Chapter Sixty #2
Through gritted teeth, Draven clings to Lyra with every bit of strength he has.
“I’m calling in my price. Naming what you owe me for training you.
” He fights against a surge of unbearable pain ripping through his muscles.
“It’s that you live, Lyra. You must live.
And if you don’t, then I’m coming with you, because I don’t want to be in a world where I can’t wake up and find you. ”
Her eyes flicker, shifting from that silvery-white to their normal color, and he can feel her body slacken, if only just a little.
So, he presses on, hoping his words will reach her. Praying to whatever god will listen that they are enough to convince her to let go of all the magic destroying her body.
“I told you I would burn, so long as it was by your flame. And I meant it. I will hold you until my skin melts from my bones if I have to. Because I’m not letting go, Lyra.
If you walk into the afterlife, then I’ll be right there behind you, happy I wasn’t left in a world without you in it.
” Draven swallows, the action painful from the burns now coating his throat.
“So that’s the bargain: either you live, or you take me with you.
Because where you go, I follow. Even if it leads me straight to the gates of Merikh’s realm. ”
The howling winds quiet, and the tongues of fire retreat back into her fingertips as ice falls from the sky like glittering stones.
The hurricane dissipates, and all the magic she was wielding disappears.
Lyra turns to look at him, her eyes slowly saturating into his favorite color.
Her lips part, like she wants to say something to him.
But when her skin dims, she collapses in Draven’s arms, going fully limp as consciousness leaves her.
The pain of catching her is so great against his burnt body, specks of red flood his vision. It is the best pain he has ever felt.
Yet the sound of wet, rattling breaths has Draven’s eyes snapping down.
Holy gods …
Her skin.
He has never seen anything like it.
Her body is like a desiccated shell, charred in some places and simply nonexistent in others.
Angry, swollen tissue and ligaments seep out from her, and clean ivory bone peeks out randomly.
Her hair is fried, sprouting on her head like crisp, withered weeds, and her skin is a mangled mess of burnt deformities.
Slowly, Draven lowers himself to his knees, holding her delicately against his aching chest. Once she’s propped gingerly on his thighs, his eyes rove across the Arena, looking for the healers as he releases his magic.
A terrifying cold Draven hasn’t felt in a long, long time runs through him as he realizes the battlefield has been cleared, leaving only burnt corpses sprinkled across the ground.
Past those he protected, he can only spot a handful of other survivors, crawling out from a ditch hidden underneath a large slab of rock and from the shell of protection Nuha and Arden provided.
Lyra obliterated everyone else, Abdites and fellow wielders alike.
He glances down at her, his heart squeezing painfully in his chest.
A slow applause echoes in the distance. Draven snaps his gaze up, finding the man crowned with raven feathers striding toward him. The Abdites’ Master, he’s decided.
“I must say,” the man croons. “I’ve heard a lot of speeches in my many years, but yours?” He lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Before I became what I am, it probably would have moved me to tears. Love is a remarkably powerful force, isn’t it?”
Before I became what I am .
Keeping Lyra secured in his arms, Draven focuses on the man in front of him, attempting to sense his magic. To his surprise, it feels like Lyra’s. But where hers is like tasting something sweet and scenting crushed sage, his is like tasting blood tainted by venom, corrupted and bitter.
And Draven realizes, despite how impossible it may seem, the man in front of him is without a doubt Casimir Vivaldri.
A troubling equation he will have to work out later.
Draven narrows his eyes on the former prince, who appears to be frozen in his mid-twenties somehow. “What did you do to her?”
Casimir clasps his hands behind his back, watching Lyra with a sort of gaze that sends Draven’s blood boiling. “I do concede I played a part in unleashing her. I was proving a point, and I fear I got last in my objective.”
“Lost how ?” Draven growls.
Casimir studies Draven, as if deciding something.
“I cast an illusion on her,” he confesses.
“One I knew would push her to her limits. She needed to see what she’s truly capable of.
Understand the power coursing in her veins.
But having her hate me would be no good, so I simply needed her to believe she lost someone who’s a pillar in her world.
What’s his name…” He pinches his chin with thought, snapping his fingers once he remembers.
