Chapter 23
You’re Supposed to be Broken
“No Draker, knight, nor nobleman of this age can contest the skill of Xavian Steele. Bastard though he may be, he is, without question, the finest blade our generation has ever produced.”
— A Modern History of the Realm, by Jon Harvington
I was no longer on the forest floor with Riven. Instead, I strode along an outdoor corridor of a grey building, but it was not me controlling my legs. I had no choice or ability to do anything. I could only watch.
I was locked behind the eyes of another, to where not even my own mind could trick me into believing it was real. It was a dream.
I pushed through towering steel doors and into what appeared to be a meeting room. Three men sat dripping in wealth at a magnificent black oval table overlooking the ocean beneath the night sky.
Only one cushioned chair was left empty at the head of the table. The body I was trapped in sat, and the four men turned to me attentively.
An older, balding man with spectacles and a hooked nose spoke first. “My lord, I think the Dark Natured are too unpredictable to–”
“I’ve had enough of your thinking,” a voice erupted from my mouth—a man’s voice, unyielding.
To my right, a freckled man with cropped red hair grinned delightfully.
To my left was a man with long, sleek black hair. He was perhaps a few winters older than me, wearing a rich emerald green jacket that contrasted with his pale face. His expression was stone cold as he shook his head.
There were no documents on the table, just a space for discussion. No Drakers were present either. The castle could not be in Drakington, because the moonlit ocean was so close.
“Open the brotherhood to anyone who will join,” my mouth said.
“My lord, Xavian, I—” the older man began.
Xavian?
The one with long, dark hair cut the grumpy one off. “I agree, my lord. We need the numbers for our forces.”
“While I’m glad you agree, it was not up for discussion,” Xavian’s voice said through my mouth, before turning to the one with red hair. “Avan, what is the update on the intruders from earlier? I hear they want me dead?”
Avan nodded. “Oh yes, we’ve found all but one. I’m sure the straggler will turn up in no time.”
Footsteps ran towards the doors, and they swung open. A wild man with frizzy brown hair entered the room, honing in on Xavian.
“Inkweed lover!” the man shouted.
Xavian pulled his arm back in a precise beat, propelling a dagger across the room. It sank directly into the intruder's heart.
“Ah, you found him,” Avan said, impressed.
The older man at the table sighed, rubbing a long finger over his deeply wrinkled forehead.
Xavian glanced to his left. “Draven, what updates do you have today?”
“I have gathered a list of possible brides, my lord.” Draven’s bitter voice was the quietest among them, nearly a hiss.
“My daughter is a perfectly acceptable choice, and she already resides on these lands,” the older one began again.
He irritated me, or maybe it was Xavian he was irritating. I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
“She’s barren,” Xavian said, drumming his fingers on the table.
“How could we possibly know such a thing?” the older man argued, cheeks red.
“I would never buy a sword without testing it first. Next.”
When the older man went to speak again, Xavian raised his hand in warning.
Suddenly, my head hurt, my mind became watery and my eyes closed before I shifted back into my own body.
Still, I could not move. I was in the woods, but time had gone backward.
“You need to run,” Riven ordered.
The golden arrow was in the tree above us again.
“To where? I’ll get lost on my own,” I said, just as I had before.
I knew what happened next. The arrow was coming, but I couldn’t change anything.
All of it, I was forced to live through again. Riven pulling the arrow out, running through the forest with a blood trail, cradling my broken arm, and then—
Xavian’s body drew in a breath, eyes shooting open, and we were at the table again.
“Are you okay?” Avan asked, leaning in.
Xavian stormed out of the room.
Avan and Draven followed behind, close on his heels. “What’s happened now?” Draven asked.
“A broken arm, and another damned arrow,” Xavian thundered.
Avan caught up on the right, scratching at his lightly freckled face. “Vomit this time too…or?”
Xavian ignored him, pushing through doors leading into a well-lit room with white glowing lights, tables, and a sick cot. Two healers worked inside. Their eyes brightened to see Xavian.
“I need a healer,” Xavian ordered. “Maybe both of you.”
