Chapter 21
Put down notions of revolution, for this is folly. Do you not know that the Empyrean, once cloaked in magnificent starlight, was formed on the premise of order? Hail Balance.
Trutinoris, Priest of Balance
ASTRAIA READJUSTED HERSELF IN THE overly plush armchair, gazing out the massive floor-to-ceiling window beside her.
The town of Volpes glistened below in the morning sunlight. Every building was made of whitewashed stone, once thought to be incorporated with stardust by the constellation Desire as she sought to establish Volpes as the glistening jewel of Astradeon.
Astraia involuntarily rolled her eyes at the notion. Pretentious was a more fitting term for the town.
It was the wealthiest province in Astradeon thanks to the mining of Stardust, which was used to strengthen swords, structures, armor, cookware, and all manner of both helpful and harmful objects.
The people of Volpes benefitted from the riches, flaunting their lifestyle and indulging in the finery of life. The mystical gardens of Desire surrounding the city only inflated egos further—with rare trees, plants, and flowers surrounding the town and Volpes Manor.
Astraia sighed, turning her attention to the extravagant room around her.
The room was bright, with cream-colored walls and gold-trim accents throughout, even on the door handles.
The ceiling was ornate, a hand-painted mural reflecting the white starbloom flowers of the surrounding gardens.
Polished marble floors were carpeted with lavish rugs, also accented with gold threads.
Even the silk curtains adorning the side of each window were stenciled with gold.
Pretentious asses, Astraia grumbled to herself.
Her gaze shifted to the bed across from her, another ostentatious display in itself, large enough for Orion.
But it was not the bed that captured her attention—it was its occupant.
Draven had not yet gained consciousness. After healing him on the road, he had passed out, likely from the blood loss. Despite her weakened bonds, she was able to stop the bleeding from the arrow wound, but she had never been able to replace a person’s blood volume quickly.
Astraia discovered this inconvenient restriction to her Sacrifice bond during a house call in the slums, when a woman was bleeding profusely after childbirth. Despite Astraia flaring her Sacrifice bond to its limit, the woman did not survive.
It still haunted her.
Draven’s chest rose and fell steadily beneath the silk sheets. Astraia had not left his side since they arrived, guilt-ridden knowing the only reason he was here was because of her.
He’d followed her, protecting her for some unknown reason.
She stood, stretching her legs, and sat on the edge of the bed. Gently, she pressed two fingers to his wrist and checked his pulse. It was far stronger than when they arrived, and warmth had returned to his skin.
Astraia sighed in relief. Her bond tickled her spine at the faint touch of his skin, and she removed her hand, shivering. Cursing silently, she concentrated instead on his breathing pattern—even, unlabored, and soft.
She could make out the contour of his muscles beneath his shirt, his armor having been removed.
Tattoos peeked from beneath his shirt sleeves, just above his hands.
She could just make out letters of an old language she did not recognize ornamenting his right arm but did not dare roll up his sleeve to investigate.
Her gaze climbed to his face. The sharp angles had softened, his brow relaxed as he slept. His lips were parted, somehow a shadow of that frustrating smirk lingering. And his disheveled golden hair shimmered in the morning light.
Without hesitation, Astraia lifted her hand to sweep a small section of hair from his face. Her touch lingered, the same electric wave pulsing through her blood.
Hesitantly, she lowered her hand—as amber eyes opened, meeting hers.
The room was silent.
Draven did not blink, nor did he tear his gaze from hers. The roughness of his finger grazed Astraia’s hand that rested on the bed as warmth surged through her.
“You’re not dead,” she whispered.
“Shame,” he rasped. “Was hoping for some peace and quiet.” His infuriating smirk returned to the left side of his mouth.
“Stars, you’re insufferable,” she replied, a small curve forming on her own lips.
His eyes darted around the room, lingering on the etched ceiling, fine drapery. His voice dropped. “This isn’t an inn.”
“No,” she replied. “It’s a favor.”
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the room. Astraia stiffened just slightly before the knock—an old reflex.
“May I come in?” A man’s voice—smooth, low, and laced with both curiosity and something else.
“Yes,” she answered, standing hastily at the foot of the bed just as the door opened.
