Chapter Sixty-Two
K iran watches patiently as Draven tears everything apart—ripping curtains from walls, shredding pillows, throwing vases, and shattering every glass piece in sight.
A week has already passed—a brutal set of days not for the faint of heart as so many mourn and grapple with all the devastating loss.
Tonight, Bathara holds a requiem for all the fallen stars, and attendance is mandatory for every captain.
For Draven, it will be his first time facing the world since Lyra was taken, not leaving his bedchamber after Finlay and Kiran scraped him off the ground—all the fight leaving his body once he learned what happened.
It seems the thought of not only leaving his room, but having to make a public appearance, has sent Draven spiraling.
Though it probably doesn’t help Draven’s father is also forcing him to attend—to save face— leveraging the card he has always used to make Draven bend to his will.
Gods, Kiran hates that man. Hates all that he’s had to watch Draven endure because of him.
Draven continues destroying everything within his reach, sparing only the spread of maps he’s been poring over—littered with pins as he attempts to trace Lyra’s most likely location—and the official missive he drafted, informing King Alastair he has Selected Lyra to join his aggregate.
Kiran sighs and shakes his head, wondering how the hell he’s going to get his brother into the bathing chambers and clean-shaven. Their spare time is dwindling, and it won’t be long until Kiran is forced to intervene. Still, in spite of that, Kiran watches Draven with only a single thought—
May the gods help anyone who gets in Draven’s way as he fights to get Lyra back.
And may the gods help them all until he does.