Chapter Twenty-Four #2
In front of the banner boasting the emblem composed of pine and crimson—the same emblem worn by the man who checked me in—towers Draven.
Wearing something like a loose hemp sweater and breeches, his arms are folded across his broad chest, his features set with a cold indifference.
I catch him observing me, expressionless.
And next to Draven is Kiran, wearing a finely woven black tunic trimmed in ruby.
Not surprisingly, he studies me with that familiar glint in his sapphire eyes, boasting a lopsided smirk.
Though, I notice it looks…different. Off, almost. Normally, his smile looks effortless and natural, but this one seems forced.
Still, Kiran clasps his hands behind his back and winks at me so subtly, I think I’m seeing things.
I fight the urge to laugh at the gesture.
When we all met in the valley, I knew they were hiding something—or at the very least, omitting information.
But I had assumed it was related to their scouting mission or their heritage, not wanting us to know which noble house they came from.
I never imagined they were hiding their titles as captains over some of Bathara’s aggregates.
Even I have heard the emissaries and the courtiers whispering about the rumored strength of Bathara’s current captains.
I guess that at least explains how Kiran was able to control such a staggering wall of fire, keeping the Abdites at bay, and how they were able to defeat the corrupted wielders.
Because I never did get to see Draven’s magic, and I’d be lying if I said my mind didn’t randomly wonder what it is.
Though, I guess I have a glimpse at my answer as the dark vapor fades away, returning to Draven’s fingertips like an obedient pet.
And for some ungodsly reason, as it does, his sharp gaze remains fixed on me.
Slightly annoyed by his unrelenting observation, I arch a pointed brow and stare back. I understand he thinks I have no place here, but I’ll be damned if I let him intimidate me. I’m not giving him the satisfaction, not letting him win.
Until it hits me that he is one of the people holding my fate in his hands. And if he doesn’t think I belong here, then he holds the power to make sure I’m not accepted. But he also knows what’s at stake for me—what I have to lose.
I exhale a frustrated sigh through my nose.
Marcella’s eyes bounce between the two of us. Subtly, she points a finger up at Draven. “Uhm, do you know him? ”
“No,” I answer, truthfully. “I know nothing about him.”
“Hm,” she hums while flicking her eyes to Draven, to me, then back at Draven.
Her brow rises. “Okay…then why are you staring at him like you can’t decide if you want to slit his throat or rip his clothes off?
And why is he staring at you like…” she tilts her head and pouts “...what the hell even is that look?”
I scoff. “I do not want to rip his clothes off.” My lips twitch fondly at a passing thought. “Though, the idea of stabbing him once or twice has a particular appeal.”
I no longer see anything worth fighting over.
Bastard.
She chuckles and flashes her palms. “Don’t shoot the messenger.
I just call it how I see it.” She pauses, again sliding her gaze to Draven, a flirtatious smile now twirling her lips.
“Besides, I certainly want to rip his clothes off.” Her eyes slowly scan the mezzanine.
“In fact, I wouldn’t mind ripping all of the captains’ clothes off.
Is being attractive a requirement for being in charge around here or something?
” She snorts a laugh. “I mean, goddess’s tears, they are all brutally good-looking. ”
I clamp my lips together to contain my laughter. But damn it all if Marcella isn’t right. They all look like lesser gods on that mezzanine. Beautiful, sculpted, and teeming with power.
Closest to Josiah is a woman with luscious black hair and brown skin, whose purple and gold attire accentuate her considerable curves.
The banner behind her possesses an emblem shaped like a shield, trimmed in winding gold whirling like vines up into a point, purple filling the space inside.
A teardrop sits at the center, also outlined in valiant gold, with markings I can’t quite discern scribbled into the outlines.
I squint at her, trying to get a better look. She looks…sad, almost. It’s hard to be certain from this distance, but it looks like her eyes are swollen, and her face is strained from the effort not to fall into a frown.
Standing next to her is a man with white hair, and at attention next to him, in stark contrast, is Kiran—whose banner’s emblem is actually my favorite.
Stitched entirely in gold, it boasts the rays of a shining sun encircled by golden markings.
