14. 12
12
Draven
T he halls of Everdusk Castle glitter around me, decked out for the Winter Festival in crimson ribbons and emerald garlands, but even these lavish decorations can’t lift my mood.
It’s like I’m seeing it all through fog. Everything is familiar yet distant. It’s hard to believe I only left this gilded cage a few days ago. Feels like a lifetime since the old me strode out so casually into winter’s jaws.
As I wander aimlessly, servants smile warm welcomes, glad for my return. I try matching their holiday cheer, but my thoughts keep wandering back to a far humbler cottage nestled in snowy woods.
Before long, my restless feet steer me down empty corridors to a heavy oak door nearly hidden in a quiet corner. Inside lie centuries of records and oddities, steeped in magic and somehow dust free even with the limited usage. Usually, I avoid this archive, but something pulls me to sift through relics of the past. Seeking what exactly?
Clues, my heart whispers as I descend creaky steps, trailing one hand along icy stones. Insights into the mystery that is Thorn. Here in these timeworn pages lie tales of the past. If her fate is really linked to mine as I suspect, tied together by the red string of fate, there must be some hint here. At the very least, there should be a birth record since all citizens’ births are recorded and saved in the archives for our kingdom. Turned vampires’ records are kept in the lower levels and purebloods in the upper along with their accomplishments. Our historians are a busy group of dedicated vampires.
Even the archive has been decked out for the upcoming festival. Evergreen branches adorn the shelves and sconces, scenting the air with pine that mingles with the must of ancient parchment and candles.
“All right, let’s see what I can find,” I mutter, rubbing my hands briskly.
Overwhelmed by decades of texts, I grab a massive tome off the nearest shelf. Flipping through reveals ancient spells, meticulously penned by some long-dead scholar. Could it contain the recipe or secrets behind Thorn’s Asrbloom tea?
Feeling motivated by this new quest, I start gathering any book or scroll related to herbalism and stack them on the table. I search through the pile, totally absorbed in hunting for some hint about Thorn’s magic tea that controls a vampire’s hunger. After all that dusty research, I come up empty. Just more frustrated than ever. There has to be some hint somewhere about this woman who rattled my world.
Annoyed, I shove the stack aside. A heavy tome tumbles down, falling open to reveal not spells but ornate dates and decrees. It seems to be a royal record. I’m about to close it when a symbol catches my eye—the black rose crest used only for formal matters. Odd to see it here on an entry from two centuries ago. Why does it give me such a sense of foreboding?
With an icy prickle down my spine, I read the chilling details. Soldiers had been dispatched to slaughter a powerful witch child and eradicate her “accursed” village. Led by the vicious Royal Enforcer, they left only smoldering ruins, killing all… except the half vampire half witchling who somehow escaped .
I sink onto a chair, gutted by the horrific tale. This ravaged village, could it have been Thorn’s home when she was an innocent child? No, she’s only a witch, not a half vampire.
But she did have the tea for vampires. It would be odd to have such an item if you didn’t intend to use it. Did she give me an excuse?
If so, no wonder she hides from the rulers of this land. To her kind, my royal crest must represent terror and death itself. Revulsion twists my insides at the cruelty enacted by my forefathers. No, my father. No wonder she sent me away so quickly after discovering who I was.
Bolstered by fragile hope, I delve deeper into the archives, seeking anything about this painful history. Near the back, I find a wall of scrolls, their faded contents sealed by cords. Scanning the dates, I look for records from that bloody era. If I can find documents of the Royal Enforcer’s deeds… aha!
I carefully work out one yellowed scroll. Unfurling it on the table, I pin down the curled ends and squint to decipher details of Captain Reign’s supposed victories. The horrific acts described just sicken me. How could such cruelty be considered valor? Why were they hunted?
A loud thump makes me jump, but the archives remain still and dusty. Probably some book settling on the weary shelves. Still, an uneasy tingle creeps up my neck. I’m certain I’m not as alone as I thought.
The candle nearest me flares brighter, throwing twisting shadows against the walls. I swallow hard and turn cautiously, seeking the source of a sudden, unexplained chill.
“Hello?” My voice echoes eerily in the gloomy vastness, and I scold myself for indulging fancy. Just some draft from the upper passages most likely.
But I can’t shake the uncanny feeling of prying eyes tracking me. When muffled scraping sounds from the aisle’s end, it’s too much.
“Show yourself!” My shout sounds feeble against the shadows.
Only silence greets my bravado. The archives remain unchanged, gently swirling dust. Just jumpy nerves from reliving grim tales best left buried.
Shaking off my skittishness, I return to the records. There’s still more history to unravel about Thorn’s past. When I lean toward the scroll again, icy tingling dances across my scalp. I freeze, listening beyond my hammering heart. Was that faint… laughter?
