Chapter 22
Anger and jealousy twisted the mind of Dominion. Once charged as a carrier of the dead to Solrend, the Star sought a higher purpose, to overtake Balance and sow chaos.
The Rise of Dominion
“YOU SAID YOU BURNED YOUR past to the ground. Seems a few embers still glow.” Draven spoke coolly, breaking the silence that had blanketed the room after Caelan left minutes before.
Astraia stared at him, fury brewing beneath her skin. “This isn’t about my past. It’s about a favor.”
“Feels like a forgotten wound.”
He did not say another word. But the look he gave her—quiet, unreadable, almost hurt—said more than she was ready to hear.
***
The manor was too quiet—no clatter of dishes, no murmured footsteps. Only the sharp strike of Astraia’s boots against polished marble. Not a single maid or footman loitered about the manor, but this did not surprise her.
After the ambush, she had flagged down a wagon driver—half-conscious from her own injuries and covered in blood that wasn’t hers. The man didn’t argue as he helped load Draven into the wagon. Fear made people helpful.
As soon as they arrived, the butler named Graves recognized her instantly.
She had sworn him to secrecy, threatening him with swift removal of an arm if he breathed a word of her appearance to anyone but Caelan. Especially not to Lord and Lady Vireaux.
Graves was very agreeable and had rushed them to the corner apartment where Astraia used to stay on her summer visits to Volpes. It was then that Graves revealed the lord and lady were on holiday and were not expected to return until the month’s end.
Astraia sighed as she passed the whitewashed walls of the elaborate manor covered with paintings depicting the city of Volpes, the mystical gardens of Desire, Lord and Lady Vireaux, and of course, Caelan.
Her steps slowed. Between two sconces, a painting stopped her breath in her chest.
Sunlight. Wind-swept hair. A stare full of fire.
Her own.
The summer breeze blew through her dark hair, small strands falling over her face.
Her skin was sun-kissed from days spent in the gardens of Desire and riding Orion through the wildflower fields.
There was no smile on her lips, but a pair of blue eyes were ablaze with determination, captivating any onlooker who would stop to admire the brushstrokes on canvas.
She had never seen this painting before. Not in all the summers she had spent here as a child and after Caelan’s proposal.
“I tried to remember your face. Every line. It doesn’t do you justice.” Caelan stepped up beside her, his hands behind his back, staring at the painting.
“Why is this here?” Astraia asked quietly, fear seeping into her voice. Fear of what this painting meant.
Caelan stared ahead as he spoke, his tone hard.
“When you left to return home that summer, I was another man. A man of hope, dreams, filled with passion. You said yes. It opened my eyes to the life we could have together. Then I got word of the explosion. Graves brought me the correspondence while I was out doing combat drills with the other guards.”
He paused then, taking a deep breath before turning to face Astraia.
The green of his eyes collided with hers, and a flood of emotions from her past came rushing from her memory.
Warm summer nights in the gardens. Elegant balls and dancing into the morning.
Laughing until her sides were sore. Stolen kisses under moonlight and starless skies.
“It said you were destroyed, Astraia. That you perished with your parents and Elion. And I… I lost it. I flared. Desire broke through every thread of my tether. I injured two of my men. The earth opened up and swallowed them.” His eyes glistened with tears, his voice broke, but he held her gaze.
“I spent weeks in grief. Every shadow in this stars-forsaken manor reminded me of you. I couldn’t breathe inside or in the gardens.
The willows wept for you, Astraia. The entire manor was in mourning.
I finally fled. I went to Antilias near the Hollow City and spent six months with my uncle.
While I was with him, he helped me cope with painting. ”
Astraia could not help the tears that spilled down her cheeks. The agony in Caelan’s voice was raw, real. Shame curled in her chest—not because she had left, but because someone had mourned her like this. Because someone had loved her so loudly while she had tried to disappear.
“You…you painted this?” she asked, disbelief still thick on her tongue.
“Yes.” Caelan took her hand in his, brushing his thumb over the top of her hand. “My world may have burned that day, but I never stopped loving you, Astraia.”
He brought her hand to his lips, lightly kissing her skin. For a moment, she didn’t feel like she was running. It was dangerous, how easily his presence unwound her, even after so many years.
Without thinking, she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Caelan’s waist. His arms clung to her, embracing her as though she might drift away and disappear.
“Caelan, I am so sorry,” she murmured into his shirt, as dark spots from her tears appeared on his tailored guard uniform.
“Please, don’t say that. You’re here. You’re alive. And right now, that’s all that matters,” he replied, voice low and relieved. “And this time, I’m never letting you go.”
***
Caelan led her down a familiar corridor to the kitchens, his steps unhurried, casting glances her way every few seconds as if he still couldn’t believe she was real. The moment they passed through the kitchen doorway, Corina dropped her spoon with a loud clatter and burst into tears.
Astraia barely had time to brace herself as the cook enveloped her in a flour-dusted hug.
“Bless the Stars! You’re alive,” Corina sobbed. She smelled of vanilla and fresh fruit.
“Corina.” Astraia smiled, returning the embrace.
“How? The explosion? They said no one survived.”
“I know. It’s a long story. But I am alive.” Astraia’s smile faded, remembering her failure.
“Oh, but we must have a feast! We must celebrate your return!” Corina clasped her hands together in excitement.