Rising from the base is the golden blade of a sword, its tip pointing to a burst of radiant light encircled by gilded leaves of an olive tree.
Next to Kiran stands Draven, and next to Draven stands a girl with beautifully bronzed hair and skin, paired with honey eyes. Her banner is an emblem with sprawled golden wings, a small shield wedged in the center with colored crystals peeking out below. Rather pretty, that banner.
“Now that you all know how your fate at Bathara will be determined.” Josiah continues. “It's time you’re introduced to your first test.” He looks to the mezzanine. “Finlay, would you care to explain?”
A man who looks about the same age as Gray, with the flowing white hair, pure like the first fall of snow, steps forward and dips his chin at Josiah.
Braids pull at one side of his head, and his clothes are luxurious and beautiful—the white stunning against the shimmering golds and blues lining his surcoat.
His banner showcases a sapphire shield, its silver edges curving elegantly, outlined and crowned with what looks like white flames.
In its center, a lattice of line work adorned with patterns twirl in a mix of blue and white, arching out to resemble wings, surrounded by crossed swords and flowing, petal-like motifs.
“I am Finlay Fjolla,” he says to the room. “And I am captain of the Skyborne aggregate.”
Marcella hisses under her breath while I lift a brow, surprised to see a Fjolla here.
“What?” I ask in a low whisper, curious at her unhappy noise.
She remains standing stick-straight and admirably still.
With a hushed tone, she responds, “I’ve heard rumors about the Skyborne aggregate.
They only accept those with reputable noble bloodlines.
The highest of highborns, if you will.” She scowls in Finlay’s direction.
“Which, considering it’s captained by a Fjolla —” her lips pucker like she’s just tasted something sour “—I at least now understand why.”
As an Archblood and a Great House, House Fjolla is richer than a king and practically as powerful as one.
They are the progenitor bloodline of ice magic, and thus, no one wields it as skillfully or with as much power as they do.
They are also somewhat of a mystery. The Fjolla line resides at Aderwynn Castle located in the far, wintery north, on the very outskirts of Erandor Kingdom’s borders.
Surrounded by the treacherous Wolfgaith Mountains and enclosed by Tuarana’s River Lace, they are somewhat isolated from the rest of Solaya, making them rumored recluses and…
unpleasant. Though, it could be debated whether the root cause of that is from their isolation or self-imposed importance.
Well, that at least explains Finlay’s all-white clothes and hair. And the freaky, icy blue eyes.
“For your first test,” Finlay declares in a rigidly poised voice, “you will be tasked with recovering an item. A flower.”
“But not just any flower.” Kiran steps forward and smiles lazily at Finlay.
Finlay returns the look with a scowl, and…
I’m sensing some tension there. “You will recover an essence flower from the Whispering Grove.” Kiran’s voice is charming and brimming with life, the complete opposite of Finlay’s rigid and stiff tone.
Kiran opens his mouth to continue, but Finlay interjects instead.
“An essence flower,” he begins, shooting Kiran a warning glare, “is a flower that will only bloom when someone who shares its essence nears. They are a rather peculiar magical phenomenon, but ultimately, the flowers represent the essence of that which lingers in your veins.” Finlay lifts his chin and observes the way his words resonate with the examinees.
“Your task is simple: detect your essence flower by attuning your magical energy to it, pick the flower, and then bring it back to us within three days.”
“Those of you who succeed will present what you return with to us. Afterward, we will deliberate and determine whether you proceed in these exams.” Kiran scans the crowd, a curve tugging at his lips.
And there’s something oddly comforting in knowing he truly never loses that wicked smirk of his.
In tune to the thought, as if some cruel smack from the universe, Kiran’s smirk falters, and he swivels his attention to the woman with dark hair. The one with sad eyes.
“Nuha,” he murmurs, softening his voice into something kind .
Ice strikes my heart, spreading through my veins and down to the tips of my fingers.
Nuha .
Meiji’s partner. The one he planned to marry.
The woman Meiji loved so fiercely, it took me only seconds to feel his devotion.
The woman who, once upon a time, in a world where cruelty didn’t steal, would wear a ring proudly on her finger.
As if on instinct, my eyes glance down to her hands—specifically to her fingers.
There is no ring on them.