Before I can react, a resounding crack shatters the hush. Around the archive, creaks sound as if invisible hands push open leather spines in unison, unleashing a chorus of ghostly cackles and whispers. Panicked, I stumble back into the shelves as the table begins to violently shake.
“Enough, I beg you!” I manage to cry out through chattering teeth, but my pleas go unheeded in the gathering spectral cacophony. This foreboding place clearly keeps its secrets well-guarded.
The whispered laughter and violent rattling start up again as I hastily gather the scrolls strewn across the table. I abandon the rest of the useless tomes and make a break for the stairs, taking them two at a time in my rush to escape.
The ghostly whispers and scraping sounds intensify again. Clearly my presence here is unwanted.
After bursting through the heavy oak door, I stop to catch my breath, leaning one hand against the weathered wood. Well, that scholarly quest was a total bust. Unfortunately, those chilling details I uncovered refuse to leave my mind .
If Thorn really lived through that vicious purge as an innocent child, it makes sense why she seemed wary of me. As a prince, I represent the royal line responsible for slaughtering her people and razing her village. I need more of the full story if I’m ever going to make things right somehow. There must be more answers out there.
I push off the rough door, determination sparking within me. There has to be someone else still living who remembers this scarred history firsthand, someone nearly as ancient as the kingdom itself… Of course, the castle mage! He’s old enough to possess a deeper understanding of this painful past.
I stride swiftly through the torch-lit halls, leaving the archive’s oppressive air behind. The insights I seek now lie up in the mage’s isolated tower stronghold and, hopefully, also a chance at redemption for my father’s bloody sins.
My determined steps echo on the stones as I climb the winding staircase leading up past empty floors to the very top of the mage’s lonely tower. Strange scents waft down—odd herbs and acrid potion ingredients. I’ve only braved visiting up here a handful of times over the centuries. The mage is friendly in his own eccentric way, but he prefers solitude for his mystical studies. I can only hope he will oblige my probing questions.
Once I reach the heavy iron-bound door etched with arcane symbols, I rap sharply. “Master Eodan? I come seeking your counsel.”
Silence within.
I frown and consider simply entering, but I’m wary of interrupting volatile spellcraft. As I raise my hand to knock again, scraping sounds from behind the barrier followed by shuffling steps reach my enhanced senses.
The door creaks open, revealing the stooped, shrouded form of the ancient magus, leaning heavily on a gnarled oak staff. Though he’s clearly weary from the exertion of answering my call, keen intelligence yet glimmers in Eodan’s rheumy gray eyes beneath tufts of wiry white brows. Those eyes pierce me with a look far too shrewd and assessing for one supposedly half out of his wits with age.
“Prince Draven,” he rasps in his reedy, papery voice. “You seem… changed, since last you stood at my threshold.” The mage studies me cryptically. “ Well? Speak. What questions trouble you so to scale my tower this eve?”
I meet his gaze steadily, unfazed by the intensity of his stare. “I seek your knowledge of the past, Master, of events from some two centuries ago.”
Eodan’s bushy brows rise higher. “The past, you say? Come then.”
He shuffles back inside, beckoning with one knotted, claw-like hand.
Ducking beneath the low beam, I step cautiously into his cluttered sanctum. Every surface overflows with ancient tomes, curious instruments of glass and bronze, and jars of pungent preserved specimens. I pick my way carefully over to a rickety wooden chair opposite his work table as Eodan eases himself down with creaking joints.
“Now then.” He steeples his fingers, eyes gleaming. “ What matter pulls your thoughts so far back through the mists of time?”
I hesitate, uncertain how much detail to reveal. Something in the old man’s piercing yet not unkind gaze decides me. Taking a breath, I confess everything—finding the damning royal account describing the massacre of the witch child’s village and my suspicions that Thorn herself may be this last survivor. Eodan listens silently to my fervent tale, craggy features unreadable in the room’s gloomy candlelight.
At last, I finish with a desperate appeal, “So you see, I have to learn more. Can you shed any light on this part of our history and those affected?”
The ancient mage leans back, stroking his long white beard contemplatively as he gazes at me sidelong. “Perhaps. Much has faded, but some few details linger.” He taps his gnarled fingers on the scarred table. “There was talk even then amongst the commoners of an unusually gifted child born in the outer provinces. Fear drove the king’s command, fear that the child was powerful enough to take the throne by force if they desired.”
Cold truth settles like a stone in my gut. To think petty insecurities led to such tragedy and bloodshed. That my own father had given that order…
Eodan gives me a knowing, commiserating look. “The past can be painful to exhume, but the future yet remains unshaped.”
I sit silently absorbing his wisdom as Eodan creakily rises, moving about the cluttered space to prepare hot tea over a small brazier. Perhaps he is right, and I should focus on forging a new path forward, not dwelling on the unchangeable past, but to do so, I must find Thorn again and try to make things right somehow. Our fates feel linked, whatever her true origins.
