Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The festivities continued on, and Draven grew increasingly bored.
After indulging a series of nobles who prattled on and hollowly complimented him—all a pathetic ploy in the hopes he would someday put in a good word about them with his father—Draven left the ballroom and found himself wandering the marble halls of King Alastair’s estate.
Though he despised the king himself, he rather liked the Rivara Kingdom.
The architecture here was different from Erandor—with their whitened stone masonry and marble columns at every turn.
Plus, there were canals that flowed through the city, accentuating the already blue rooftops hovering in the sky at every turn.
They could be seen from the sprawling arched windows, and Draven liked looking at them as they glittered under the moonlight.
Not to mention, the Rivara Kingdom had colored stars—a phenomenon that had baffled scholars for centuries.
To understand them, one had to concede that the stories of the gods were true, and that Astralis created them as a grand display of affection for Sitara, the woman he loved—a fact Draven now knew from Atlas’s many stories.
According to him, scholars did not like conceding science to religion, nor myth to fact, so the stars and their peculiar colors remained at large a rational mystery.
At the thought of Atlas, Draven’s heart suddenly ached. He missed them. Missed Rhea bickering with him because she was overly competitive. Missed Atlas reading stories to him while his mother sat by the hearth and listened. He missed Suzumi. Her laugh. Her smile. Her presence.
He missed The Polished Bookery.
He missed Príth.
Before Draven knew it, he was in some sector of the estate he did not recognize.
The walls were less decadent; the carpet frayed.
There was a subtle musty smell enveloping the air, and he couldn’t help but notice chips in the paint.
He decided he had probably stumbled into the servant’s quarters.
Near the kitchens, presumably, given the proximity to the ballroom.
He was making to turn back and leave the area behind—
But then he heard a scream.
It was high-pitched and loud, a sound of panic and pain. A sound quickly muffled before it could travel any farther.
He sprinted in the direction it echoed from.
Around a corner, down a dimly lit corridor, he halted when he reached the sight of two people standing near the back of a stone wall, where the corridor branched into two different directions.
Draven saw the backside of broad shoulders lined in a fine red tunic and covered by a bronze breast plate. A royal guard, then.
“Insolent girl,” the guard seethed.
Draven couldn’t see who he was talking to—the girl was shielded from sight by the guard’s massive frame—but he did see the way the man’s hand was raised, prepared to strike whoever was laid before him.
That was enough for Draven to act.
“What are you doing?” he questioned, using the sort of tone that would’ve sent his father beaming with pride. It was authoritative. Powerful.
Entitled.
The man glanced over his shoulder, a curl in his lip. Clearly, he was not happy about being disturbed. “Dealing with a problem.”
“What sort of problem?” Draven made his impatience known by the tone he was taking.
The man turned fully, and Draven caught a glimpse of lilac hair. His heart pounded in his chest.
“The sort of problem that doesn’t concern you,” the guard snarled.
Clearly, he did not yet realize who Draven was.
Good.
“Step aside,” Draven commanded, stepping forward but pulling on a sliver of his magic to keep himself partially draped in shadows. “Let me see the girl.”
“And who the fuck do you think you are?” the man spat.
“Someone you do not want to cross paths with.” Though Draven was only fourteen, his body was larger and more refined than most his age.
He had been training since he could walk, and his body showed the benefits of such a rigorous routine.
So, as Draven remained partially covered by shadow, it was no surprise the guard reached for the sword at his side, clutching at it in warning.
He glanced at the guard’s whitened knuckles as it curled around the bejeweled hilt. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warned.
The ironic thing was, he genuinely meant the warning. He really wouldn’t do that. Not if he were in the guard’s position.
The guard smirked, releasing his hold on the sword and lifting his exposed palms. Draven’s magic flared beneath his skin in warning, a flash of his panther flickering in his mind’s eye.
“Very well,” the guard drawled, as if he knew a secret. “No sword, then.” Quicker than a blink, a spear of water lanced from his fingertips and soared toward Draven.
His shadow panther was there in a flash, swallowing the magic into its tiny inky belly. Like always, Draven felt the magic burn in his veins—like pouring alcohol into an open wound—before the sensation slowly faded away, the magic with it. He dropped the veil of shadows from around him.