“No. Corina, please. You mustn't tell anyone I am alive. Please promise me,” Astraia pleaded, staring at the cook.
“Of course, as you wish, but what about—”
Astraia held up a hand, silencing Corina. “Not today,” she said—an order, not a request.
“Someday, my girl, you will have to face the past. And I hope to live to see that day.” The cook gave Astraia a stern look before embracing her once more.
Corina insisted Astraia take an entire cake with her as she left, wrapping it in a cloth that smelled of cinnamon, and kissed both of her cheeks.
Caelan did not say much as he leaned in the doorway, watching. But his eyes never left Astraia’s face, a wistful smile pulling at his mouth.
As they left the kitchen, Caelan informed her he regrettably had captain duties to attend to but would return later for dinner. As he departed, he kissed her forehead—so soft and familiar it ached—and left without another word.
Astraia made her way back down the hallway, passing her painting once more.
Caelan had never been part of her plan. She had assumed he had moved on and married some duchess, which was precisely what his parents would have insisted.
But he did exactly what Astraia expected of the Caelan she once knew.
Loyalty to love, even in death, had been kept alive like an ember in a locked room.
She was not sure what terrified her more—how deeply he had mourned her, or how easy it would be to fall back into his warmth.
Steeling herself, Astraia pushed open the doors before her, only to find Draven was no longer in the bed. Panic rushed through her as she stepped over the threshold, careful to remain quiet. She placed the cake on a table and unsheathed her dagger.
The sheets from the bed had been pulled back with no sign of blood or a struggle.
The glass doors overlooking Virellia were open to the balcony, the wind rustling the gossamer curtains that lined either side of the doors.
Astraia surveyed the remainder of the room, deciding there was no imminent threat when the washroom door flew open.
Steam billowed from the doorway to reveal a half-exposed bounty hunter, with only a towel around his waist. His skin was damp and gleamed in the sunlight, accentuating every curve of his muscular arms and chest. A kaleidoscope of tattoos adorned both arms and webbed their way across parts of his chest and back.
Scars of various sizes marred his perfectly honed body, faded to white from time.
Astraia could sense Power rising from her core, stretching, ready to erupt into life with just a thought. She cursed, sheathing her dagger.
“I could have killed you,” she said, irritation coating her words.
“I would love to see you try, Starborne.” He smirked, not bothering to fix his disheveled wet hair as he padded over to the bed.
“And maybe you could try to be civilized for once and, oh, I don’t know, put on clothes before you parade around in front of the entire city of Volpes.” She waved her hand at the open balcony doors, the other hand resting on her hip in exasperation.
“Am I making you uncomfortable, Starborne?” He grinned, grabbing clean clothes from his satchel, and glanced at Astraia.
“Don’t flatter yourself, bounty hunter,” she retorted, crossing her arms.
“Perhaps you should have been civilized and knocked?” He grinned as he strode over to her, standing only inches from her.
Astraia could smell the eucalyptus scented soap mixed with his familiar scent of pine and smoke, as if the luxury of Volpes could not fully purge the wildness from him.
She refused to look past his waist, all too aware that a desperately small towel was the only fabric attempting to hide his frame.
Instead, she trailed her eyes up his sculpted bare chest, old and new scars ornamenting his tanned skin.
“Who did this to you?” she whispered, trailing her fingertips across the pale lines.
His muscles flexed in response, and he exhaled deeply.
“Those who would justify slaughter for control,” he said coolly.
“You were a soldier, weren’t you? No one but a soldier fights like you did against the wraith.” Her voice quivered, afraid he might confirm her suspicions or continue to lie.
“Yes, years ago,” he replied.
Her pulse quickened, from relief or fear, she was not sure—perhaps both. “And you were injured in battle?”
“War comes at a cost.” His voice lowered, but his eyes remained fixed on hers.
The molten amber glowed from his stare, two brilliant suns casting their light and warmth into the coolness of her deep blue oceans. She could feel her bonds responding to him, her spine warming and small lightning strikes stretching from her core to her fingers, aching to be unleashed.
Without thought, she cracked the door to Power, letting it flicker from her, giving over to the desire.
Draven did not falter. He did not blink as the white sparks glowed from her hands. His eyes fixed on hers, no trace of fear on his face. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hand slowly and deliberately move toward hers.
His fingers grazed hers, and the spark of Power excited at the touch.
It moved like a winding ribbon from Astraia’s hand to his—a white cord wrapping around their fingertips.
She stared at their hands, barely touching, but her bond freely flowing between them.
It reminded her of the sea breeze caressing her skin or the warmth of a fire on cold winter nights.
It was calm and exhilarating all in one.
Her breath caught in awe, and her eyes flicked back to Draven’s.
His lips turned upward into a true and deliberate smile. Astraia smiled back, unable to contain herself.
The fleeting desire to feel the warmth of his lips on hers flashed to the front of her mind. She swallowed a lump in her throat, her mouth suddenly dry. Draven’s eyes fell to her lips, as if his mind betrayed him as well.
Then his hand pulled away.
“Maybe you are right,” he said flatly, his tone no longer playful, the smile vanishing from his face. “I should be more civilized.”
He strode past her toward the washroom once more, clothes in hand. “I’ll ask for another room. Wouldn’t want to cause a scandal for your fiancé,” he said.