I rise to take my leave with a respectful bow. “You have been more helpful than I dared hope, Master. I thank you for your time and trust.”
Eodan smiles wanly, walking over to and holding open the warped wooden door. “My tower lies open should you require an ear again for your musings.” His eyes glint as I duck through.
I emerge back out into the drafty torch-lit corridor feeling somehow lighter despite the grim insights learned. With understanding comes power to choose change. I intend to help guide my kingdom toward a more just future, if Thorn will walk that road with me, but first, I have to find her and try to atone for old wounds.
Lost in thought, I descend the winding steps and emerge back into the main castle. My conversation with the mage must have taken longer than I realized. The castle corridors are empty now, most folk having retired for the evening except on nights when …
I halt mid-stride. The war council. They regularly hold strategy meetings late into the night. Of course I haven’t actually been cleared to resume my duties yet after my extended absence, but perhaps I can observe from the fringes for now.
Changing course, I stealthily make my way toward the council chambers. The guards at the heavy double doors straighten in surprise as I approach.
“Prince Draven. We did not realize you were here.” The captain eyes me uncertainly. “Are you certain you should be up and about so soon after your… ordeal?”
I give him my most reassuring smile. “I am quite recovered, thank you, and eager to resume my responsibilities.” Before they can object further, I slip between the imposing doors left slightly ajar.
Inside, the large round table is packed with advisors and military leaders. My best friend Anthony, my eldest brother Theron, and my father occupy the central seats. Their grave voices trail off as all eyes turn to me in shock at my unannounced entrance.
“Draven.” Father is the first to find his voice, bushy brows lowering. “What are you doing here? ”
I lift my chin, injecting confidence into my words. “Presiding over the war council, of course. Rumors of my invalid state seem premature.”
Theron shoots Father a questioning look, but the king simply gestures for me to take my seat. “If you believe yourself fit for duty, we welcome your input.” His tone makes it clear this probationary return will be closely scrutinized.
I avoid meeting Theron’s skeptic gaze from across the table as I take my appointed chair.
The stern-faced council members eventually resume their reports, though many pause to glance at me curiously throughout. I try to focus but find my thoughts wandering after the discoveries in the archive.
How many around this table sanctioned that horrific purge under my father’s rule? Did they view it as a just and necessary strategy to protect the kingdom against a supernatural threat, or was it more about their pride and fear of losing their power and wealth? And now here I sit among them, bound by blood and duty to these men I no longer know if I can trust.
I’m relieved when the meeting concludes without me needing to contribute much .
The other council members file out, and I catch Theron’s arm, steeling myself to question him. As heir to the throne, he may know more details of that shameful history.
“A word, brother?” I ask evenly, despite the unease churning within me.
Theron pauses, eyeing me curiously. “Of course.” He waits as everyone else leaves until it’s just us two alone in the huge council room. He folds his arms, face impossible to read. “All right, what do you need?” he asks in that impatient way he has.
I bite my tongue to keep from firing something equally snippy back. I need to verify a few things from him, so I play nice.
“Just a few questions about some military history.” I force a smile. “Was hoping you could clear up some stuff I dug up in the records about when I was too young to notice.”
Theron lifts one thick black brow, looking anything but eager to indulge me. “So now I’m your own personal royal scholar?”
He goes to brush by, but I step to block his exit and catch his sleeve .
“Come on. Hear me out. I think leaving the past buried could spell trouble later.” I give him my most convincing pleading look. “There was this massacre of an entire family. Of a village hiding a seriously gifted kid.”
Theron instantly tenses up, face closing off. After a painful pause, he yanks his arm back roughly. “Raking up old garbage is pointless,” he snaps. “Find better things to occupy that nosiness of yours.”
His tone makes it crystal clear he knows more than he’s admitting. Now I’m really steaming.
“There’s no expiration date on making amends,” I shoot back. “Why all the secrecy if it was for a good reason?”
Theron’s eyes flash with anger, and his jaw gets all tight. “Drop it, Draven. Get back to your rest and recovery. Stay out of my way, and you’ll see why some things stay buried.”
He spins on his heel, cloak swirling behind him as he storms out, leaving me alone with a hollow pit in my gut. I should’ve known Mr. Practical would stonewall about this bloody history.
I rake both hands through my hair, exhaling heavily. Trying to take shortcuts just made a huge mess, but I can’t pretend I never learned any of this. There’s got to be a way to make it right someday. I need to prove to Thorn I aim to be worthy, no matter how horrible my royal ancestors were.
Steeling myself, I head back to my room. The past can’t stay buried forever, and when I finally expose the full ugly truth, I vow to help right these wrongs.
Even if it means defying tradition or my own family.