Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Atlas was hunched over a pile of parchment scattered across a modest oak desk, ink stains splattered across his fingertips, when Draven was brought before him. Suzumi and Rhea shoved him forward in presentation, despite Draven’s pointed warning glare at the action.
Atlas finally looked up from whatever he was working on, blinking at the three of them. His brass spectacles were shoved up on his head, pushing his curls back from his face. His autumnal blue eyes turned to Draven. “You’re back,” he chirped.
His smile was unbelievably warm, and Draven felt a swell of discomfort bubble up in his chest. He wasn’t used to his presence being met with such enthusiasm. How long had it been since someone besides his mother seemed so genuinely excited to see his face? Had regarded him with such open kindness?
Draven wriggled beneath the searing warmth of his gaze—the action met with a rush of panic as echoes of what his father would do to him if he ever saw Draven behaving so transparently rang through him. “I…well, they…” He couldn’t find the words.
Suzumi stepped up beside him. “Draven found Rhea being bullied by three pricks. He helped fend them off and made them go away.”
Atlas’s brows skipped up his forehead. He observed Draven, then leaned over in his chair to glance at Rhea, who remained behind him and Suzumi. “Is that true?”
Draven peeked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Rhea nodding, her eyes averted from her father and instead glued to her feet.
“Why did they come after you?”
“Don’t know,” Rhea lied.
Suzumi rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Rhea stole mom’s hair pin back from them. Luckily, this one here” —she nudged him— “showed up before they could find it or before Rhea got hurt.”
Atlas studied the three of them, his chin pinched between his splotchy fingers, leaving new ink stains smudged across different areas of his skin.
“Hm,” he hummed. He scooted his chair back and rose, striding over to Rhea to rest a hand on her shoulder. “What you did was dangerous for many reasons. I don’t want you picking fights with those boys again. Understood?”
With a pouted lip, Rhea nodded.
Atlas crouched down in front of her. “With that said, however, I am proud of you for standing up for yourself. I know you were gutted when they stole it from you the first time and my letters to their parents went unanswered.” His voice softened. “Can I see it?”
Draven was now turned around completely, watching their exchange with interest.
Rhea again nodded, seeming uncharacteristically silent.
She reached into her hair and tugged the pin free, resting it carefully in her father’s waiting palms. Draven realized then that it had an uncanny resemblance to a dagger.
Actually, as he stared at the object longer, he was beginning to wonder if it was a dagger.
Atlas glided his thumb down the smooth metal.
“Your mother loved this. Never went anywhere without it.” He sucked in a slow breath, returning the hair pin to Rhea and rising after.
“I’m glad it’s back where it belongs.” With that, he turned from Rhea and locked his attention onto Draven.
“It would appear a celebration is in order. We owe you dinner, Draven.”
Suzumi leaned over. “Told ya,” she whispered, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.
“That’s not necessary,” Draven replied, shooting her a sharp look before reorienting his attention back onto Atlas. “I don’t need to be rewarded for not letting three jerks beat up a girl.”
“All the same,” he said. “We want to. Brooksley tradition. You can invite your mother, as well, if that makes you more comfortable. In fact…” He strolled back over to his desk, opening a drawer and rummaging around.
He pulled out a quill, whose golden shank was complimented by a golden, nearly glowing feather.
Draven recognized it immediately to be an Ever-Know Quill—a magical quill that allows wielders to imbue their lakt? into it and scribe temporary correspondence onto a piece of parchment to whomever the wielder pleases.
They’re rather rare outside of upper-nobility, so Draven is surprised by the sight of it.
“I am quite familiar with the innkeeper who runs the inn you’re staying at.
I can write to her and ask her to inform your mother of your whereabouts.
Tell her about the celebration bound to unfold to honor your heroic deed.
” He said the last part with a theatric flare, and it made Draven crack a smile.
Yet that smile quickly faded as he realized something odd.
“How do you know what inn we’re staying at? My mother never answered your question when you asked her.”
Atlas chuckled, scratching at the back of his head. “I may have made some inquiries. Plus, Príth’s not exactly overflowing with inns. Strigthorpe, right?”
