Chapter 14 #2
The swallowing darkness fed him cruel memories.
His father berating Draven for being inadequate; his mother coming to his aid.
His father turning that anger onto his mother.
Her chin lifted and high, her resolve steeled.
Until Draven went to check on her that night.
Through the wooden door, her sobs flowed through the air like a lament. It pierced Draven’s soul. Shredded it.
He was anger and bitterness.
The darkness slipping from his skin devoured the emotions like a fine feast, showing him another memory, as if attempting to stuff him full before butchering him, much like grass-fed cattle.
“When you fall in love,” his mother said, bringing the kettle off the fire, “I pray it is with someone who has a heart to match the depth of your own. Who will not take you for granted. Who will fight alongside you—will never use you for your title. Someone who will be as fiercely protective of you as you are of them.”
“Wishful thinking, mother,” he replied with no small amount of bitterness. Even at only thirteen, he already knew he was doomed to be used and loved only for his titles. Never for him—only for what he could offer. “Besides,” he added, “I do not wish to fall in love. Ever.”
It had been a bad day. His training had gone poorly, and he had been forced to spend an afternoon with his father, being introduced to potential future matches.
All day, he and his father had been propositioned.
“In only a few more years,” they had all said, dreams of wealth and grandeur oozing from their saccharine words.
Evidently, Draven had been too expressive with his distaste for it all, revealing too much in his facial expressions and body language. He had been forced to pay for the consequences of such inadequacies.
Hence the tea his mother was brewing for him. Turmeric, ginger, and devil’s claw—all meant to help manage his pain.
Nothing managed his pain, though. Not where it actually mattered.
“And why not?” she asked, peeking beneath the lid of the kettle before deciding everything looked good.
Anger roiled in Draven’s chest. “Why would I want love?” he spat.
“Why wouldn’t you?” she countered, pouring the rich amber liquid into a pewter mug.
His bitterness roared inside him. “Because all I know of love is failure. All I’ve seen of ‘affection’ is pain. Because if love is crying in your chambers and living in sadness simply because it is the root of obligation, then I don’t want it.”
She slowly stretched the steaming drink out to Draven, her eyes painfully sad. “That is not what love is,” she murmured.
“Then why do you try to convince me that love is what I see when I look at you and my father?” he snapped.
His mother winced—the sorrow ringing through her as tangible and potent as the steeped tea clutched between his fingers. He hated himself in that moment for being the cause of it.
Something sharp stabbed him in the chest as his greatest fear crawled up his throat.
Perhaps he truly was doomed to be just like his father in the end. Always breaking, never repairing. Opening wounds, but never healing them.
The memories died around him. Draven’s heart was hammering in his chest, and he could have sworn he felt his body slicked with sweat. Still, he could not stop what was happening. He was lost out at sea; an endless river of ink.
He was scared, grappling with his own mortality as he stared into that ceaseless void. It was not the first time the depth and prowess of his magic had frightened him. But this? This was something different. It was bitter and spiteful—domineering and blood-thirsty.
He didn’t know how to stop it.
But then he felt tiny hands cup his face.
“You’re okay,” the girlish voice said. “Breathe. Breathe.”
He could have imagined it, but he swore it felt like some of the pressure from his magic was being taken from him; the relief was instant. His chest lightened, and he did as the voice asked. He breathed.
Slowly, the black melted away, revealing a frosty sea of lilac and amethyst. The girl’s dainty hands were still holding his face, her eyes scanning his. Draven realized then that he was clutching onto her wrists as she held his cheeks.
He dropped them, blinking at the expression in her gaze. It was not fear nor disgust nor any other similar emotion Draven had expected to find in her eyes. It was merely…worry. Worry for him, if he wasn’t mistaken.
A deep wrinkle formed in his brow. “You’re not scared of me?” he whispered, so many emotions clanging around inside him.
She looked genuinely confused. “Why would I be scared of you?”
His mouth quivered at that reply, and in that tiny gesture, his father’s voice still managed to penetrate the walls of his mind. Do not show your hand. Emotions are weakness; expressions are power.
From the corner of his eye, Draven caught a glimpse of the guard. He was slumped on the ground, burn marks mottling his skin. His eyes were closed, and blood seeped through his frayed uniform, trickling into a small puddle on the floor.
