Chapter 25 #2
He was Lealla Dalmar’s son no longer. Yet as Draven stared at that necklace lying in his palm, tears still spilling over his stinging eyes, he decided that was going to change.
He could not alter his situation with Tynan.
He could not just refuse to comply with the demands he gave him nor could he suddenly disobey orders and walk away from the agreement he and Tynan precariously had in place.
Those weren’t options—not viable ones, at least. But he could take something back for himself by doing all those things on his terms. Not outwardly, of course.
The world, alongside his father, still needed to believe he was the mythified Dalmar Heir.
But just because his father had a carved out identity for him did not mean he had to partake in assuming it.
The world would continue to see him as he was, but to the people who were Draven’s world, he would take step after wobbling step to find a way back to who he wanted to be.
He would probably always be rough now—a little tainted and chipped—but he wanted to reconcile the two warring versions of who he was into a single person he could be proud of.
Then, he would only show it to those who mattered; who deserved to see it.
Draven rose, stuffing the necklace into his pockets.
With more clarity than he had perhaps ever experienced in his adult life, he exited the alcove and collected a small pile of wood and leaves.
Using the discarded pack of matches lying next to a cobwebbed oil lamp, Draven set the brittled, brown leaves alight, watching as they encased the wood in their growing flames.
He saw his past in their flames. But he also saw his future—or at least a different version of it.
Determined, he went back inside the alcove and rummaged through the assortment of seemingly random items. Eventually, he found something that would work for what he intended to do.
Draven returned to the fire—now crackling and popping—and set the circular end of the short metal rod he found into the center of the flames.
He had no idea what it was from or what it had been for, but he did know how it was going to be used today.
As he stared at it, monitoring how well it absorbed the heat, he removed his belt and placed the leather strap between his teeth, grinding his molars against it as a test.
Once the metal was a hypnotic glowing mixture of orange, red, and yellow, Draven pulled it from the fire.
His fingers toyed with their grip, until the cool end of the rod rested comfortably within them.
If he still had his shirt, he would have bunched it in his other hand, giving him something to hold onto and squeeze.
Yet his shirt was left discarded in the brothel, probably still soaking wet and lying on the floor—that or Rhea had brought it home with her.
Regardless, he would have to do without.
Draven steadied himself against any doubts, fears, or hesitations.
He knew what he was about to do needed to be done.
There was a reason religious and sacred practices always held ceremonies for their beliefs.
It was a ritual, yes, but it was also a performance of sorts.
A way to affirm the mind that what was happening held purpose. Would not be forgotten.
Draven needed to remember his purpose, and that started with removing the brand that gave him a false one. But how does one remove a brand mark? Simple—it can’t be removed, but it can be disfigured to the point of obscurity, making it unidentifiable.
He would bear his father’s mark no longer.
He pressed the circular edge just below his collarbone, directly into the brand his father had burned into his skin nine years ago.
He bit down forcefully on the leather strap and grunted in pain.
Still, he pressed the scorching metal deeper.
Until a smell resembling charred, overcooked meat wafted into the air.
Until his vision flickered black and red, glittering stars twirling in his peripheral.
He held it there until he could take it no more.
When he removed the searing rod, a welted, angry, red circular mark greeted him. It was agonizingly raw and inflamed, leaving that patch of skin deformed and unrecognizable.
Which made it gloriously beautiful.
Draven dropped to his knees, pain gripping at him with merciless force.
He pulled the belt from his mouth and tossed it aside, letting it clank against the ground.
Then he hunched forward, catching himself with his sprawled hands and bowed his head.
A few straggling groans of discomfort bubbled from his throat, and he pressed his forehead into the ground, gritting his teeth as he willed his body to adjust to the pain—to take it in stride and know it meant something good.
Eventually, the pain subsided enough for him to rise. For him to again be at the helm of his own mind. He glanced up at the sky, realizing that the day was nearing its end already.
With his uninjured arm, Draven reached into his pocket and pulled out the sea glass pendant once more.
Alongside the pulsing pain, he also felt a strange stir within him as he gazed down at it—something light and fluttering, like new possibilities were nearing his reach.
This time when his fingers curled around the cool glass, he swore a vow to himself. To his mother.
He would only again wear this pendant once he had become someone worthy of it. When he was again a man who his mother could look at and be proud of. Someone who swaddled themselves in her ideals and morals—who embodied her grace, integrity, and self-respect.
You are my greatest accomplishment.
He would continue to do as he must to ensure Rhea’s safety, but he would no longer do it as Tynan Dalmar’s son; he was not his nor would he ever be.
He might have once been terrified of becoming just like him—of being corrupted by the genetics composing him like venomous building blocks—yet he had always neglected something.
He would not become like Tynan Dalmar because Draven had the exquisite fortune of having an exquisite mother.
A mother who affirmed to him he was worthy of love.
Who told him he was valid when he felt pain, or grief, or sympathy for another.
Who held him when he was hurting and loved him without a reason.
She taught—no, she made certain—Draven understood what it meant to walk his own path, separate from House Dalmar.
It would not be easy and he knew he would still stumble, but he was resolved to find his way back to that path. Because he was his mother’s.
He was the son of Lealla Dalmar.
And the road back started with meeting Rhea out past the trees, where three handcrafted gravestones would inevitably be waiting for freshly fallen tears, watering the roots buried in the soil of their memories.
It started by speaking with Finlay—forgiving him of the choices he made as a child.
Draven had harbored such anger toward him for robbing him of his chance at a family, but he had never stopped to consider that if Finlay hadn’t told Tynan, he in turn would have been robbed at a chance to mend his own.
Draven knew how much making amends with Audwin meant to Finlay—everything he did was to achieve that singular objective.
Yet in his anger—in his grief—he never for a second stopped to consider Finlay’s perspective in it all.
How much either side of his decision would have slashed his insides.
That Finlay could have been hurt if he didn’t comply.
That he was probably threatened by just more than further rejection from his father.
Not to mention, Draven knew what Tynan was like.
If Finlay hadn’t told him, he would have found his information elsewhere, somehow, in some cruel way.
Remarkable, the clarity one could feel after relinquishing their anger. Now that he had, he realized just how much he ached to speak to his brother again. To have him back, wholly and without friction.
Yes, finally…
Draven was ready to let go of the pain, and the pain was ready to let go of him.
So, he did—he let go.
He hoped he would become a better man for it.