Chapter 12
The provinces boil over with contempt, waging wars amongst the Starborne within.
Peace evades them, like the winds that flow between the snowcapped peaks of Skyforge.
The people seek a scapegoat for their suffering, for the barren lands and barren tables.
Those Star blessed are so easily hated, with lumenmarks as the target.
Polentias, Scribe to the Priest of Power
ASTRAIA MOANED AS HER CHILLED body slid into the hot bath water, burning her frozen fingers and toes.
Leaning her head against the back of the tub, she attempted to decipher the interaction in the field.
The glimmer of empathy from the bounty hunter unnerved her.
It could all be a trick to tame her before marching her to the foot of the throne.
Or he might have been genuine—which made Astraia’s pulse quicken with trepidation.
Heartless bounty hunter determined to kill her, she could handle. A man with compassion and a conscience was an impediment in her plans.
She sighed, dunking her head under water. She closed her eyes, allowing her mind to clear as sounds muffled. If only her mind could be so quiet without the constant war between her bonds overtaking her and darkness calling to her like a siren of the Atherdeep.
Astraia stepped out of the tub, hands pruned from staying in the warm water so long, and pulled Draven’s shirt over her head. A different kind of warmth skimmed over her skin, with faint hints of pine caressing her nose.
Running her fingers through her wet hair, she opened the door, only to find Draven standing near the fireplace, the faint glimmer of a wax seal—the seal of the Celestial Court—visible beneath his hands as he read a piece of parchment.
Her heart skipped a beat as she realized what he held. Draven glanced up at her and crumpled the letter in his hand before tossing it in the flames.
Astraia bit her tongue as she made her way to the bed. She could feel Draven’s eyes boring into her as she sat on the edge of the mattress, running fingers through her tangled hair.
She wanted to scream, demanding he let her go if he truly did care if she lived or died.
Before she could confront him, he turned and stalked out the door. Astraia flinched as he slammed the door behind him. She strained to hear if the lock clicked, but there was no such sound.
Surprised, she jumped up from the bed and tiptoed to the door, placing her hand on the doorknob. Hesitating, her hand lingered on the cool metal before she slowly turned the knob. A welcoming creak of the door opening made Astraia’s breath catch. He had not locked it.
Carefully, she slid the wooden door closed, tiptoeing over to the fireplace and her clothes that had been drying. This was her chance. She could slip out down the servants’ stairwell at the other end of the hall, completely unseen by Draven.
There was no time to get dressed. She shoved her clothes into her satchel, and as she reached for her dagger, something caught her eye in the fire. A small sliver of parchment remained from the letter Draven attempted to burn.
Astraia paused, stooping lower to see if she could make out any of the damning message. Most of the letter had already burned, but there, on the edge of the parchment were two words that had been underlined—bring her.
Those two words were all the motivation Astraia needed to stow her dagger in her satchel.
Slinging her bow and quiver over her back, she shoved her feet down into her sodden boots.
Quietly, she crept to the door once more, this time not an ounce of hesitation as she wrenched open the door and slipped down the servants’ stairs.
The cool night air barreled into her as she opened the side door of the inn. Draven’s shirt was not affording her much cover from the foreboding wind as she hurried down the alleyway toward the stables.
There were no lamps in the stables, making it difficult for Astraia to fumble in the darkness. The moon was only half full, providing barely a trickle of light through the open doorways of the stables.
“Orion,” she whispered, hoping her steed was as eager to leave this Stars-forsaken town as she was.
A whinny at the far end of the stable made her heart leap with real joy for the first time in weeks. Astraia set down her satchel and bow, pulling open the stall door. Orion nudged his head into her chest.
“Hey, boy, I missed you.” She pressed her hand to his head, stroking his black mane. “Let’s get out of here,” she said as she heaved his saddle over his back and began to fasten the buckle.
“Well, look who we have here.”
Astraia froze, dread pooling in her stomach as she turned toward the end of the stable.
There stood the drunkard from Skyforge Peaks, although definitely sober, a lantern in one hand and a bandage wrapped around his other hand.
