Chapter Forty-Three
F our days have passed since the end of the second test.
Of the eleven teams—not counting our own—only six completed the test and returned with the head of their assigned creature. Of those six teams, three examinees failed and were asked to leave Bathara—for what reasons, I don’t know.
That leaves thirty-one examinees left to take the third and final test in three days; the test that, according to Marcella, has the lowest passing rate of them all.
An incredibly comforting fact, I might add.
After the day in the hills, things with Draven have felt…different. Though, I’m not sure how that’s possible considering I’ve been trying to keep my distance as much as one person can when seeing someone morning, noon, and night.
We’ve officially incorporated magic into my training, working on it after all my daily tasks have been completed—or rather, once I’ve attempted them and answered a million questions afterwards, when I fail to complete them successfully.
But I am getting very close in my defense.
Still, despite Draven’s admirable magical instruction, I haven’t been able to successfully wield magic under his guidance once.
Not even so much as a tiny weed sprouting from the ground.
And my frustration with that is growing hotter day by day—as well as my self-doubts.
But, as Draven reminds me, at least I’m trying. He says it probably has something to do with my unmanifested wielder’s mark, and I shouldn’t take it as a reflection of my capabilities.
Which always leaves me wondering—
Why the hell hasn’t my wielder’s mark manifested yet, and when is it planning on appearing?
I heave a sigh, rounding the corner of one of Bathara’s many walking paths in their expansive and elegant gardens.
Draven cut our training short this morning—though I have no clue why—and so I’ve been walking around Bathara, exploring ever since.
So far, I’ve found four new gardens I didn’t know existed, a stunning greenhouse that I plan on visiting later—once healers aren’t within the glass panes attending to their herbs—and scattered marble statues of different gods and influential people from Solaya’s history.
Notably, three of the statues I discovered were the founders of the remaining Archblood lines—the first descendents of the gods, according to some legends. Though, I’ve never been one to believe receiving magic from the gods made them descendants of them.
Declan Sulien’s statue was carved from fire quartz, featuring a shimmering base filled with fiery red, vibrant orange, and molten amber streaking throughout the stone. Resting on its platform is a golden plaque, labeled “Declan Sulien: Son of the Sun”.
Then there was Elwin Fjolla’s statue, carved from a stunningly pure block of winter crystal. His statue featured a plaque forged from beautiful turquoise with the writings, “Elwin Fjolla: The Frosted Prince”.
And lastly, there was Kyros Dalmar’s statue. Created using the glittering, onyx anthracite mined in the Endymion Mountains, his statue sparkled in the sun like a starry night. His violet-colored plaque read, “Kyros Dalmar: Ruler of Night”.
For some reason, of all the statues, it is the Dalmar one that I find to be equally the most beautiful and unnerving.
I find another statue tucked deep into a neglected garden filled with weeds, catching my interest. It is crafted from a beautiful, yet eroding, purple agate stone.
The arms have crumbled, leaving nothing but legs and a feminine shaped torso, and the face has eroded into a flat surface.
Still, the bronze-colored plaque is semi-legible, showing at least the deteriorating woman’s name. “Lucillia Izavarda, Daughter of—”.
I can’t make out the final part, with the words being too rusted and weathered.
I continue with my stroll, my mind fixated on the name. Why does it sound so familiar? I don’t recognize it from any history lessons with Sterling—at least I think—but instead from something more recent.
It hits me right when I turn a corner, finding a large fountain with stone outlines of small creatures I don’t recognize spewing water from their mouths opposite of each other.
Casimir Vivaldri’s journal.
I remember him mentioning the Izavarda name. But why? What was the reason again?
I sit against the edge of the pouring fountain and pinch my chin as I think. My brows knit firmly together, and I stare at the stone pathway underneath my feet. He sought out someone with the name for… something .
I’m so lost in my thoughts, I don’t hear the footsteps approaching.
“Oh? What’s this? A lapdog free of its leash?”
Ice crawls down my skin, sending the hairs on my arms rising. I jerk upright, my eyes immediately finding the sound of the voice.
Smooth face. Neat, slicked-back, ebony hair that is a few shades darker than his inky eyes. A slimy smirk curling his entitled lips.
Eri Valenwood.
The right hand to the Supreme Commander, Tynan Dalmar.
What in god’s veins is he doing here?
