Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
DRAVEN
Draven sees her, and nothing can stand in his path as he races toward her.
The moment chaos erupted in the ballroom, he had set aside as much of his magic as necessary to constantly sense Lyra—sense the magics of others around her.
Though it was the first thought to enter his mind when the slaughter began—a nonnegotiable, as far as he was concerned—he was grateful for the decision the moment his magic flared beneath his skin like a warning bell, resulting in Draven sending one of his panthers far across the grand ballroom with one command: find her.
Shortly after, he felt an intense explosion of heat surge beneath his skin, seeping into his veins, telling him his panther had swallowed lightning.
Ever since that moment, he has been trying to make his way across the ongoing battle and to Lyra, which was made all the more difficult when her magic had just…disappeared. As if suddenly encased in a barrier.
It is the exact way it happened that terrible fucking day, where his precious girl was stolen from him and she nearly eviscerated herself in her perceived grief. Which means Lyra had not been attending this ball alone. She came with someone. And not just anyone.
She came with him.
Casimir Vivaldri.
Draven’s suspicions are confirmed when he glimpses the man—monster, creature, thing—standing behind her.
What game is he playing at? Why is he here in Erandor?
At the Winter Solstice ball, no less. It is a masquerade ball, yes, but to get past the entry guards, he would’ve had to show a missive boasting the king’s seal or some other indisputable form of identification proving his invitation to the event.
Who gave that to him? And why would that person bring him here?
Not to mention why Lyra was forced to attend alongside him?
No—not even alongside him. She had been allowed to wander freely, without him.
Why?
Draven at least now understands the urgency and pain he saw swimming in her eyes while they danced. She knew they were on borrowed time. In a way, Draven did too, but his sense of it was entirely different.
Gods damn him for his foolish blindness. For being so willing to live in that momentary fairytale with her, pretending they had reached a happy ending while Lyra remained stuck in the part of the story where she was still trapped in a tower.
Draven shakes his head against his raging mind. He doesn’t have time to sulk in his wrongdoings nor properly consider the answers to all his questions. His full focus needs to be on reaching Lyra.
As he nears her, he discovers where the sharp spike of her magic—screaming at him as though she’d just been terribly injured—came from. The very thing that allowed Draven to finally sense past that accursed barrier of Casimir’s and find her.
A crimson river runs down her arm, leaking into her half-opened palm. There is a gnarly slice cut into her skin; a dagger’s hilt held loosely in her hand. Had she sliced herself to summon him? So he could finally know where to find her? Had she somehow known he was sensing her?
She probably did, his clever girl.
Still…the sight of her dripping blood sends Draven’s insides boiling.
Lyra stands apart from Casimir, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth as if to keep it from trembling.
Her eyes are on him, just as his are on hers.
They do not waver nor break apart. She watches him with a quiet desperation in her gaze, and gods, he just wants to put her in his arms and protect her. Keep her safe.
I am coming. I will always come for you.
He wishes he was close enough to say the words to her directly.
Ten marks away from her. Five.
“Lyra!” he shouts once he and his panthers are no more than just a few powerful strides away. He summons too much magic, his chest constricting as those voices he keeps buried surface at the force of his pull. Black flickers in his vision. Ink fills his veins.
Yet before he can direct the storm building within his palms, a glittering portal of silver, white, and blue opens, and Casimir reaches for Lyra, practically tugging her against his chest. Draven just barely catches his passing words to her.
“Time’s up,” Casimir says.
Then he wraps his arm around her waist and directs her toward the portal. Lyra does not seem to put up much of a fight. In fact, she almost seems as though she’s going willingly, leaving Draven to wonder what the hell Casimir has threatened her with.
Lyra’s eyes are still on Draven, and it is only when she lifts her opposite hand—the hand not filling with blood—that he even becomes aware of the rolled up parchment’s existence.
Draven reaches a hand out to her in return, a sudden desperation clawing his heart and slashing against his chest. His fingertips are so close to grazing her skin.
One mark away.
A lone tear slips down Lyra’s cheek as she watches him. “I kept my promise,” she whispers. “I waited.”