Draven narrowed his eyes, not deigning to answer. He found it odd that Atlas inquired about them. If the man didn’t wear such a purely transparent demeanor, he would have even felt a prickle of worry.
Atlas’s chuckle echoed a bit louder, and he shrugged. “I understand how that looks, and I apologize. I had just found myself curious, and…” he trailed off, his smile twitching as it softened. “Once my curiosity is piqued, I’m afraid I can be rather insufferable in my search for answers.”
“That’s true,” Rhea chimed in, stepping up to stand next to Suzumi. “You should see all his notes on what he’s currently working on. It’s downright obsessive.”
“Borderline mental,” Suzumi added in, giggling with Rhea.
Clearly, this was a line of common conversation in their household. Still, now it was Draven who found himself curious. “What are you working on?”
“I’m writing a book,” Atlas answered with no small amount of merriment.
“Well, you can’t just say that,” Suzumi nagged with an arch in her brow. “You have to tell him what you’re writing about.”
Rhea bounced on her toes, eager as she looked up at her father and awaited his reply. She glanced quickly at Draven. “It’s really cool,” she said.
Draven was surprised to observe that she meant it; her enthusiasm was genuine.
“He doesn’t want to hear about all th—”
“—No,” Draven cut in. “I do.”
Atlas grinned. “Alright, then.” He took a beat, as if preparing his lungs for all the oxygen they were about to expend. “Are you familiar with the gods, Draven?”
“I am.”
“And are you familiar with their alleged participation in the times of old? An age where they walked amongst us mortals, fought in the Great War before the Three King System was erected, and bedded—” He cut himself off, clearing his throat. “Anyways, does any of that ring a bell to you?”
It did. Though Draven was only fourteen, he had already received extensive training in the history of not just Erandor Kingdom, but all of Solaya.
His father found it important that he understood the events that cast the current political climate into what it was.
He told him it would allow him to better manipulate it into whatever he would someday need it to be.
On the other hand, his mother loved the gods.
She loved the rich lore flooding the continent surrounding them and those they encountered.
Because of the solitary rule Solaya once abided by, as far as Draven knew, all three kingdoms celebrated and believed in the Canamae—the pillar gods of the mortal world.
So, though variations of different stories changed from place to place, the foundations nearly always stayed the same, and Draven’s mother was fascinated by that.
She loved to tell him stories, oftentimes while they were laying on a blanket beneath a star-studded sky when his cheeks were salty and eyes red-rimmed.
“Yes,” Draven answered, a sudden tightness in his chest as he reminisced on those tender moments with his mother—what usually brought them about.
Something flickered in Atlas’s expression—happening almost too quick to notice. In fact, most people wouldn’t have noticed it. Yet Draven wasn’t most people.
“Impressive,” he mused. “Your mother must hold education in high regard, then.”
“She does,” Draven responded, a slight tug of hesitation to his words. “She often tells me stories of the gods, while my father pushes for me to study the politics surrounding and leading up to the Great War.”
“Interesting,” Atlas said softly, his eyes roving over Draven in a similar way his mother’s did when she was inspecting him for scrapes after learning of a brawl between him and his brothers.
He swore they lingered on the black and blue mark his father had given him, not looking much like a bruise anymore but instead a mottled blemish.
Atlas painted on a pleasant smile, and Draven could easily distinguish that particular smile as being different from all the others.
“Well,” he continued, walking over to his desk and thumbing through some of the scattered pages.
“You knowing those things certainly helps with my explanation. Tell me, do you know who the god of the stars and of justice is?”
“Astralis,” Draven answered without missing a beat.
Atlas dipped his chin. “It is said in some of the old texts that he was heavily involved in the Great Clamaté War. That he would scan the skies, looking for threats. One day, he was struck by a magical arrow which drained him of all his god-like power, and he fell into the sea, washing up onto a shore where a girl with eyes like living blue fire and hair like ash found him.” He plucked up a sheet of parchment, scanning the black scribbles sprawled across the length of it while a wildfire roared to life behind his gaze. “Can you guess what happened next?”
Draven swallowed before shaking his head. He realized with a bout of surprise that he was leaning forward on his toes, as if every word Atlas uttered drew him in like a moon drawing its tide.
“They fell in love.”