Chapter 26 #2
Rhea’s expression has been carefully crafted to show nothing but annoyance at attending tonight’s event with Finlay.
Yet there is a small glint in her eye that Draven can’t help but notice.
Like an extra wick was lit inside her, and the light can’t help but flicker behind her gaze.
It leaves him wondering what the hell he has missed in the span of a few hours?
Arden snorts, folding her arms. “Consider yourself lucky you had the option,” she says to Kiran. “Clearly, not all of us are so fortunate.”
Both Finlay and Rhea’s brows furrow, their curious gazes shifting between Arden and Draven.
“Are you two also going to the ball together?” Finlay asks, sliding a quick look at Draven.
Draven can pin at least three unspoken questions tacked to that single one.
“So it would seem,” is Arden’s only reply.
Rhea stares at Draven wearing a frown, clearly unhappy with not knowing about this. But Draven is saved from a lecture or any expectations to elaborate when Gray and Marcella stroll in from the east path.
“Well would you look at that,” Kiran drawls. “Everyone’s here.”
Draven and Gray lock eyes in a way that says they both know everyone is not here.
The quickly passing look makes Draven’s heart ache, reminding him of his growing madness—of the unspeakable actions he’s beginning to consider in his desperation to find Lyra.
He has been mildly pacified over the last few weeks after getting to write to her; the letters had been like receiving air in suffocating lungs.
The world felt saturated again, and some of the tightness that had been knotted in his chest had loosened with the knowledge Lyra is alive—with getting to hear her words echo in his mind.
The deal he made with his father, all the actions he’s been taking—it’s all worth it, because writing with her showed him Lyra is alive. And from what she’s written to both her and Gray, she is decently well cared for. A fact of which both perplexes Draven and leaves him feeling grateful.
Yet those small glimmers of hope were recently snuffed out when her letters suddenly stopped coming. Without warning, she stopped replying. Stopped writing to him. And having to wonder the reasons surrounding that has been eating at his mind and soul for over a week now.
He has managed to get away and discreetly follow three more leads down at the southern borders, yet still…
nothing. It is as perplexing as it is frustrating, and Draven isn’t sure how many more dead ends he can take.
He also can’t help but wonder if he weren’t juggling his father’s orders and threats if he would have found Lyra by now.
If he would be able to hold her in his arms and know she is safe.
The guilt presses against him. He knows he is doing his best at managing it all—to give each element his full self while keeping everyone protected. Yet still, he can't help but feel like he is failing his girl by taking so long to find her. To bring her home.
Chattering voices snap Draven from his wandering thoughts.
“I love your dress,” Rhea says to Marcella, eyeing her head to toe with appreciation.
“Thanks. My brothers picked it up for me when they were in Lydith recently. They couldn’t believe it when I told them I was going to the ever-elite Winter Solstice Ball at the infamous Sagamon Castle.
Next thing I know, this dress arrives through aether-mail.
” She laughs, and her eyes trail the length of Rhea’s sparkling black and silver gown in a similar fashion.
“Your gown is gorgeous. It fits you like the designer made it with you in mind.”
“Unfortunately,” she drones, “he did. Tynan had it specially made for tonight’s event.”
“You know, I haven’t met the guy yet and I already loathe him with my entire being. He sounds more dull than the brooding hunk of muscle over there.” She jerks her chin at Draven. “And an even more self-righteous asshole than popsicle over here.” She jerks her chin at Finlay next.
“I resent that,” Finlay mutters stiffly.
“And I’m not dull,” Draven deadpans, folding his arms. “I’m stoic. There’s a difference.”
Rhea bursts with laughter, and despite the blatant insult she just threw Draven’s way, he can't help but smile at the sight of her like that. Such a rare sight nowadays—to see her react without inhibition. A fact that will always stain his conscience, knowing it was his father who shaped the careful, guarded, and spiteful woman she’s become.
But for now, in this moment, he catches a glimpse of the small, fun-loving ten-year-old girl he met all those years ago back in Príth, who would laugh and brawl and interrogate ceaselessly without a care in the world. The girl who wore her heart on her sleeve.
