Chapter 63
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
LYRA
Iwatch Draven’s body slacken, then topple sideways.
His head falls directly into my lap. Perhaps the worst part of that is how my fingers are unable to swipe the loose strands of hair from his resting eyes.
How I can’t trace his soot-stained skin.
Can’t offer him the strength and comfort I know he is going to need by giving him the details of everything I just did.
By making sure he knows it was completed exactly as he instructed.
Well… sort of.
I may have included my own additions.
The girl who just slammed a hilt into Draven’s head turns to me, a pronounced curl pulling her lip back from her teeth.
“Well, there she is. The precious whore who ruined the great Draven Dalmar himself.” She prowls to stand in front of me, crouching down to coldly lock her eyes with mine.
Her fingers tighten around my chin, pinching my skin together.
“The girl who single-handedly stole my aggregate’s captain away from us.
Turned him into something unrecognizable. ”
Kamina. That was the name Draven said.
I hold her stare with equal resolve. “You can’t call someone you’ve never truly seen unrecognizable.”
Kamina scowls, her grip tightening around her sword until her fingers bleed their color away. In a swift motion, she jerks her hand up and slams the sword’s hilt into my temples, just like she did with Draven.
And as my eyelids flutter and unconsciousness beckons me, it is the light of the flames which reminds me of what I must do. Steadies me against the encroaching fear of what we’re about to face if Draven’s assumptions are correct.
My head rolls back, and the final image I see before the darkness claims me is a golden city on fire; King Yarum’s palace swallowed by flames.
“Lyra.”
The familiar voice is warm to my dreams.
“Lyra.”
So familiar. So warm.
“Lyra!”
My eyes jerk open. Immediately, I am met by a splitting headache and brazier light. I attempt to scrub at my face, but my hands are heavier than usual and unable to move independently.
That’s right. The manzat manacles.
The hole inside me makes itself known. Strange, how I once was able to live without magic so effortlessly. Now, being without it has left me feeling carved hollow by a rusted blade.
“Lyra.”
My eyes whip left, finding the voice. Finding Draven.
The blood drains from my face the moment I do.
He is somewhere around nine, maybe ten paces away from me.
An onyx chain is wrapped around his waist, secured by a steel bracket mounted into a staggeringly large column behind him.
His hands are secured at his torso, the magic-blocking manacles securely placed over his wrists. His eyes are frantic.
Until they meet mine.
They soften, then, in perfect rhythm with his shoulders as they slacken. “You’re awake.”
Somehow in the midst of all this mess, I still manage a small smile. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”
His lips tilt. But just as quickly as the soft moment is there, it leaves. Draven’s features sober, his expression growing solemn as his eyes shift to look at something in the distance.
That’s when I finally rise, taking in the full magnitude of my surroundings.
The first thing I realize is that, just as Draven does, I have a chain locked around my waist, securing me to my own towering column with no more than two paces of length to move around.
The second thing I notice is we seem to be in a sprawling cavernous space of sorts.
Only, the obsidian-toned rock is smooth and polished like marble, and the vaulted ceiling—feeling as high as the heavens themselves—is so perfectly ground out, it carries the glistening sheen of sleek glass.
The third thing I notice is Draven and I are not alone.
Directly across from me, secured to his own column, is Gray. Next to him and directly across from Draven is Rhea, her hands and waist also bound.
Gray and I lock eyes. He looks unbearably sad. Like the entire world has been uprooted at his very feet.
Are you okay? he mouths to me, seeming too tired to vocalize the words.
Are you? I mouth back.
He shakes his head only once, eyes falling to the ground.
It hits me then that Draven was right in his suspicions. That this is real and is probably going to happen just how he predicted.
Nausea roils in my stomach. The world blurs for a moment as a rush of blood pounds in my ears. Yet the sound of stone scraping against stone forces me to stay steady on my wobbling feet. To not succumb to my growing nerves.
I will not cower. I will not yield. I will not falter.
The words offer me so much more strength now that I have grieved my mother. Now that I properly feel her spirit within me. Now that I have looked all my worst fears in the face and smiled back at the dark.
Doors open, and three cloaked figures march in, stopping below a lavish balcony built into the eastward wall. Shortly after, three more figures appear on that very balcony, strutting into the blinking firelight, stopping only once their fingers can curl around the deep onyx railing.
The fear once pounding in my chest morphs to shock before twisting into rage. Absolute rage.
Familiar eyes gaze down at me from the pretty balcony, a cruel, twisted smile twirling a pair of lips. “Hello, pet. Have you missed me?”
I hold those vile eyes, wearing every bit of my disgust as I spit on the ground at my feet.
King Alastair chuckles, shaking his head. “My little birdie grew some wings, and so now she thinks she can fly amongst kings.” He mocks a pout. “Oh, dear pet, it’s time we clip those pesky wings.”
“Is that not the girl who used to dance for us at your parties, Alastair?” King Erasmus leans over the railing, squinting his crow-lined eyes.
King Alastair laughs. “It is. I am honored you remembered, because I did so love it when she danced.”
“Do not speak to her with your vile tongues.” Draven’s words are contained, yet they still echo off the stone walls as if shouted between cupped hands.
“You would dare speak to—”
“Please, Your Highness, forgive my son. I fear he has been insubordinate since a young age. Hence his participation in these games.” Tynan, who stands between the two kings, turns his gaze to observe Draven as if he were nothing more than an interesting spectacle.
“Games?” The question comes from Gray.
Tynan turns to look at him, a polished smile on his lips. “Yes, games. And rather riveting ones at that.”
“We are not your toys to play with.” The quiet rage in Rhea’s voice is enough to slice like a blade.
“Ah, but that’s just it, isn’t it?” Tynan coos. “That is precisely what you are. What everyone is to someone else. Toys. Pawns. Tools.”
“Spare us your game of titles,” Draven spits. “Just tell us what you intend for us to do.”
“But titles are part of the game, you see. What titles do you believe you bear? Hero. Sister. Chosen. Monster. What titles will you assume once forced to put all that you believe to the test? Will the hero become the villain? Will the whole become the broken? The broken the savior?” Tynan releases a low laugh as he claps his hands together. “Oh, I cannot wait to see.”
“Why us?” Gray asks.
Tynan rapidly clicks his tongue. “Ah, ah, mustn’t spoil the game. That will all be revealed during each of your turns.”
My eyes narrow on him. He seems almost manic with glee.
Every interaction I’ve had with Tynan Dalmar up until this point has been one where he is poised and in complete control.
But right now there is a loose thread in his normally impenetrable exterior, threatening to unwind his careful facade entirely.
“Any volunteers to go first?” Tynan asks.
Gray takes a step forward. “I will.”
Tynan laughs in tune with the other two kings, and he glances at each of them. “Did I not tell you this is how it would begin?”
King Erasmus nods with approval. “This is precisely why you are my Master Strategist.”
King Alastair laughs—the sort of laugh I grew to recognize meant someone was about to suffer unspeakable pain. It typically accompanied moments where he was delivering his punishment from a summons. When seeking retribution from those who he deemed as doing wrong by him.
The hairs on my arms rise, and a chill sweeps down my spine.
“Let justice be served, then,” King Alastair mutters as he turns to sit on one of two glittering silver thrones at the center of the balcony.
Tynan’s eyes remain pinned on Gray. “Well, Lion of the Heart.” He smiles, splaying his arms wide. “Welcome to the Grand Moral Games.”