Looming in the doorway was someone Astraia never thought she would see again.
He was dressed in typical Volpes nobleman attire, everything too perfect and too tailored.
A captain’s signet was embroidered on his right sleeve, and a sword hung by his side.
His jet-black hair was cut shorter than she remembered, but his green eyes were just as wild, and so eerily similar to Elion’s.
His steps faltered as he stared at her.
“By the Stars… I thought you were dead.” His voice broke faintly, and he took a cautious step closer—then a second. “They said you burned.”
“Apparently not,” Astraia responded, calm but clipped.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Draven rise slowly to a sitting position. His jaw ticked, but he did not speak.
The visitor turned to Draven, his mask slipped back on—noble, but challenging. “I assume you’re the reason she was bleeding on my doorstep.”
Draven glowered at the man. “And you are?”
“Lord Caelan Vireaux,” he says, smiling without warmth. “Her betrothed.”
A palpable beat of silence filled the air.
Draven turned to Astraia.
She did not flinch, but her fingers twitched on the bedpost. “Was. Was my betrothed,” she snapped, looking first at Draven then at Caelan.
Draven sat up straighter than he should, shoulders tense, voice lower. “I see.”
“You’re not the only one who gets to have secrets.” Astraia sauntered over to the chair and plopped into the cushions, crossing one leg. “I saved your life. He housed you. That’s all that matters.”
Caelan stared her down, voice stern. “We need to talk. Later. Alone.”
“Don’t let me keep you,” Draven interjected flatly.
Astraia reclined further into the chair, settling both her arms on the armrests. “I’m not one of your cabinet members, Caelan, so whatever you need to say, just spit it out. I don’t have the time or patience for politics.”
Caelan stepped closer toward her. ”You’ve chosen a hell of a time to resurface, Traia.”
Astraia leaned forward in her chair, seething. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience of my blood spilling.”
Caelan huffed and rolled his eyes, pulling another chair in front of Astraia and sitting on its edge, mere inches from her. “Traia, listen. There have been attacks. Quiet ones. We’re calling them shadows, but they’re wraiths. No one will say it, but I know.”
Astraia cocked an eyebrow at him. “Are you sure? I was certain it was just an angry bear that attacked me in the village outside your city.”
Draven stifled a chuckle.
Caelan’s eyes widened. “What? What do you mean you saw one near Volpes?”
“Saw, fought, nearly died in the process. But we managed to destroy him. The villagers survived, but the town did not.” Astraia’s hands remained resting on the chair, her face indifferent.
“We?” Caelan’s eyebrow rose as he peered at her then at Draven.
“I just said a wraith, a steward of death itself, nearly killed an entire village and forced me to near burnout, and all you’re concerned about is that he came to my aid?
” Astraia’s hands gripped the arm rests, anger boiling beneath her skin.
She made little effort to hide her irritation as she narrowed her eyes.
“Perhaps, my dear Lord Vireaux, the more critical issue is that wraiths are breaching your borders and attacking your people without cause. So instead of flexing your manhood in an effort to assert your authority, you should direct that energy to discovering why the wraiths have resurfaced and how.”
Draven coughed, trying desperately to cover his laugh.
Caelan scowled at Astraia for a moment, then a small smile spread across his face. “Charming as ever, Traia.”
Despite her vexation with the nobleman, she smirked back. “You always brought out my best qualities.”
Caelan’s face hardened, and his tone became sterner—a captain’s voice. “This is serious.” He looked directly at her as he spoke, a hint of fear in his eyes. “The king has a bounty out for Starborne.”
“Yes, I am quite aware,” she snapped. “Why do you think I’m here, Caelan?
I’ve been on the run for days. The oh-so-benevolent king’s declaration has the entire realm hunting Starborne so they can pad their pockets with solas.
” She stood, voice low, eyeing the nobleman.
“And before you scold me—remember this is not just my problem. It involves you, your court, and your people.”
Caelan’s eyes narrowed at her, his mouth set in a thin line of determination. “Kings or demons, I will always protect the people of Virellia.”
“Fine. What are you asking then?” she said, annoyance lacing her tone.
A familiar smile graced Caelan’s face as he took her hand in his. “I need a hunter.”