“The Nightenjoy boy.Gray, I believe his name is.”
Draven glances down at Lyra briefly, sadness echoing in his chest. The devastation she must have felt thinking she lost Gray would have destroyed her. It is a sadness Draven is familiar with, and it brings him no joy to consider the lethal effects it can have once it sinks its teeth into you.
It makes sense now, why she exploded. How she lost control. She thought she watched her whole world turn upside down.
A terrifying quiet settles in Draven. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t rip your heart from your chest.”
The corner of Casimir’s lip kicks up. “I’ll give you two. The first being that would do nothing to stop me. The second being, Lyra needs me.” He shrugs. “It’s why I’ve come for her. To bring her back with me—to take her home.”
A wildfire unleashes itself beneath Draven’s skin. “Like. Fucking. Hell.”
Casimir sighs. “Please don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be. Too many have died already. Let’s not have any more casualties.”
Through the sides of his eyes, he sees Kiran and Finlay unite with Gray and Marcella in the distance, their tentative eyes watching Casimir and Draven.
It goes against his instincts not to press Lyra against his chest. But doing so would crumble her already ruined body.
So instead, he glances down at her briefly, gliding a painfully gentle touch down her marred cheek, before reorienting the full weight of his stare onto the former Crowned Prince of Rivara.
Draven rises, laying Lyra delicately on the ground, and faces the man— thing —with cold, ruthless eyes .
“You will not touch her. You will not be taking her anywhere . And you sure as hell will not be walking out of here with your life.”
Casimir clicks his tongue repeatedly. “Such empty promises,” he murmurs, as if more to himself than Draven.
“At this point, I am the only one who can save her.” Casimir Vivaldri takes a step forward.
“And make no mistake, I will be saving her before such a gift is lost to this world.” Casimir’s eyes harden.
“She is dying. I know you must be aware of that.”
The words almost bring Draven to his knees.
Casimir sighs, long and deep. His voice softens. “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t know she’d be able to draw so much magic at once. Her mark only just awakened, and so I thought she’d have more limitations.” A pause. “I regret causing her such harm.”
The sincerity in his voice perhaps angers Draven more than anything else.
“Yet, the fact remains,” Casimir continues. “I am not leaving here without her. And there is little you can do to stop that.”
Draven brings every ounce of magic he possesses to the surface.
“I’m not only going to prevent that from happening, but I’m also going to make you suffer every ounce of pain that she—” Draven points at Lyra “—was made to suffer because of your actions. And only when your body has burnt up its every nerve ending with pain and you have become numb to its suffering, only when your skin is as burnt and mangled as hers—only then will I kill you.”
Casimir does not blink. “Oh, how I wish that were possible. But…” he trails off, his voice filled with an odd sincerity. “I’m afraid it's not.”
Casimir Vivaldri and Draven remain at a standoff, their expressions equally as determined yet vastly different. The wind dies, and even the sky pulls clouds over its eyes, too terrified to watch what happens next.
Black veins crawl beneath Draven’s skin, spreading like ink in water, twisting around his forearms, coiling up his biceps, threading through his chest and neck. He knows the whites of his eyes will soon fade to black as the magic consumes him from the inside out.
Casimir studies Draven. “I truly am sorry,” he offers, his voice surprisingly soft. “I can see how much you care for her, but…you don’t wa nt to do this.”
Rage ignites in Draven—not a spark, not an ember, but an all-consuming fury.
“You know,” Draven drawls, his cold voice terrifying. “I’ve never been one to appreciate being told what I do or do not want.”
Draven lifts his hand, but before he can strike, Casimir attacks with a spear of fire and ice erupting from his palm, spiraling toward Draven in a blur of vermillion and white.
Draven—not having used the full potential of his magic in so, so long—conjures his black panthers from the darkness, and they lunge at the spear of magic, swallowing the attack whole.
A river of glistening shadow falls from Draven’s palms and surges across the battlefield, roaring toward Casimir’s feet.
But Casimir, with a smirk tipping his lips, flicks his wrist and commands the wind.
The black tide twists midair, reversing, hurtling back in the opposite direction.
And then Casimir attacks with a rapid succession of fire, light, and water, one after the other.
But Draven is quick.