Chapter Twenty-Six #2
“It was,” Draven confirmed. “And if you remember, I told you about how my father forced King Alastair’s advisor to give the girl I protected a memory elixir to erase her memories at what she had seen, worried it would one day come back to taint House Dalmar.” His eyes found Lyra once more.
You are not a monster.
“Ah, yes,” Kiran responded with far too much merriment given the nature of the conversation. He took another sip from his glass. “I remember that.”
Draven fought against his urge to heave a long sigh. His brother was drunk. “Good,” he said instead. “Now, do you see that girl?” Draven discreetly pointed in Lyra’s direction.
“Mhm,” he confirmed. “I do. I do see her, indeed.”
Draven eyed him sidelong for just a moment, caught somewhere between wanting to laugh at his slur or slap him for it.
Yet the thought of fighting with Kiran outside of sparring felt preposterous, so he merely forged on instead.
“That’s Lyra. That’s the same girl as the one my father took the memories from.
The one who was serving King Alastair even as a child. ”
It took Kiran longer than it usually would to fully make sense of the puzzle, but once he did, his eyes rounded with surprise as his brows shot up his forehead. “Oh,” he said.
“Oh, indeed,” Draven agreed.
They both watched from the shadows as she wiggled free from nobles’ grasps, smiling sweetly when necessary and making subtle faces once her back was to them—much like she had as a child.
Kiran tilted his head, a small pout forming in his lip. “Why do I suddenly feel sad when I watch her now?”
“Because you’re drunk.” A pause paired with a glance in his direction. “And I don’t even know if you’re capable of truly experiencing that emotion.”
Kiran shot him a wry look. “I am capable of experiencing all emotions.”
“I’m sure you are,” he muttered.
He clicked his tongue at Draven and was just about to make a retort when the sound of Eri’s drunken voice sent their eyes snapping in his direction.
“Go on. Dance.” He was addressing Lyra, who looked as though she was trying so hard not to give a reaction. Yet her hands were balled at her sides and her lips were drawn tight; there was panic in her eyes.
King Alastair interjected, “What is the meaning of this, Eri? Do you seek to torment my prized attendant?”
They went on with their conversation, and Draven found he had never wanted to ring his hands around Eri’s neck as much as he did when he was forced to listen to him speak about making Lyra dance—about providing the room with “a show”, as if such a privilege was their right by birth.
It was disgusting.
Draven turned to his brother, frantic—a feeling he did not feel often. “You have to help me.”
Kiran’s face twisted with a mixture of surprise and confusion. “Come again?”
He gave him an imploring look. “Please,” he said. “We can’t just let this go on. Not after what the girl did for me all those years ago.”
You are not a monster.
Kiran eyed him with a slight notch wedged in his brow. “I thought it was you who helped her?”
He rolled his eyes. “We helped each other. Now, will you help me?”
He could see in Kiran’s assessing gaze that he was both conflicted and perplexed by Draven right now. Draven understood—if roles were reversed and it was his brother who was displaying such contrasting words and behaviors to his usual disposition, he, too, would probably be wary.
Yet there was simply no time to explain everything. To make Kiran understand how many times he randomly thought of that moment—wondered what happened to that small girl. He couldn’t even recount the amount of times he replayed his and his mother’s conversation from that night.
May the men who believe they can own a woman burn in a special place of Merikh’s realm.
He certainly didn’t have enough time to explain that this moment—this decision to help her—felt like some deciding pinnacle.
Like it was the first real step toward finding his way back to who he wanted to be; to realizing his goal of being his mother’s son once more.
It was so glaringly obvious to him, it almost felt divine.
He and his mother had watched with sad eyes from a distance, unable to aid the girl in any real way all those years ago. He had failed to save her memories from his father. But he could assist her in some way now. He could attempt to—in some sense of the way—right those wrongs.
Plus, he wanted to help her. All those reasons aside, it burned him like acid to have to watch such a despicable display from the shadows. So, he simply wouldn’t.
He swore he could feel the warmth of his mother’s smile on his skin for a passing heartbeat at the decision.
Kiran held him firmly in his gaze, eyes suddenly looking more sober. “I assume you are fully aware of the consequences if we are implicated in this at all? And I mean at all.”
“I am,” Draven replied. “And should it come to that, I’m prepared to face them.”
Kiran studied him intently. “You don’t even know her,” he murmured, sounding more curious than judgemental.
“And I probably never will,” he answered with a shrug. “I’m sure I won’t ever see her again, and this will be nothing more than a passing memory for you and me. But that still doesn’t change anything.”
Kiran sighed, calmly setting down his glass on the small lip of a nearby pillar. “What do you want me to do?”
“We need something more than a mere distraction,” he mused aloud. “Something that will catch King Alastair off-balance.”
“Well,” Kiran replied in a hum, “I’m really only good for fires or seducing.”
Draven grunted as he pinched his chin, nodding absently. “That could work, actually.”
“Oh, I really do hope you mean the latter.”
“Unfortunately, brother,” Draven replied, clapping him on the shoulder, “I mean the former. Now, are you going to be able to direct your flames with accuracy given your wine consumption?”
