Chapter 13 Fated
Fated
Can something made still have a fate? It cannot be said with certainty whether changelings can have mates, as they were created not by divine hands, but by our own.
SHIT. SHIT. SHIT.
I stand frozen as Draven draws that over-brimming arrogance onto his shoulders like slipping on a new jacket. I envy his careless ease. I swear on the gods themselves King Silas smirks at his son’s audacity before turning to King Altair.
The two leaders stare each other down and energy crackles through the room as the kings of light and dark square off.
“You’re going to break your word to me?” King Altair demands, light burning around his halo as he places it back where it belongs, the blinding aura a deadly crown encircling the golden one in his hair. Silas clenches his jaw as he takes in his son with a calculating look.
Draven links my hand in his. My palm is sweaty, and I wonder how he can bear to touch me, but his grip only tightens.
Finally, my father rushes to whisper in Altair’s ear.
“Please, my king. She is my daughter, and I promise it will never come to pass. She’s only wanted a simple life, never glory, never power.” My father’s gaze flashes back and forth between me and his king, tears lining his eyes, a desperation there I haven’t seen since my brother was Selected.
My heart clenches in my chest when I realize he believes the words he’s swearing to Altair.
But they’re not true.
That simple, sweet girl isn’t me, not anymore. He doesn’t know what I’ve become.
Altair puts up a hand to stop his rushed words, but then the princess moves forward, graceful as a gazelle, her words quiet, as if in the presence of mourners.
“Father—let them deal with the girl. Spare Draven. He could still be an ally.”
Altair silences her with a look and then tells Silas, “This is not over.”
Light slams from the ceiling, warping the very air. It flashes out, and all the seraphs are gone, leaving streaks of white painted across my vision.
He’s gone. My father’s gone.
I blink several times, shoulders slumping, and then find King Silas bearing down on Draven, all his calm thrown out the window. Instantly I go tense, moving forward, but my Oath stops me from doing anything as he grasps Draven by the front of his regal suit.
“Don’t you ever surprise me with shit like that again,” he snarls. “I’d have thought you of all people would’ve known better than to pull a weapon in front of Altair.”
He releases Draven and turns to me. It takes everything to hold my ground.
“I don’t know what you are, or what you will be, but know that if I think you’re a threat to this kingdom, I will not hesitate to end you myself.
Now as far as your future, you’ve successfully burned the bridge to Nevaeh, and seraphs do not forget even the smallest of slights.
” His voice is a hiss. “Draven may be willing to risk his life and our future to vouch for you, but I am not. You’re lazy, insolent, and so far, talentless. ”
His words sink like stones, but I lift my chin, spite the very makeup of my being.
Silas turns his attention back to Draven, shaking his head, wearing an angry smile.
“I need to go sell this mess you’ve made to the rest of Court.
I sure hope you know what the fuck you’re doing, boy. You’re stuck with her now.”
He leaves us, the untenable tension in the room lifting with his departure.
A few guards linger and Draven trembles at my side, his fists clenched, jaw equally so, eyes burning crimson.
He clamps them shut and when he opens them again, they shift drastically to indigo.
I don’t complain or move my hand away as he squeezes it so tightly my knuckles burn.
His other hand draws the World and Death and then we’re back in that transportive darkness, the wind howling like wolves around us.
The next moment we’re in his room. Outside the massive arched window, night has fallen, the sky moonless, the volcano gone cold.
I’ve never seen it so dark here. The stars are spectacular.
Thank the gods, since they’ll be the ones I’m looking at for the next four years at the Forge, and then an eternity more at Draven’s side.
What does this mean for finding my family? Is there any chance of seeing my father again? I claw my hand through my hair, more lost than ever.
Draven shirks off his overcoat, casting it over an armchair before slinking into its cushions, staring into the fire. Another chair sits across from his, a small table with a chessboard halfway through play between them. I throw myself into the velvet of the empty seat.
“What the hells was that?” I demand, and his eyes flick to mine, but they’re not indigo so much now as a bright, tempestuous violet.
“You said anything.”