I woke to the sound of Riven packing our things. It wasn’t even first light yet, but he was dressed and had laid out dry clothes for me. It was strange to finally have a dream after weeks of not having one. I hoped Riven hadn’t heard me talking in my sleep.
Sitting up, I used my blanket to preserve the last bit of modesty I had. The thought of pulling a shirt over my broken arm was more intimidating than most men I had met in my life.
I rubbed my eyes, tensing as I noticed which arm I was using.
“You’re supposed to be broken,” I whispered.
Riven’s boots crunched into the ground as he surveyed the area. “Who are you talking to?”
I gave it an uncertain shake, unable to believe my eyes and unwilling to admit to speaking to a bone. There was no pain, not even when I moved it. I needed to see it beneath the wrap for myself.
“Cut this off of me.” The urgency in my voice was sharp. My arm should’ve been swollen. I shouldn’t have been able to move it with ease.
He didn’t ask questions as he whipped a blade out and sliced the wrap off in a swift motion.
Riven and I both lost breath at the sight of my arm.
Where cuts and a broken bone had been, there were curved markings like black lightning, curling at the end.
It was as if ink had spilled into meandering pathways, reaching halfway down my forearm, leading straight to the King’s Mark.
I stretched out my fingers, testing the full range of motion. My limb felt new.
Riven stared, tense and bewildered.
“Let me check your leg.”
His knife was ready as I lifted the blanket to expose the back of my thigh.
“Tell me what you see,” I demanded.
“The wound is gone.”
“No scar?”
He braced his hand on my hip, turning me further away, his thumb pressing into the sensitive spot on my side.
He hesitated. “I’m not sure I’d call this a scar.”
I turned back. “Why not?”
“Because it looks like the sun. Similar to the King's Mark, but outlined in black instead of gold. It has those same curves as the markings on your arm,” he said. “There’s not a chance a Lyonheart healed you last night, though.”
I covered myself with the blanket. It was warmer out than it had been in days, the snow no longer falling. With any luck, the day would go smoother than yesterday. It had to.
“Maybe it’s Zain’s magic still lingering in my body,” I guessed, rotating my arm and inspecting the markings. Perhaps I still had some leftover, and it just needed hours in my bloodstream to find the wounds. Or perhaps the King's Mark worked a miracle.
Riven didn’t seem so convinced, but we had more pressing matters to concern ourselves with than my arm no longer being broken. I feared that if I questioned it too much, the Gods would shatter me again themselves.
Kostini carried us fast and steady with Riven gripping the reins, not needing the map anymore.
We cleared the woods, and for the first time since leaving Lyonscliff, we found ourselves on a real road.
According to Lord Dronis’ map, there were no nearby cities.
This area had been long abandoned for better farmlands, leaving nothing but a port.
Downhill of a dirt road, the sparkling ocean peeked through at last. My heart tightened at the grey hue of the sea and the embracing smell of salt.
Even better, there was a massive boat, just as Dronis had said there would be.
The black ship was docked in the distance, where small groups of people boarded while others worked. I closed my eyes, saying a prayer to the Mother that traveling to this port would be worth it.
As we rode closer, the design of the flags came into view.
There were no Drakington Falcons. Instead, there was the symbol of a beast. The same symbol that had been on Singer's box.
A bladebreather. Silver-scaled, with a reptilian head.
Its mane was sizable, but of no comparison to its expansive, feathered wings.
At the docking area, there was a grassy patch perfect for dismounting. Riven tied Kostini to a post, bringing only our packs.
“Ready to travel the Sea of Blades?” Riven’s tan cheeks were dusted pink from the stiff wind whipping at our faces, his honey eyes twinkling in the sunlight.
I had never been on a ship, but I couldn't be more ready. We didn’t know who else would be on it, or what conditions we would have to survive, but I’d survived the Waywards. I’d survived Lyonscliff. I’d survived the Western Woods and the Sapphire camp. I would survive this ship.
Riven must have been thinking the same, because he grasped my hand before brushing his thumb over my skin. “We walk on together, we walk off together.” His voice was steady and sure. I looked down at my hand—our hands.
No one had ever held my hand before; always too afraid of my poison. But Riven wasn’t scared, or too proud. He didn’t see me as a Blackheart. He saw me.