Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Their return to Tylderon was unceremonious.
Nobody asked them questions regarding their whereabouts.
Nobody attempted to understand why they had left in the first place.
Truthfully, Draven wasn’t even sure what his father had told the servants and caretakers and tutors—House Dalmar had a strict mind your business policy, and everyone was too frightened of his father to not uphold the expectations of discretion.
Draven had expected that sort of treatment from them upon their return. To act as though nothing happened; that he and his mother hadn’t just disappeared without a trace for the better part of two months.
He had not expected it from his father.
Not because he was under any illusions that their absence suddenly made Tynan grow fond of them or anything.
Draven’s preconceptions had nothing to do with assuming his father suddenly developed a sentimental attachment to them.
It was more founded on the principles he tended to act on—the fact that he frequently made it a point to make sure others were aware that he made it his business to know things.
Yet when Tynan had casually strolled past Draven’s chambers the evening of their return, his mother still by his side, he had merely regarded them for the briefest of seconds.
“Good,” he had said, “you’re back. We depart for the Rivara Kingdom in two days.
Pack attire for both a formal dinner and a celebratory ball.
It should not be gaudy, but should be of the highest quality.
Nothing more. Nothing less. I’ll send one of my personal servants to fetch you the morning of departure when I’m ready. ”
Then he had simply turned on his heels and continued down the corridor, not asking a single question or uttering another sentence more.
The lack of an encounter seemed to open Draven’s air passageways, allowing him to breathe a bit better.
His mother, too, he noticed. Still, there was this eerie feeling surrounding them.
One of impending consequences. Though what, exactly, those consequences would be remained to be seen.
His mother slept in his chambers that night.
The following day, Draven finally reunited with his brothers.
He found them in the courtyard, training.
As he watched them, a strange feeling fell over him.
A recognition of sorts, noticing that he had been gone for so long and felt entirely changed, only to return home and find everything and everyone exactly as he had left it.
It was a peculiar feeling. One Draven wasn’t quite sure what to make of.
Finlay and Kiran were sparring, their bare chests smeared with blood, sweat, and dirt.
Finlay boasted a ring of purple around his left eye; Kiran featured a bloody split down the center of his bottom lip.
Their combat tutor, Matris, watched from just outside the sparring ring, arms folded over her chest and a perfectly straight line thinning her lips.
“Elbows up,” she commanded. “Up.”
Draven watched, a smirk playing at his lips. Eventually, he grew tired of playing the spectator and stepped away from the shadows.
“You’d think the two of you might have improved at least a little while I was gone.” He mocked a sigh. “But alas…I’d still kick both your asses.”
Kiran and Finlay whipped their heads toward him, and gods had Draven missed Kiran’s wry grin and Finlay’s scowl-ish smile.
“You dirty panther,” Kiran teasingly accused through his growing smirk, halting his sparring match to approach Draven.
“When did you get back?” Finlay asked, trying to hide his obvious excitement and failing miserably. He was hot on Kiran’s heels.
“Just last night,” he answered.
Kiran extended his arm upon reaching him, and Draven returned the greeting. “It’s good to have you back, brother.”
Finlay stepped up beside him, mocking a sigh and rolling his eyes. “Yes, yes, the golden child has returned. May the gods celebrate with a shower of stars and a tiding of blessings.”
Draven grinned at him, a laugh caressing his words. “Always so jealous when the spotlight isn’t on you.”
Finlay’s answering smirk was tilted. “Can you blame me? I’m of House Fjolla and have a father who won’t even glance my way. I was practically bred to desire attention.”
“At least he’s finally admitted it,” Kiran muttered, nudging his elbow into Draven’s side.
Draven laughed, already relishing in being with his brothers again. The kingdoms, the politics, their fathers—everything felt more palatable when they were together.
Including Matris, who was approaching them with a wicked curve wedged into the corner of her lip. “Gentlemen,” she drawled. “How lovely to see you still have so much energy about you. It means we can elevate your training to a higher caliber this evening.”
Finlay and Kiran groaned.
Matris was a mid-aged Master of Combat who had been training the three of them since they could practically walk. She never took a husband nor a wife, claiming her vow was to her blade and her blade only. It was quite respectable—how dedicated she was to her craft. Draven would almost admire it.
If her passion wasn’t constantly their ruination.
When her eyes landed on Draven, he raised his hands and exposed his palms to her. “Sorry, no can do. I am to travel with my father to Keziah in the morning for some ball, so I can’t have any scratches or bruises. You know how he is about showing face.”
Matris clicked her tongue and hummed. “Yes, I do indeed.” She tilted her head with thought, regarding him a moment. As she watched him, Draven watched her back, all the while thinking he never could quite tell if she liked or disliked his father.