“I’d retain my accuracy even if I was blindfolded.”
“Of course you would,” he deadpanned. Draven turned to where glass-paned doors complimenting the glass roof rested. “See that balcony,” he said, pointing in the direction of the center door.
“Yes,” Kiran drawled.
“There is a stable just around the bend, visible from over there. I want you to send a small fireball for the hay bales resting in front of it. But don’t make the flames too hot nor too large. I don’t want the stable itself nor the horses inside to be harmed.”
“And what will you be doing?”
“Causing a distraction and creating chaos, naturally.”
Kiran hummed with approval. “Sounds fun.”
Draven rolled his eyes. “Go—now.”
Kiran dipped his chin and slipped back into the shadows. Draven squared his shoulders and quickly assessed. Lyra had started to dance, her arm bent awkwardly back to unclasp her top while a not-so-subtle sneer twisted her lips.
He would not be allowing that to happen.
Uncurling his fingers from his palms, he conjured a cloud of ink at the roof’s center.
Then, hidden within the vapor-like magic, he sent two spears of dark magic hurtling toward one another, resulting in a loud crack that split the air like a thunderclap.
After, he stole all the light from the room and used tendrils of his magic to knock over the goblets of those he observed being disrespectfully handsy toward Lyra.
Just as he intended, a small bout of chaos erupted.
Kiran suddenly appeared back by his side, panting and with a small bead of sweat hovering above his brow.
“Well?” Draven asked.
Kiran only answered him with a smug smirk, telling him everything he needed to know.
He had been successful.
“Terian, dispel this magic at once. Fire-wielders, reignite the braziers and the candles,” King Alastair demanded with no small amount of anger lacing through his words.
Draven dropped his hands, releasing his hold on his magic, instead allowing what he had conjured to merely linger in the air as a distraction.
“You better go,” he said to his brother.
“The King knows you’re here, and he certainly knows you’re a fire-wielder.
He’ll make it a point to send word to either your father or mine if you’re caught being ‘insubordinate.’”
Kiran grunted both his agreement and annoyance for that man. He wandered out to where he could be viewed by the crowd, carelessly leaning against a pillar and flicking small fires into the oil lanterns.
Draven turned back to glance through the glass doors. He saw an orange-hued halo glowing in the midnight sky. Perfect.
When he reoriented his attention forward, he caught Lyra studying his magic as it slowly disappeared from the roof.
As he watched her stare, Draven couldn’t help but wonder if she somehow recognized it.
If there was some small part of her that perhaps felt something familiar in it.
Though, he highly doubted it, given the highly effective nature of memory elixirs.
You are not a monster.
Despite everything, for that frozen second, all he could see was that small girl as she cupped his face with her palms and tore him free of a terrifying nightmare.
The same formidable girl who called a king’s guard a ‘slug’ and, despite knowing nothing about him, attempted to defend Draven against his father.
Before he fully realized what he was doing, he sent a small tendril of his magic over to her, and he caressed her cheek, gliding it across her skin like a soothing sweep of his thumb. It was a thank you and a goodbye.
Kiran returned to Draven’s side, and an errand boy ran in not too long after. They watched the proceeding events as they unfolded, both scowling at Eri as he pressed his request further. Both lifting their brows in surprise as King Yarum interjected, thwarting his plans.
Draven did not know much about the King of Anatolé—unlike King Alastair, his father was not in frequent communication with him. Yet as he watched, something in Draven’s gut told him Lyra was safe behind his throne. At least, it was the best option at that moment given her circumstances.
So, deciding they had their fill of the evening, Kiran and Draven left the party. They wandered outside the estate grounds, mounted their horses, and then they rode off for their inn, refusing to sleep anywhere near King Alastair’s estate if they could help it.
As the sound of the horse’s hooves filled the air and silence filled the space between them, Draven felt an unexpected warmth in his chest. He knew he would probably never see the lilac-haired girl again—he knew it was probably nothing more than a fluke that he saw her for even a second time.
Yet knowing he was finally able to help her—even just that once, in such a minor way—left him with a feeling he thought much resembled the tender kiss of a gleaming sun during the chill of wintertide’s morning.
Yes, he thought. That had to be the distinct sensation of a new sun dawning in winter’s horizon. It was ready to begin its work, thawing the many layers of ice that had formed in the presence of a ceaseless, unrelenting cold.
It would not be easy. It would not happen overnight. But it would happen.
He knew he would never be wholly pure nor someone who could ever claim the role of hero—he knew he was no hero.
Yet he could be there and give himself wholly to the people who deserved it.
People like Kiran. Like Rhea. Finlay, even.
And perhaps someday, just as his mother always wanted for him, he would fall in love.
Then, after his years of mistakes and months of attempting to right them and be better, he would be primed and ready to give himself to that person as well. All of him, uninhibitedly.
To his surprise, emotion swelled in his chest at the thought. Perhaps, even, excitement.
How far he had come in the past six months.
Yes…
Despite the composition of his many grueling scars, Draven finally felt as though he took his first real steps toward someday being worthy of wearing his sea glass pendant again.
And it felt good.