He tore his eyes away from the sight. “I’m a monster,” he rasped, both in reply to the girl’s question and to the gruesome display at his feet.
The girl hesitated a moment, studying him. Finally, she shook her head. “I’ve seen the face of a true monster,” she offered, her voice low and devoid of warmth. “You are not a monster.” The tone sent Draven’s eyes snapping to the girl’s.
What terrible thing had she gone through to make her believe that? More pressing yet, how was she not even batting an eye at the charred and bleeding body beside them? Perhaps she truly had gazed into the eyes of a scarier monster—a fact of which did not leave him feeling any better.
The girl dropped her hands from Draven’s face, and she took a step back from him. “Thank you,” she said, a tiny spark of fight still lingering in her eyes. “I’m not sure the guard would have stopped if you didn’t make him.”
Like an idiot, all Draven could do was blink. Until he finally found the composure to ask, “What is your name?”
“Lyra,” she answered. “Lyra Izacalli.”
“Lyra,” he repeated. “What are you—” The chilling sound of his father’s perfectly polished voice sent his mouth snapping closed and his words dying in his throat.
“My, my,” he said, strolling into view. “Whatever happened here?”
Draven froze for only a moment before resetting himself.
“The guard,” he supplied, only a small tremor in his voice.
He took care to smooth out his words completely, knowing he needed to put on a perfect display.
He quickly stole a glance at the girl, Lyra—who was watching his father with rapt curiosity—before turning fully and squaring his shoulders to him.
“This girl has been working to refill drinks in the ballroom all night under King Alastair’s instruction, and I caught this guard beating her out here in the corridor. ”
“And what were you doing in this corridor instead of the ballroom?”
“Air,” Draven answered, fighting off his almost wince. “I needed fresh air.” He jerked his chin toward the—thankfully—already open window down the long stretch of the hall.
“I see,” his father hummed, not even so much as glancing toward the window. “Girl?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“Is that true?”
“Yes.” Unlike Draven, she seemed rather unfazed by his father’s presence.
She probably didn’t know who he was, then, Draven decided.
“Tell me,” his father said, clasping his hands behind his back while gazing at the girl with fabricated warmth. “What exactly did my son do to stop the guard? What did you see?”
“He…” The girl paused, her eyes sliding to Draven before looking back to his father. “He used his magic. That’s all.”
“Ah,” his father replied with a small nod. “And do you know what his magic is?”
“I—I,” she stammered, looking slightly rattled for the first time. “Darkness,” she finally answered in a low whisper. “But he didn’t do anything wrong,” she quickly added, a tiny wrinkle forming at the center of her face. “He was only trying to protect me.”
The words slammed into Draven as he realized they were being used in her attempts to protect him. She didn’t even know who he was. In a way that didn’t fully make sense to Draven, that recognition meant something to him—swelled his chest to a near indescribable degree.
“Hm,” his father hummed. “Indeed.” There was something wrong about the way the words came out. So, terribly wrong.
Another man appeared, then. He walked at a brisk pace down the corridor, his expression carefully neutral. He had lightened brown hair and sharp eyes, probably somewhere around Draven’s father’s age.
“Tynan,” the man said, surveying the scene. He stopped behind the young girl, resting two hands on her shoulder. “What’s happened here?” Though the words themselves could be labeled as an accusation, the tone he used was not accusatory in the slightest.
With the tiniest lift in his brow, Draven glanced at his father, shocked when he caught the corner of his mouth tightening and his left hand bunching then unbunching.
Draven couldn’t recall the last time he saw his father wear visible signs of annoyance.
Not if he wasn’t behind closed doors, scolding him or his mother.
“I, myself, am still trying to figure that out.”
The man smiled. It looked genuine, but something in Draven’s gut told him it wasn’t. “Knowing you, I’m sure you’ve already found your answer.”
His father, seeming to have found his stride again, smiled back. “You know me too well, Sterling.”
“Ah, well such a shrewd man is worthy of his position as a Master Strategist.”
His father hummed his agreement, inclining his head with graciousness. “Speaking of titles,” he said, his tone shifting into something jovial. “I have not yet been able to extend my personal congratulations on becoming the advisor and right-hand to King Alastair.”