagger along Eri’s throat, when a voice calls out, stopping him.
“My, my,” the voice says, smooth as silk. “What do we have here?”
I track the sound, finding a man standing before us with a slightly cocked head who is mid-aged, strikingly handsome, and possesses eyes that glisten like the sea. His hair is tied neatly back and is as dark as a starless sky. His nose is prominent, his jaw sharp.
I can’t really put my finger on it, but he almost looks familiar, in a way.
“Your insubordinate, infuriatingly difficult—”
Draven cuts Eri off by pushing the dagger’s tip even deeper into his skin.
“Hm,” the man hums. “I see.” He clasps his hands behind his back and strides toward me. “And who are you?”
I clear my throat, feeling slightly unnerved by this man’s presence. “Lyra,” I say, steadying the tremor threatening to crack my words the best I can. “Lyra Izacalli.”
“Izacalli?” the man questions. “I’ve never heard of such a surname. ”
“It belonged to my mother.”
He tilts his head, watching with me quiet interest.
Another gesture that looks oddly familiar.
“I see,” he muses softly. “That may do it, then. It’s not very often a woman passes on a surname.” He turns his back to me, studying Draven and Eri. “Would you be so kind as to remove yourself from my lieutenant commander?”
Draven does no such thing. “If your lieutenant commander could be so decent as to keep his filthy hands to himself.”
The man grunts his agreement. “Forgive him. Although, if my ears did not deceive me, I overheard him yelling that the girl was a night attendant for King Alastair. Being from Erandor Kingdom yourself, and from Talderine no less, you understand first hand our customs with our own courtesans.” The man flicks his gaze over his shoulder and looks at me.
“We don’t call them night attendants in Erandor Kingdom,” he elaborates. “Only courtesans.”
I barely register his words.
Draven is from Talderine? Erandor’s capital city—wealthy, pompous, and overflowing with nobility. He truly must be a purebred highborn to be from there.
Keeping his dagger securely wedged in the crook of Eri’s neck, Draven slides his gaze to the man.
“You know, I don’t understand what a woman’s past profession has to do with a man’s entitlement in claiming her against her will.
Not to mention, we’re not in Erandor, and she is a student of these exams, making your point irrelevant. ”
Cooly, the man just listens. “It seems your time away from home has made you bold.”
Time away from… home ?
Why do I feel like I’m playing catch up right now…
“And your time spent dawdling with your king has made you forgetful.” Draven’s cold face is a quiet, raging storm. “Make no mistake, I am a captain on these grounds. And as such, I am well within my right to apprehend any person I find disrupting the peace.”
“Ah, yes, but see, apprehending and maiming are two very different things.” The man claps his hands in front of him and swoons his voice. “I tell you what—you let him go, and I promise to personally see to a just punishment for this indiscretion. Sound fair?”
At Draven’s lack of an immediate reply, the man adds, “Consider it a favor to me. I would be most grateful. Perhaps even…indebted.”
Draven bites down on his scowl. Then, he leans down and glares into the very fabrics of Eri’s soul.
“I swear by Merikh,” he begins in a rough whisper.
“I will inspect every inch of her skin, and for every mark you left on her body, I will ensure to pay it back tenfold.” He glances at me, and my body reacts before my mind, covering my cheek with my hand, afraid that the skin will already be discolored with red and purple splotches.
His expression tightens as his lips thin into a straight line.
Draven fixes his gaze back on Eri. “Starting now.” Without another word, Draven twirls the dagger in his hand, shifting the hilt’s position, and drags the blade across Eri’s cheek.
A long gash oozes crimson down Eri’s pale skin, and he screams—though whether from pain or anger, I can’t tell.
The man tsks at Draven as he rises from atop of Eri. “Now, was that truly necessary?”
“It was,” is Draven’s only reply.
The man glances between Draven and me, his brows high on his head.
“My, my,” he drawls, the undercurrent in his voice reminding me of the quiet steps of a predator before it pounces.
Those sea-colored eyes slide to me, where they remain.
“It seems, for one reason or another, my son feels very protective over you, Lyra Izacalli.”
His— what ?
This is Draven’s father ?