In that moment, seeing the reflection of Rhea’s former happiness brought out so effortlessly by Marcella makes Draven understand why Lyra immediately gravitated toward the flora-wielder. Begins to understand just a bit more the allure that is Marcella Lynderful.
“You do realize you just casually insulted two of the most powerful people in the entire Three Kingdoms?” Arden points out.
Draven watches as Marcella glances at Rhea, who gives her a small nod. Her grin widens. “And do you realize you are wearing that dress like it’s a crime, Captain Larking?” Though her tone is playful, it isn’t mocking.
“Please,” Arden says through her answering laugh, trying to play off the compliment like it doesn’t mean anything to her. “No need to call me by my title tonight. Just Arden is fine.”
The sentence stirs an old, forgotten memory, tucked neatly into a hole in some cobwebbed place within him.
I am just…Draven.
Alright, Just Draven.
The girls say more, and as if on instinct, Draven’s eyes wander to Kiran, expecting him to join in with some wry comment.
Yet his eyes remain locked on something in the distance, as if he hasn’t been paying attention to the passing conversation in the slightest. It seems he, too, has lost himself to his mind.
“Kiran?” Draven asks.
He snaps his eyes away from the landscape, coming back to himself. “Yes?”
“Everything alright?”
Noticing his question, Finlay takes a few steps closer to them, listening for Kiran’s answer, though not looking at him as he does—his eyes instead remaining locked on Rhea. Gods, Draven wishes those two would just figure their shit out already. Also…
He seriously has some questions for Finlay after tonight. Because why the hell does he keep looking at Rhea like that?
Kiran plasters a wide grin to his face. “I’m always alright when there is endless drink in my future.”
Rhea chimes in, “Why haven’t we left yet? I’m with Kiran—if I’m going to make it through tonight, I need a drink.”
Marcella regards her. “You know, you’re really growing on me.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” Rhea replies with a tilted smirk.
Finally speaking for the first time, Gray drones in a flat tone, “We are waiting for my terrible cousin to join us, and we still need the aether-wielder who will be transporting us to arrive.”
Rhea eyes him. “And who is your terrible cousin, exactly?”
Right on cue, that slimy prick, Huxley Rangard, strolls down the same path Rhea and Finlay traveled along, his chin lifted high as he struts like he owns the gods-damn world. A low growl rattles in the back of Draven’s throat at the sight of him.
Arden steps forward, leaning over and whispering, “I’ll take it you’re not a fan?”
Draven’s grunt is his only confirmation. He doesn’t bother to explain that ‘not a fan’ doesn’t begin to cover it. He nearly murdered the little rat all those months ago after overhearing what he said to Lyra during their first judgement.
His magic flares beneath his skin, growing warm and whispering to be released. Draven is not happy with how much effort it takes to silence the hissing pleas of his magic. He rolls his neck side to side.
“Ladies, gentlemen.” Huxley bows low at the waist, his jade-colored suit glinting beneath the moonlight. “Captains. It is an honor to be traveling with you this evening.”
Kiran rolls his eyes and groans. “For the love of the gods…”
One glance in Gray’s direction, and it appears he has assumed a similar demeanor. Truthfully, Draven has never seen Nightenjoy be so openly perturbed by someone before.
Huxley straightens, sparing a quick look at Gray and choosing to ignore him entirely. “I apologize for my tardiness,” he simpers. “Shall we be on our way? My father is expecting me, so—”
“All of our fathers are expecting us,” Finlay says sharply, cutting him off. “We just need an aether-wielder to travel.”
As if summoned, a swirling black and silver portal appears, and the Conscripted aether-wielder, Klytis, steps through. “Everyone ready?”
Gray steps forward, smiling at the man as he extends his arm out to him. “Are you joining us for the entire evening?”
Klytis shakes his head, clasping his hand to Gray’s forearm.
“I am merely the transportation tonight.” Though he says it lightly, there is something loaded in the quality of his words.
His eyes temporarily float to Kiran—who is not looking back—before retreating to look at Gray once more. The smile he forms is thin and tight.
“Well then,” Finlay says, clapping his hands together with an air of impatience. “Let us finally be on our way.”