Chapter 8 #2
“Firstly, Bathara will have to amend its policy on student participation. Whereas only third-year students were previously allowed to participate in active duty, when aggregates are now dispatched to handle altercations, creature reportings—anything of the sort—both first-years and second-years will now be required to join.”
Slight murmurs fill the room, but they seem to teeter on the edge of excitement. To the first and second years, this is something thrilling. A chance to prove themselves. They do not yet see it for what it truly is.
A death sentence for most.
Bathara’s entrance exam is child’s play compared to the vast assortment of tasks and assignments given to a Jurafen, ranging from arresting rogue wielders, neutralizing Abdites, stopping creature attacks, and more.
The second-years will have a better chance, sure, but there is a reason Bathara has kept a strict rule on only allowing third-year participation in official Jurafen assignments.
“Furthermore,” Josiah continues, “for the first time in our long, prestigious history, due to the shortage of students, and thus candidates for replacement Jurafen, Bathara has made the decision to conscript any necessary, high-caliber wielders, regardless of rank, status, or previous ties to any kings and kingdoms.”
The news moves like a wave through the crowd.
It is an unparalleled decision. One of the founding principles of Jurafen was they elected to dedicate their magic to protect the Three Kingdoms. It was part of the design meant to protect the realm—use wielders who are willing to die honorably for their cause.
And while Draven could spend hours naming reasons why that original design has since broken—with only noble blood seeming to be deemed worthy of dedicating themselves—the fundamental principle of it has remained throughout the years.
Draven glances at Finlay, quickly noting that Kiran looks equally as surprised as Draven feels beside him. “Who did they conscript, Finlay?” The clipped question grates between his teeth.
Finlay remains expressionless, resorting to the baseline he’s created for himself, standing with a slightly lifted chin and curl in his lip. No doubt he fears he’s being watched at this point, which again indicates he knows far more than either Draven or Kiran does.
A crawling spider starts tracking fire up Draven’s stomach and into his chest as he considers answers he does not like.
The room is a mess of heated whispers, sounding like a den of snakes hissing at one another, and Josiah lifts his hand to silence the voices.
“I know, I know.” He remains admirably calm.
“Please understand we did not arrive at this conclusion lightly. Yet it was the only viable decision remaining.” A pause.
“I will now invite Supreme Commander Dalmar to speak. There are a few words he’d like to share with you regarding the matter. ”
Draven scowls.
Well, that at least explains why the hell he’s here.
Tynan steps forward, his attire without a single wrinkle and tied-back hair without so much as a loose strand.
“When Bathara’s council approached me with their proposal to conscript not only wielders, but wielders in service to kings, I must admit, I—like you—was rather shocked.
However, I come here today to speak to you as not the man known as the Supreme Commander, but as the man known as the Master Strategist.”
Draven wants to gag at the words.
“What Bathara is proposing makes sense. In fact, given the current situation, it is perhaps the only choice with an advantageous outcome that maintains a minimized set of negative repercussions. Yes, our kings and noble houses will lose some of their most cherished wielders, but it is a small price to pay when considering both the safety and longevity of the Three Kingdoms.”
Tynan finds Draven, and a taunt only Draven could read swims in his eyes.
“So, I am here as a show of good faith on behalf of both the King of Erandor and the King of Rivara to bring you the first of many wielders who will find themselves conscripted to the academy. It is with our greatest hopes this will help ease any rising friction within the noble houses. Though make no mistake—there is no choice regarding the matter, considering this is endorsed by Tani Law. Yet the choice you all do have is to make this an amicable process.”
A loud echo fills the room as two hands slam down against the table, and a girl with black, twisted braids adorned with golden jewelry rises. Draven recognizes her. She was assigned to Lyra’s team during the second test. The healer—Nuri Calhart.
“Why is it only Erandor and Rivara who are here to show their good faith?” She bites the words out, her Anatolian accent notable. “What about the Anatolé Kingdom?”
Unfazed, Tynan only frowns at her, wearing a mask of regret.
“I’m afraid Anatolé did not offer a response when asked to show support for Bathara’s cause.
Unfortunately, since the conscription has yet to formally begin and Bathara did not make an official request for any of their wielders, there was nothing that could be done to force their hand. ”
“Lies,” Nuri seethes. “Anatolé would never do such a thing.”
Tynan mocks sympathy. “I can tell from your accent you must hail from the Anatolé Kingdom, so please know it brings me no joy to inform you what I say is entirely true.” He draws in a deep breath that sways his shoulders. “Now, please do not disrupt again.”
Clearly unsatisfied and silently raging, Nuri sits back down. Draven studies her for a moment longer, noting he should make it a point to have a conversation with her to see what she knows.
“As I was saying,” Tynan begins again. “As a show of good faith, I’d like to formally offer you the first two wielders who have been conscripted by Bathara, each given away willingly and without force by both King Erasmus and King Alastair.”
He glides his arm back toward the door leading to the platform.
It groans open, and two figures emerge. One Draven instantly recognizes as the aether-wielder who does King Alastair’s biddings, transporting his courtiers and emissaries however instructed.
He also just so happens to be the man he saw flirting with Lyra when Bathara hosted Rivara and Erandor emissaries.
That is certainly something that will not be happening again once Draven finds Lyra and brings her home. If he so much as gazes at her for too long, Draven will see to it personally that the man loses his ability to see at all.
The second figure is a woman with raven-black hair marked with silver stre—
Draven’s heart both drops and erupts with a rage so sharp, he scarcely has control over himself for a beat.
His simmering glare whips to Finlay, who winces. For the first time since they were teenagers, Finlay looks openly afraid of what Draven might do. He quickly glances at Kiran next, whose face has gone pale and looks equally as horrified as Finlay’s.
“I tried to warn you,” Finlay mutters, rubbing between his brows.
Tynan returns his eyes to Draven, where a small, satisfied smirk tugs at his lips. He knows Draven didn’t see this coming, and he is relishing in ruffling every single feather Draven possibly has.
But Draven doesn’t even gaze back at Tynan. He instead stares at the girl, hair black as the night, made distinct by two silver pieces framing her face—complimenting the paleness of her skin and the blue of her eyes, always sparkling like a lapis lazuli stone.
A cold, merciless rage settles in Draven. “I’ll kill him.”