His two companions flanked either side of him, arms crossed and grotesque grins plastered on their faces. The brute in the middle snarled, his teeth glistening in the lamplight.
“I told you that you would pay.” He grinned as he stepped toward her. “Let’s see how feisty you are without your weapons.” He sneered as he picked up her satchel and quiver and flung them outside. She flinched when her gear made a sickening crunch as it landed on the cobblestone street.
Astraia stood facing her attackers, channeling whatever remaining resolve she had left as she squared her shoulders. “Your mothers must weep as they look at their shameful sons. Three men against one woman. Pathetic,” she taunted, scouring for her tether in the waves of her mind.
The middle brute growled, shoving the lantern into his companion’s hand and wrenching a cleaver from his back. “I’m going to cut your tongue from that pretty mouth of yours, and then no one will hear your screams.”
Astraia’s breathing quickened as she shoved deeper into the depths of her mind, pushing through the waters, desperately clawing for her tether. All that reflected back at her was darkness.
Panic set in. She could not flare without her tether. She would instantly burn out, killing herself immediately.
Her skills were with the bow and her bonds. She swore under her breath. Maybe if she had taken hand-to-hand combat training more seriously with Elion, she would be able to last longer. Now, she would be mutilated and likely killed or worse.
“Not so feisty any more are we, girl?” He edged closer, cleaver in one hand, his companions chuckling behind him as he advanced.
Astraia stood transfixed, a doe looking into the face of a hunter.
A wave of calm settled over her as her mind stilled. She would not die here, not like this.
She turned, slapping Orion’s flank. He jolted and ran out of the stables, just as Astraia refocused on the three men, a smile spreading across her face.
The gates of her bonds burst open.
Without a tether, the bonds heated instantly, rushing past her spine and directly for her hands. Pain, red-hot, seared through every sinew and muscle, burning her from the inside.
Astraia let out a scream, drowning in the white and blue light now erupting from all around her.
The light blasted the men backward, slamming them onto the ground and into the walls of the stable.
Horses in the stalls around her neighed and tried to break down the stall doors, ramming with their hooves.
Astraia’s bonds kept flowing, Power and Sacrifice as one.
She could feel Sacrifice healing her as her skin burned and peeled away from her flesh.
Power was stronger, white, crackling streaks of light burning everything it touched.
The stables caught fire, unnatural ivory flames licking the sides of the building.
Two of the men lay still, blood pooling from their eyes and ears, claimed by Dominion. The maimed blond managed to crawl to his knees, holding his cleaver, blood oozing from his nose. Scorch marks had torn open his face, leaving bone exposed, and blackened burnt flesh clung to what was left.
Astraia could barely see through the white flashes, her body succumbing to burnout. More burnt skin flaked away from her body as Power continued to flare. The heat of the burning stables lapped at her feet, burning through her boots.
A sigh escaped her mouth as she closed her eyes and stretched out her hands.
I’ll see you soon, Elion, her mind whispered in the blazing inferno.
A coldness pressed over her hands, and suddenly her mind was blank, empty, a void.
Astraia opened her eyes, expecting to see her brother, only to find Draven shouting at her. At least, he appeared to be shouting, but she could not hear any sound coming from his mouth. A warm trickle ran down her neck below her ears—they were bleeding, muffling the chaos unfolding before her.
Blinking again, she looked down at her burned wrists, now encircled with metal manacles. The smooth iciness of the engraved iron hung limply on either wrist, silencing her bonds. Multicolored spots danced across her vision as the blinding white and blue lights were smothered.
Slowly raising her head, her eyelids caked with dried blood, she glanced at the bounty hunter.
“Traia, answer me!” he shouted again, his hands resting on her shoulders.
She blinked once, then nodded, her throat too dry and burned to speak.
Draven nodded back, then turned away from her, facing the last of the attackers who tried to rise from ground with his cleaver.
A flash of black metal gleamed in Draven’s hand—Astraia’s Celestial dagger. With one swift motion, he cut the brute’s hand off. Grasping the severed hand, he shoved it into the man’s mouth with a sickening crunch, breaking his jaw. The force knocked him flat on his back with a thud.