No matter if you hate me. No matter how much you won’t understand—promise me you’ll wait. It was Draven’s last request of her.
Their fingertips graze against each other as Lyra is pulled back into the swirling portal, the dagger clattering to the ground beside her.
She passes off the parchment she was holding, sliding it into the rough groove of Draven’s palm.
As he reaches for her—in a duration that doesn’t even last the span of a single heartbeat—he catches the look of resignation as it settles within Lyra’s eyes.
Like this is simply what her fate must be.
Like hell.
His panthers make a final, despairing effort, their large jaws only closing around open air as the portal blinks shut, taking Casimir Vivaldri and Lyra with it.
They are gone.
For yet a second time, Draven loses her. Has failed her.
Few words can describe the terrible mix of thrashing emotions that slam into Draven and threaten to swallow him whole. Anger. Guilt. Grief. Disappointment in himself. Fury for his own incompetence.
He once told Lyra he doesn’t lose, ever.
He was a damned arrogant fool.
A quick glance around the room tells Draven the rebellion’s battle has nearly reached its end, casualties on both sides, though significantly lesser for the side of nobility.
He calls his panthers back into his veins and stares down at the parchment Lyra handed him.
His fingers tighten around it, just needing to hold this piece of her—whatever it may be—for a moment.
Before he has a chance to unfold it, a series of portals open to his right, while Gray and Marcella come sprinting toward Draven from his left. A small band of Jurafen step through the shimmering lights, scanning the scene and assessing where they’re needed first.
Draven huffs at the sight.
Convenient they should show themselves near the end, after the true heat of battle has already diminished.
Gray draws Draven’s attention. “Did I just see Lyra?” he asks, nearly breathless. “I could have sworn…” He stops, shaking head as confusion ripples across his face. “I thought I saw her just before she disappeared into a portal. She was masked, but I—I would know her anywhere.”
“It was her,” Draven rasps out.
Guilt weighs heavier on him as he watches Gray process the implications of the confirmation.
“She was here?” he whispers. He sounds gutted. “We were in the same room, and I didn’t even notice? I–I should have realized. I should have been paying more attention to my surroundings.” His voice is a choked rasp. “Why do I keep failing her?”
Marcella steps forward, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. She watches him with soft eyes, both their masks removed, leaving their expression open and entirely vulnerable. She offers the same strained look to Draven, quietly acknowledging the magnitude of their negligence.
“We were on the balcony, talking,” Gray continues, his eyes distant and filled with a guilt-stricken sorrow which Draven’s soul reflects.
“Marcella and I… we went outside, talking as though the world is a careless place until the battle began. All while Lyra was here, inside, capable of being protected.”
Draven sucks in a quivering breath, trying really hard to keep himself together.
“Don’t,” is all he can manage to say, his clipped tone rough as stone.
“Don’t play that game with yourself. You are at a masked ball, for the gods’ sakes, surrounded by powerful magic.
It’s what made the strategy so perfect—it would be nearly impossible to know. Don’t make yourself suffer.”
He doesn’t say his next thought aloud.
But I did know, so I should suffer.
Draven sighs, turning his attention back onto the parchment still clutched within his fingers.
Marcella notices, pointing at it. “What is that?”
“Lyra gave it to me.” No bother in hiding it.
“Well then why haven’t you opened it already?
” Her voice is sharp—far sharper than Draven feels capable of managing at this moment.
Given the pointedness in her gaze, he suspects it has something to do with the announcement of his engagement to Arden, a spectacle which already feels as though it happened years ago.
“You saw her?” Gray bites out, finally lifting his eyes from the ground. Draven swears he sees them flicker gold. “You were close enough to her to where she could hand you a piece of parchment, and you let her go?”
“I didn’t let her do anything,” Draven snaps back.
“Casimir Vivaldri was with her, and I couldn’t attack because he was keeping her as a hostage held in front of him.
What the fuck was I supposed to do without risking her harm?
” He stretches his neck as his anger brings more magic to the surface of his skin.
A quick glance at his veins shows them bleeding black.
Fuck.
He really has to get that under control before he loses himself to his magic.