My eyes bounce between the two of them, and suddenly it makes sense. Why the man and some of his mannerisms appeared oddly familiar. It’s because he looks like Draven . Or well, I guess Draven looks like him.
Now that I look more closely, their similarities are striking.
The only differences are Draven’s skin has a golden undertone, whereas his father’s skin is paler—more peachy—and Draven’s eyes are more green, where his father’s eyes are more rich in their blue.
Oddly, and poorly timed, it makes me wonder what Draven’s mother looked like.
Draven’s father watches me with a slight frown on his lips, as if waiting for an answer.
“Sorry?” I say, attempting to not let my brows pull together.
“I asked if you happen to know why Draven is so protective over you?”
I swallow against the sudden dryness overtaking my throat and shake my head. “No,” I answer truthfully. “I don’t.”
A small curve forms at the corner of his mouth. “Ah, well, I have a few guesses myself, but best not to speak on conjecture.” He glides his eyes to Draven, then at Eri—who finally rises from the ground—and there is this eager look resting within them.
And seeing it, I still can’t shake this feeling that I’m missing something. Something that’s right under my nose…
Eri approaches Draven, a line of blood dripping down his marred cheek. “You may be the Supreme Commander’s son and heir to your house, but I still outrank you. You’d do well to remember that.”
Draven folds his arms over his chest. “In martial rank only.” He shoots him a sharp, lethal look. “Something that matters little in Erandor. You’d be wise to remember that .”
And there it is.
Holy gods .
This man isn’t just Draven’s father. He is Tynan Dalmar, the Supreme Commander in Erandor Kingdom. The Master Strategist. The man known for delighting in bestial acts due to his insatiable curiosity with human nature. The head of a Great House and an Archblood.
And Draven is his son—his heir .
Draven is a Dalmar.
Memories of all the rumors I’ve heard surrounding House Dalmar and its heir crash into me like a lethal blow.
He abused his son to turn him into an emotionless weapon.
Chained him to a wall to teach him how to survive without food or drink.
Had him beaten within inches of his life to teach him how to recover from a lost battle.
Locked him in a pitch-black dungeon for a month so he could learn to hone his other senses.
His mother was murdered in front of his very eyes.
The memory of the last rumor sends a shockwave through me as I think of Draven on the roof that night, drunk, talking about his mother.
I don’t talk about her enough. She deserves to be talked about more—to be remembered by someone.
Nausea rolls in my stomach.
Tynan watches me, then presses his palm to his forehead—the movement slow and precise.
“Ah, where are my manners? Allow me to formally introduce myself.” He takes a few fluid steps toward me and outstretches his hand, bending slightly at the waist to better lock eyes.
“I am Tynan Dalmar, and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
My body moves on muscle memory alone as it clasps his hand.
Sterling’s warning rings loudly in my head.
I’ve heard Erandor Kingdom’s Supreme Commander often frequents Bathara.
I hear he offers stratagem advice to the council at times.
I would like to warn you to avoid him at all costs, but I fear that is not entirely feasible.
So instead, I’d advise that, should you ever cross paths with him, mind your words, and remember that everything is a game of wits with that man.
And suddenly, everything about this conversation has changed.
Tynan studies me, that small curve permanently wedged in the corner of his lips.
“I must say, judging by your shock at hearing my title after learning I am Draven’s father, I’m almost inclined to believe he never told you about his rather…
prestigious heritage.” He turns, sliding his sharp gaze to Draven.
“Would I be correct in that deduction?” he asks him.
Draven simply glares at him silently.
An action that has Tynan curling his lips with satisfaction.
“I can’t say I blame him entirely,” he continues, fixing his bright gaze back on me.
“It can be hard to escape the politics associated with such a title—why with strategic marriage proposals flooding in daily. People are always looking for something.” He cocks his head, that diplomatic smile returning.
“Tell me, my girl, what is it you're searching for with my son? ”
I ignore the obvious bait and hold his gaze, thinking.
Should you ever cross paths with him, mind your words, and remember that everything is a game of wits with that man.
He may think I’m just some lowborn night attendant for King Alastair, but I was raised by Sterling Nightenjoy—a man who could go toe-to-toe with Tynan Dalmar in a battle of words and wit.
And I intend to make him proud.