Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
“Who do you prefer today, Prince?”
Draven watched as the large breasted woman bent down and glided her finger along Kiran’s cheek.
Finlay leaned over to Draven and grumbled under his breath, “I will never understand out of the three of us, how it is Kiran who is referred to as Prince.”
Draven shrugged—he never thought about it nor cared. “Prince of Flames is catchy.”
Finlay clicked his tongue.
“Hm,” Kiran hummed while inspecting the row of courtesans lined up in front of him. He decided on a man with a slender, angular face and a petite woman. “You,” he said, bringing the chosen man’s hand to his lips. “And you,” he said, turning and doing the same for the woman.
The Madam curled her red-stained fingertips around Kiran’s shoulder. “Lovely choices.”
Ignoring her, Kiran turned to face Draven and Finlay, his smirk firmly in place. “What will you choose today, brothers?”
“Fighting pits,” Finlay replied without hesitation.
But Draven didn’t reply as quickly. Instead, he pondered the question, taking time to actually consider what it was he wanted.
It was his birthday after all.
Draven slid his gaze to the Madam. “Is she in today?”
“She is.”
“Can I see her?”
The Madam’s reply came after a long beat of silence. “I will check. But listen here, boy. These visits to her need to stop. Should your father find out—”
“—He won’t.” Draven lifted his chin, placing a mask over his uncertain features just as his father had taught him to do.
The Madam sighed. “Give me just a moment.”
As she walked away, Kiran and Finlay turned to face Draven—Finlay with an arched brow, and Kiran with a curling smirk.
“This is the third time you’ve asked to see this courtesan this month. She must be quite skilled at her duties.” Kiran laughed, amused.
“I heard she was a former courtesan for the King himself. Rumored to be quite the astounding beauty.” Finlay eyed Draven head-to-toe.
Draven rolled his eyes. “Stop overthinking it. Both of you.” He shot Kiran a dirty look, then Finlay next. “It isn’t what you think.”
Kiran clapped Draven on the shoulder. “Sure it isn’t.” He strolled over to the two courtesans waiting for him, taking the glass of wine from the slender man and sipping it through a grin. “Now if you two will excuse me, fun is waiting for me in another room.”
Once Kiran was out of sight, Finlay turned to Draven. “Do you want me to wait with you?”
Draven shook his head. “No. Go to the pits. If you wait too long, you won’t get as many fights in.”
“You should come join me when you're finished.”
“Maybe,” Draven replied. “We’ll see how I feel.”
The Madam shuffled back into the room, and Finlay took that as his cue to officially make for the pits, sparing Draven only a parting glance.
The older woman with graying hair inclined her head at Draven. “She will see you.”
Draven dipped his chin and began strutting forward.
The woman with kohl lining her eyes put a hand out, stopping him. “Payment first. You know the drill, boy. Nothing around here is free.”
Draven sighed, rummaging through his pockets.
Though, he liked the old lady. She was the only one who had the gall to refer to him as “boy” outside of his father, and she never treated him any differently than any of her other customers.
In fact, the only person he ever saw her treating differently was Kiran—only because he gave her a lot of business.
Draven pulled out a small pouch of coin and tossed it into the air. The Madam caught it effortlessly and poured the silver out in her palm, counting. Once satisfied, she grunted and jerked her chin toward the corridor leading to the woman’s chamber.
“Be on your way. You’ve got an hour.”
Draven arched his brow. “For the price I just paid, you’d think I’d have a week.”
The Madam pulled a slender pipe from her decadent gown and lit the end with a tiny flame hovering just above the tip of her finger.
Maybe that was why she liked Kiran so much—she was also a fire-wielder.
She puffed on it, eyeing Draven the whole time. “Supply and demand, boy. Now go before I change my mind and kick you out of my establishment.”
Draven knocked twice before he heard the voice of a songbird on the other side.
“Come in.”
He released a clipped breath, bowing his head with his palms spread flat on the door. Then, he pushed it open and entered the lavish room.
Books lined the walls, and a large canopy bed made up with sheets fine enough for a king rested at the far end of the room, enclosed by pastel drapery.