Muffled screams could be heard coming from the man’s disfigured face as he lay in the ashen dirt. Draven drew his broadsword from his back, putting a boot on the chest of the man to pin him down.
“You will never touch her or any woman again,” Draven growled, then slashed his broadsword across the man’s neck, severing his head.
Without a second glance, Draven strode over to Astraia, sheathing his broadsword and her dagger. He placed his hands around hers and looked into her eyes.
“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice low and dark.
She could only nod as she attempted to step forward, but her body collapsed.
Draven swept her up in his arms before she hit the floor, cradling her head against his chest. At first, she wanted to protest, but the burns on her skin and raw pain she could feel inside her were enough to silence her refusal for aid.
“Hang on. We need to get out of here before anyone finds you,” he said, hastened out of the burning stable. He scooped up her satchel and bow as they left, darting back to the servants’ stairwell entrance to the inn.
Just as they opened the door, surrounding merchants were shouting about the fire, pouring out of their homes. Patrons of the inn and the barkeeper burst out of the main door, carrying buckets of water.
Astraia felt Draven tug her tighter to his chest as they walked up the stairs. Within seconds he had kicked down the door to their room and gently laid her on the bed.
“Do not move,” he said as he left her side to close the door, then hurried to the washroom, returning with some rags and a basin of water.
She was acutely aware of every single burn on her body.
The tip of her nose was black, singed and bone visible.
Even her toes were charred, the skin between them completely eviscerated.
Red blisters bubbled over her arms and legs, swelling as she lay recumbent, which only intensified her pain as the skin stretched to accommodate the fluid.
Draven knelt beside the bed, wringing the cloth with clean water.
“I have to clean some of your wounds before they become infected. I can’t remove the manacles yet to let Sacrifice heal you, or you might flare again.
We need to give you more time to recover your bonds.
” A different kind of pain echoed back at her from his gaze.
She nodded, still afraid to speak should her throat combust from swelling.
“This may hurt,” he said softly as he began to dab at her worst wounds.
She flinched, her body shaking uncontrollably at the touch of the cloth on her flayed skin. Clenching her teeth, she closed her crusted eyes and tried to focus on a memory—anywhere but here.
But the manacles kept her mind eerily silent. Like a desert, with rolling dunes and no hope of water in sight.
She could feel the blood crusted to her eyes being wiped away.
Then her face, every swipe as gentle and tender as he could be.
The bounty hunter worked tirelessly, taking his time to cleanse the blood and burns.
After a while, Astraia’s body grew numb—either from exhaustion or shock, she was not sure.
Draven made his way to her boots, removing them. He hissed as he surveyed her marred feet but continued to meticulously clean her wounds despite the damage.
Astraia had not noticed until now that his shirt was somehow intact, as though the fire burned only from within her body but did not scorch her boots or his tunic.
Hours had passed, and the sounds of the men outside putting out the fire were no longer noticeable.
Either the stables had burned down, or they managed to douse the flames.
Astraia did not care, as long as the horses escaped and the men’s bodies burned to ash—an oversight she should have rectified in the dining hall.
Draven finished cleaning her and pulled the chair to the side of the bed where she lay motionless, afraid to move and elicit pain once more.
“Can you drink some water?” he asked, weariness shadowing his eyes.
Astraia nodded slowly, trying to crane her neck from the pillow.
Draven supported her head with one hand and brought a canteen of water to her lips.
Carefully, he tipped the canteen back, allowing a small stream of water to glide down her scalded throat.
She bit back a cry from the pain as she swallowed, her entire throat burning, but she was so thirsty she pushed through.
After she drank, Draven lowered her head , then slumped back in the chair, running a hand through his hair and letting out an exasperated sigh. “Try to sleep. I will remove the manacles after you sleep so you can heal.”
Astraia nodded again, letting her eyes close, willing her body to forget the rippling ache coursing through her body. Just as she felt herself surrendering to fatigue, a calloused finger grazed her cheek, making her burned skin tingle with relief.
A hushed whisper floated through the air as sleep finally took her.
“Forgive me.”