“Yes, because I thought you were clever!” Anger grows with every syllable and my hands shudder on the armrests.
“I told you if you wore that dress it’d be distracting.” His grin is a wild wicked thing, as if the oppressive heat between us is a welcome diversion from the shitfest we just escaped.
I can’t look at him without shivers running across my skin. I bury my face into an accent pillow. “Become your queen? Marry you? Fuck off, Draven.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’d marry a broom handle if it secured me my kingdom—”
I drop the pillow. “It’d be more likely to fuck you than me.”
His gaze snaps up, incitement visible in his clenched jaw. “You should be thanking me. Most people would beg for the power that chose you, the might and ambition I’m offering you—”
“I’m sure you’d love for me to beg.”
“Want me to fetch King Altair? I’m sure he’d be happy to execute you instead.”
I force myself to take a breath. To calm. I need to think my next words through carefully.
“I just … I don’t understand how that went so sideways!” I can’t get a firm breath in my lungs. My heart’s beating so wildly I feel its pulsations in my fingertips, my neck, even my toes. It’s rocking my entire body, yet he sits there so calmly. “Why aren’t you upset?”
“Why should I be?”
“You just traded one shackle for another.”
He should be livid, berating me about how much I’ve cost him.
“But this one owes me her life.” His lips twitch and his nostrils flare as he watches me closely. “And at least this manacle comes with much prettier packaging.”
My cheeks heat at the arrogant smile curling the edges of his lips like paper held to flame.
He’s just saying that to mess with me. To get a rise.
Obviously, I’m not comparable in beauty to the seraph princess Reva, who I’d have thought was a goddess if I didn’t know any better.
Maybe he’s just trying to stop me from yelling, but I’m in too pissy of a mood.
“Like the princess was anything to scoff at.”
“Well … you’ve seen what her dad’s like.”
He looks to the chessboard in front of us, making to move one of my white pieces for me. I swat his hand away, taking it for myself. Annoyingly, I realize it was the right play and put the rook down in the spot he’d been angling toward.
My mind whirls as I attempt to figure out my next steps.
I’m tied to Draven. I need to know what he needs, what he desires most, so I can barter it for what I want.
My family returned to me, a place of power here.
As of right now I don’t have another option, as my plan just got chucked through the window.
There will be no going to Nevaeh. No reunification with my father, maybe ever.
I clench my eyes shut, forming my words carefully.
“You’re out of your betrothal. Free to rule here as the heir now.” I watch his performance of self-satisfied prince critically. There’s a deeper motivation he’s hiding behind the carefully curated mask. “What do you want from me?”
He smirks, moving to the black pieces and grasping a bishop, and his throat bobs before he says, “I need a partner.” His gaze locks on mine, and the firmness of his stare emphasizes his words are oddly true.
No jokes, no games. “My father may want me to rule, but I defied his trust tonight. Put us on the edge of a war he very much does not want. I’m not wholly sure what my actions tonight mean for me.
But I intend to rule with what’s best for all people.
I need someone I can rely on. Without question. ”
I lean forward. “Where do mortals fit into your vision?”
His smile falters. Soberly he says, “I want to end the Selection.”
“End it?” My heart skips a beat. Of all the things I thought he’d say, it wasn’t that. Now he has my attention.
“I don’t believe in the Selection. I know how contrary it sounds, as I got here through being chosen. But I think people should be given the choice to join, not treated like cattle.”
Those wings on his back shift. They’re likely a constant weight and reminder of the ways in which he’s been changed. Unwillingly, like me, at least at first.
“Many would choose to join us on their own. But forcing this assimilation, tearing families apart, the elves enslaving many of their Selected. It breeds resentment, uprisings, hatred. It cannot go on.”
“Do you intend to find a cure for the Curse?”
“There is no cure,” he says so firmly I wonder what he knows.
He unbuttons the top button of his shirt, adjusting in his seat, giving me a view of his curved collarbone, patterned with tattoos. Two serpents, one white, one dark, intertwine at the bow of it. I wonder what the rest looks like, how mapped out his skin is in ink.