I tilt my head and mock a frown at him. “Strange—all I see before me is a slithering snake.”
Eri’s lip curls with a sneer. “Your insolence will have you hanged some day.”
“A far better fate than spending three more seconds near you,” I croon.
I make to strut past him, but he curls his fingers aggressively around my bicep and yanks me back toward him.
“I should have you whipped,” he seethes quietly.
“And I should break your nose for touching me.” I shrug at him—lazy and indifferent. “But it appears neither of us will be getting what we want.” I attempt to wrench my arm from his grip, but Eri doesn’t let go. “Let go of me,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
He cocks his head, pretending to think. “No,” he replies with a false softness. “No, I don’t think I will. Because you see, pet , I am the one who gives the orders, and you—” his grip on my arm tightens “—are the one who takes them.”
“Not. Anymore,” I grit out.
Eri feigns sympathy. “Oh, my dear. You don’t actually think you’ll ever have a place here, do you? That you could ever belong in our world?” He digs his fingers deeper into my skin, and at this point, I am sure it’ll leave a bruise.
I will not cower. I will not yield. I will not falter.
Yet despite seeking strength in those words, my lips thin, and I don’t have a reply for Eri.
It makes him grin like a victorious predator who has successfully entrapped its prey.
“Let me spell this out for you so clearly, even a lowblooded servant girl like you can understand: I don’t know how you managed to convince King Alastair to let you come here and compete, but a girl like you—a whore only good for a night’s fuck—has no place in the world of nobility. You are scum. Trash. Worthless .”
The hammer that won’t seem to go away begins tapping at the wall in my chest again, creating another small fissure.
I clench my jaw against it and lift my chin. “Forgive me if I don’t value the opinion of an oily worm.”
Eri’s eyes flare with rage before his face falls into a strange calm.
He tugs me closer into him, and I have never found the smell of rosemary to be so repulsive.
“You have such defiant eyes,” he sings. “And they are so sharp—so unique with their coloring.” He chuckles, the low sound not a happy thing at all.
“I remember seeing you that night in King Alastair’s hall with an amethyst jewel resting on your head.
I was so…enticed.” He licks his bottom lip, and his eyes slowly scan my body .
I jerk against his hold, but he does not let go.
He presses his lips against my ear. “Do not think I have forgotten what you owe me.” The words are a greasy whisper.
“I owe you nothing,” I seethe back.
“Fine,” Eri says, pushing me backwards toward the fountain’s edge. “If you will not give me what you owe, I’ll just take it instead.”
Fucking men .
The moment his lips brush my neck, a boiling heat consumes my blood, and I simply…react—doing what I so desperately wanted to do that night during The Founding celebration. My free arm draws back, and I punch him straight across the face.
He tips over, clutching his angry jaw. “You fucking whore.”
I click my tongue. “Truly, men must learn to get more creative with their insults.” My shoulder shrugs lazily.
“If the worst thing I am is a person who enjoys fucking, then so be it. I’d much rather be that than a cowardly man who thinks just because he has a cock between his legs means he owns the world. ”
Now, I concede provoking him further may not have been the best move…
But it felt damn good saying it.
Until Eri charges at me, pins my arms to my sides, and rams me against the fountain. His following punch is like a shock to my system, rattling my cheekbone and my senses.
I gasp for air, shaking my head against the stars blurring my vision.
Eri yanks my hair and spins me around. I hear him working on the belt supporting his trousers, each clink and clatter like a death sentence. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth to keep it from quivering—I won’t give Eri the satisfaction—and attempt to count my breaths.
It’s the only way to survive something like this with a semblance of sanity.
But before Eri can finish the work on his belt, I feel him being yanked off of me by something— someone .
When I turn around, Draven has Eri pinned to the ground on his back, a jet-black dagger at his throat. And the look screaming in his eyes is a rage that burns hotter than a flame.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Eri seethes from below him, his teeth stained in crimson, his lip split down the middle.
I don’t think that’s a result of my punch.
“Trying very hard not to kill you right here and now,” Draven growls, his voice sharp as the dagger at Eri’s throat.
“Have you lost your gods-damn mind ?” Eri looks at Draven, incredulous. “She’s a whore , Draven. It’s her fucking duty .”
I blink, confused why Eri speaks to Draven like he knows him.
Actually…
He must know him—he said his name.