In the center of the room, smoking a pipe similar to the one the Madam had, a woman with honey quartz skin stood, watching him with her sea-green eyes.
Her raven-black hair was pulled half back, twisted into a knot lined by braids.
“You're here again,” she said, her raspy voice somehow smooth to the ear.
Draven resisted the urge to fidget—a nervous tick his father would beat out of him if he could. “Today is my birthday.” Draven wasn’t sure why the admission made his cheeks heat.
The woman watched him, taking a long drag from her pipe and exhaling the sweet-scented smoke slowly. She gestured toward the marble table at the center of the room, where a chess board with exquisite glass pieces rested. “Sit.”
Draven waltzed across the room and did as the woman instructed.
“So what’ll it be today? Chess, poetry, idle chatter?”
Draven slid his finger down the clear glass bishop across from him. “Actually, I was hoping we could talk more about magic.”
The woman stiffened before sitting in the chair across the table. Slowly, she crossed one leg over the other and took another long drag from her pipe. “What could the Dalmar Heir possibly stand to gain from talking magic with me?”
Draven fought against his wince—though he wasn’t sure he won. “You wield light magic, the opposing force to my dark magic. I stand to gain a lot from you, as it so happens.”
He didn’t elaborate further.
The woman watched him for a long time. He couldn’t tell what emotions were passing behind her eyes—he wasn’t great at deciphering such a thing yet, and she was exceptionally talented at masking her truth.
But before the woman could answer, the Madam’s voice carried outside the door.
Draven could hear the quiet panic rattling underneath her husky tone.
“You can’t just barge in whenever you like. She is already with a paying customer.”
“Yes,” a polished male voice replied. “And I’m sure that money came from my coffers, making her time purchased by me.”
The blood leeched from Draven’s face.
Shit.
Not good.
He glanced at the woman, who was staring at the door with lifeless eyes, forcing a hollow ache to wail in Draven’s chest. She took a nice long pull from her pipe and held the smoke in her lungs for an admirable amount of time.
Without so much as a knock, the door swung open, and his father stood inside the threshold, stone-faced and hands clasped.
“As expected,” Tynan Dalmar sighed. He locked his eyes onto Draven.
“Care to explain why you are sitting across from a paid whore when you should be in the courtyard attending your combat training?”
Draven’s blood ignited at the word choice. He rose from the chair. “Don’t call her that.”
His father arched a brow at his bold, defiant tone.
“They say a man can be born from a good fuck, but” —he swept his gaze along the length of Draven— “seeing as your fully clothed and your skin is without a hint of flush, I’d say you haven’t been doing any fucking.
” He cocked his head. “So why is it you speak to me as if you are a man?”
Draven dropped his head, knowing it was better for him to remain silent than attempt a response.
His father turned to the woman. “Delilah?”
She took a long drag from her pipe, resting her chin in her hand. “Yes?”
“Why is my son here?”
The woman shrugged. “Beats me.”
The Madam stepped forward and around Draven’s father, putting herself between Tynan and the woman.
“Delilah is the most sought-after courtesan in all of Talderine. Politicians wish to confer with her. Instrumentalists wish to train with her. And everyone desires to be with her. A fact you are well aware of. Is it so shocking such a gem has captured the eye of your son?”
“Yes,” Tynan replied simply. “It is.”
The Madam clicked her tongue. “Then your reputation precedes you, Commander.”
Draven was shocked at her boldness. He knew the Madam was a no nonsense sort of woman, but no one ever spoke to his father like that.
Yet his father only hummed, staring at Delilah—whose brightly colored eyes dulled into a lifeless ghost as she puffed on her slender pipe, staring off absently into the distance.
Without looking away from her, Tynan said to Draven, “You are to go straight to our personal chambers. I will meet you in the foyer in twelve minutes precisely.”
Draven did not wish to obey his father—something in his gut told him not to leave him alone with the woman. Yet Draven had no choice. All he could do instead was place his hopes in the Madam and pray to the gods her backbone didn’t suddenly shatter.
He left the lavish room and did exactly as his father instructed.