“Fine,” she finally conceded, seemingly more to herself than him. She turned her gaze to his brothers. “You two, back into the sparring ring. Kiran, I want your elbows fixed. Finlay, I want you to develop a better read on Kiran’s movements.”
Kiran huffed a cocky laugh. “No amount of training can give him that. My movements are simply far too fluid and quick.”
Finlay arched a brow at him. “Really?”
“Really,” he replied with a firm lift of his chin.
Within a blink, Finlay kicked out his leg and swept Kiran’s legs out from beneath him. He fell back, tumbling to the ground and landing awkwardly on his back.
“Not quick enough, apparently,” Finlay mused through his laughter, extending a hand down to help him up from the ground.
Kiran—with a scowl marring his usually bright smirk—accepted Finaly’s hand. He slid his eyes to Draven, swiping more dirt from his chest. “You taught him that, didn’t you?”
Draven snorted a laugh and shrugged. “It felt cruel not to share the tactic that always manages to topple you.”
Kiran rolled his eyes. Draven turned and winked at Finlay, who huffed his own amusement.
Matris clapped her hands, the tune quick and filled with impatience.
“If you three would put as much effort into your training as you did tormenting each other, you all would be masters of the craft by now.” She laid her palm flat against Kiran’s back, and her other palm flat against Finlay’s. Then, she shoved them forward.
An ordinary woman would not have been able to make them budge. Even with Kiran now at seventeen and Finlay only months away from fourteen, their bones were still ensconced by pure muscle.
But Matris was no ordinary woman.
“Please, Matris,” Kiran drawled. “At least buy me dinner before touching me so intimately.”
She clicked her tongue. “I’d rather buy you decent fighting skills.”
Finlay barked a laugh. “Not even House Fjolla could buy that, and we’re the richest of them all.”
Kiran’s lips thinned. “Charming.”
Draven glanced between them, laughter bubbling in his chest as he turned on his heels. “You two enjoy.”
“Not so fast,” Matris called out, stopping him.
Draven winced—an action that would have enraged his father. Too expressive. Too open. He turned to face her. “Yes?”
“You can still train.”
“But—” he began to protest.
“ —no buts,” she said before he could finish. Her fingers dug into the pockets of her wide-set trousers, and she pulled out a slender line of densely woven fabric.
Draven arched a brow at it. “Do you always keep scraps of fabric in your pockets?”
“Yes,” she answered, matter-of-fact. “It’s useful. Shall I tell you all the reasons why?”
Draven shook his head, managing to hold his tongue. If he had answered, he would have sounded too pleading and childish. By the gods, please don’t, he would have droned.
Matris, entirely unfazed, waltzed over to Draven and wrapped her fingers around his arm, tugging him behind her as she escorted him to the balancing beam they used when practicing their footwork and sword fighting.
She turned to face him. “Get on the beam,” she instructed.
“And take this.” She held out the beige fabric to him.
“What?”
“I needn’t repeat myself. Your ears work just fine. Now do as I instructed.”
A low growl rattled in the back of his throat. Still, he did as he was told. When his feet were securely in place on the beam, fabric clutched loosely between his fingers, Matris pursed her lips as she studied the scene.
“Yes,” she mused lowly, more to herself than anyone else. “This will do perfectly.”
Draven glanced at his brothers, who were watching them with rapt curiosity now. He fought against his urge to blow out a deeply unsatisfied sigh.
“Put it on,” Matris demanded.
His brows furrowed. “Put what on?”
“The blindfold I gave you.”
It took Draven a moment before he was able to understand what she was saying. Eventually, his brain put it all together, and he glanced down at the fabric dangling in his hand. “What—you mean this?” He waved the cloth around for good measure.
“No, I mean the other scrap of fabric resting in your hand.” She made an impatient gesture. “Obviously that is what I’m referring to. Now, put it on so I can attend to the other two thorns in my side.”
“What in the gods am I supposed to do on a high beam with a blindfold covering my sight?”
“You learn to walk across it,” she answered, like it was just that simple.
“You learn to rely on other senses outside of your sight. Learn to distinguish true reality from the way your skin prickles because of a subtle shift in wind or from the sensations your magic picks up on. You learn to adapt, Draven.”
“I’m perfectly adaptable with my sight intact,” he grumbled under his breath.
“Great,” she retorted. “Now learn how to be adaptable in the belly of darkness.” Matris paused, something shifting in both her expression and tone. “You were born in the dark. Carved by its blade and forged in its power. It answers to you, Draven. So, learn its language. Then, make it listen.”