The guard paled, floundering. He dropped to his knees, immediately bowing his head.
“Forgive me, Lord Dalmar. I did not know it was you who lurked in the shadows.”
Draven clicked his tongue. “I am not my father,” he grumbled. Realizing he sounded his age instead of sounding like the dignified and lethal Dalmar Heir he needed to pretend to be, he cleared his throat. “There is no need to call me by his title.”
There. That was better.
The man’s head remained bowed. “I do so out of respect and courtesy to your Great House, since you are its Heir.”
He continued speaking, no doubt trying to save his own ass, but Draven stopped listening. Instead, his attention was fixed on the girl. He could see her clearly now. She was sprawled across the floor, hunched over on her knees. Slowly, she lifted her head and peered up at Draven.
Her eyes were striking at this distance.
They were icy-hued and crystal-like—like a raw amethyst stone.
Draven might have wondered about their heritage further if they were meeting under different circumstances—he had never seen eyes like that before—but right now, the pit in his stomach and burning in his chest took precedence.
There was a red mark plastered across her cheek, shaped like a hand. Her bottom lip had a narrow split in it, a line of blood seeping through the cut. There was also a gash in her brow.
Clearly, the guard possessed a modicum of skill with reading body language, because he quickly glanced between Draven and the girl.
“She belongs to King Alastair,” he offered in way of explanation.
“She is meant to refill the guests’ drinks this evening, yet she abandoned her duties and was attempting to hide from her responsibilities, disobeying direct orders from His Majesty, himself. ”
The girl’s upper lip curled back. “I was refilling the pitcher of Sparkling Ecstasy, you dimwitted slug.”
Draven had two thoughts pass through his mind within an instant. The first was that his deductions about the girl had been correct: she was a fighter. The second was: did she really just call him a slug?
Still, neither of those thoughts soothed the heat scorching his skin.
The guard had beaten her. And for what? For nothing, as far as Draven was concerned.
Another observing look, and he realized the girl looked to be around Rhea’s age—maybe a hair older, sitting at somewhere around eleven, perhaps twelve.
The realization sent an image of Rhea being the one dropped to her knees, a slap mark burning her cheek while blood dribbled from her busted lip.
At both the connection and conjured images, Draven saw red.
Pure, solid red.
Until the world went black and fuzzy.
Ink materialized in his veins, made known by the way it spread over the tops of his hands, like gnarled spider webs. He felt a surge of pressure—a call. Something hungry and hot, ready to burst free with savage giddiness.
For once, Draven let it go free.
Tendrils of inky black whipped out from all around him, cascading into the open air with a wave of insatiable desire.
The shallow light from the aged braziers disappeared, and they were covered in darkness.
Total, utter darkness. Not that it bothered Draven.
His eyesight was already inhibited by an opaque wall—like his eyes were covered by an onyx blanket.
Gurgling moans echoed through the otherwise silent corridor.
Draven heard them—sort of. He was there, in his body, but as more and more of his magic came free, it was like he was losing himself to it.
As if there was some monster trapped within the fabrics of his magic, and now that he was finally using it—really using it—the monster could claw its way free, claiming Draven’s body for itself.
He was convinced he was going to disappear entirely, a prisoner to that monster.
His body would be the vessel, and Draven’s will would become discarded scraps.
He tried to stop the magic from pouring out of him—to prevent that from happening—but he couldn’t.
The magic tore free from his skin, licking him with its heated tongue.
His wielder’s mark burned against his skin.
He was lost to the dark.
Voices began whispering—hissing—in his mind.
You are just like him. Bearer of dark magic and dark soul, alike.
An image pressed into the walls of his shattering mind. Flashes of his father’s face, then his face. Slowly, they merged together and aligned with equal halves, making a terrifying whole.
He was his father and his father was him.
He did not wish to be like his father.
Yet here he was.
The magic flowed through him with even more vigor now. Free. Free, it seemed to sing. Draven couldn’t cage it. He couldn’t even form his beloved shadow panther that he worked so hard to perfect.