Chapter 18
Everly
Soren’s plan wasn’t flawless, but it was the first thing in days that resembled direction. A narrow and undoubtedly treacherous path, but a path nonetheless.
He laid it all out for us at Nevara’s bedside, hand curled around hers as if he needed her presence to steady himself. The low light from the lanterns cast deep shadows across his face, making the hollows beneath his eyes look even darker. How long had it been since he slept?
“You need to be seen,” Soren said, his tone pitched low but firm. “The both of you. You can only claim the illness excuse for so long, and I’m afraid that time has passed.”
Draven stiffened beside me.
“Besides,” Soren continued, “too many of them saw her in the courtyard, and rumors are already flying. They will know you’re lying.”
The temperature dropped enough that frost feathered across the footboard.
Soren didn’t blink.
“Let’s not insult each other by pretending this is just about instability or recent attacks. It’s about Everly being—”
“Finish that sentence,” Draven warned, his voice like an icy blade.
“—Unseelie,” Soren finished anyway, with all the hesitation of a male naming the color of the sky. “There. Now that we’ve officially got that out in the open, perhaps we can all move on.”
As if he’d summoned them, shadows crept into the edges of my vision, my mana flaring once again like it wanted to offer confirmation.
Draven’s hand flexed once around my wrist as he siphoned them away with practiced ease.
“People are already whispering about the shadows from the battlefield,” he said with a gesture toward the retreating mana. “As well as the breach in the wards—”
“What do you mean ‘the breach’?” I asked, confusion lacing my tone.
He offered me a sad sort of smile.
“Some of the people believe that the Korythid attack followed by evidence of Unseelie mana this close to the palace are far from a coincidence…” he said.
“We know that they’re wrong, of course, that you wouldn’t dream of hurting Winter.
But often in these situations, the loudest voice in the room is the one that is the most believed. ”
His words resonated all too deeply.
“If you want to control the narrative, and avoid a riot,” he continued, “then, you need to show the court who you are together.”
I swallowed hard. “And what exactly does that mean?”
“It means you stop hiding,” Soren said bluntly.
“Public meals. Holding court. A jaunt through the main halls. Shards, even being seen sharing the same sunlight would help. Show them you’re a unit.
Show them Winter’s king stands with his queen.
And that the Visionary was right in choosing you, Everly. ”
Draven let out a slow, deadly exhale, his breath fogging in the air. “Her mana is unstable. It’s dangerous not only for the people she’s around but for her as well. I won’t risk her, and I won’t put her on display like some—”
“Then put precautions in place,” Soren countered.
“Keep the wolves close. Space out the crowds. Plan your routes to and from your quarters to the Great Hall or wherever else you go. But do something. Because if you wait too long, the court will decide the truth for you, and you won’t like the version they choose. ”
Draven’s entire body went still. The air thinned with the force of his anger.
“You think we should tell them the truth?” I asked carefully.
“Would you think less of me if I said not yet?” he asked with a wan smile. “What I am proposing isn’t some realm-shattering revelation of your heritage, but for you to show them who you are beneath that and who you could be as a couple… and as their monarchs.”
Relief washed over me in a wave. I wasn’t ready for that much honesty after a lifetime of hiding.
“And then later we’ll break the news to them, when they’re less likely to gather any spare torches and pitchforks,” he added.
“Yes, well, that would be preferable, all things considered,” I replied with a shrug.
Soren glanced toward Nevara and brushed a trembling thumb across the back of her hand. Then, he pushed away from the bedframe with a slow and weary groan to meet Draven’s gaze.
“Let me help you,” he said. “For her sake, and for the sake of what little remains of my Emberkiss whiskey stash.”
I glanced up at Draven. A muscle worked in his jaw as he considered how to respond. I could feel his indecision warring through our bond, the implications of each choice weighing on him and tugging him down different paths.
Finally, he gave a single dip of his chin. Just one. And Soren’s shoulders relaxed.
“But I have a condition,” Draven said after a beat.
Soren’s raven-dark brows furrowed, his head tilting in question.
“Before we discuss this further, you need to take a damn bath.”
The emissary barked out a surprised laugh but then nodded as well. He tried to make a joke of it at first, but there was genuine fear in his eyes when his gaze cut back to Nevara. He didn’t want to leave her.
“We’ll stay until you get back,” I added quickly.
“I’ll only be an hour,” he said after a moment. “Two, at most.”
“Take longer,” I said firmly. “And once you’ve eaten, and rested, we can talk more about the specifics of this plan.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, but he nodded. His footsteps were slow but determined as he filed from the room.
When the door finally shut behind him, the room felt strangely hollow. Quiet, in a way that made my pulse echo in my ears.
Draven didn’t move at first. He just stood there beside Nevara’s bed, his hand resting near hers but not touching, the lantern light gilding the sharp line of his profile. His expression was unreadable, at least until he blinked, and I saw the grief crack through the mask.
He swallowed and gave a minute shake of his head before his attention caught on something in the corner of the room.
For several long moments, he stared at the ornate liquor cart and the shimmering bottles and glasses laid out neatly on each shelf. He didn’t say a word as he crossed the distance, reaching for one at the very back of the bottom shelf.
He eased it out with both hands.
The bottle was dusty and thick-necked, the glass a deep twilight blue streaked with silver constellations. Age had chipped away half the painted pattern.
Draven held it as though it were something fragile. Or maybe even sacred… Perhaps both.
“That one doesn’t look like Nevara’s usual array of whiskey,” I said carefully, cognizant of the fact that my voice felt far too loud for the silence that had permeated the air.
Draven didn’t look away from the bottle. “It’s not.”
“What is it?”
His thumb brushed the embossed star on the glass in a gesture so gentle it cracked something open inside my chest.
“It’s the first bottle she ever stole,” he said quietly.
I stared. “Nevara stole liquor?”
A faint scoff slipped from his lips.
“Not just liquor,” he murmured. “Starlit Vodka. My mother’s favorite.”
He sank onto the low velvet bench beside the cabinet, turning the dark blue bottle over in his hands.
Images flitted through my consciousness—a crowd of courtiers, the forced smile of a much younger Nevara standing before them, her sightless eyes going bright with starlight as her visions took her wherever she was commanded to See.
Then there was the gentle smile of a female with the same frosted hue of blonde hair as the king before me now. Her icy green eyes glinted with kindness as she stared down at her son.
My sharp intake of breath echoed off the tower walls.
Memories. These were Draven’s memories.
He nodded in confirmation, then tilted his head toward Nevara’s bed.
“She was fifteen,” he said after a moment. “And I was just shy of sixteen. The palace was hosting a War Summit, some political performance meant to bolster morale, and send more soldiers to the front.”
The corner of his lip curled faintly. “My father’s idea. Invite every lord we needed support from. Ply them with wine and false hope before forcing them to send more fae to the frontlines.”
I eased onto the bench beside him. I hadn’t even realized that I’d moved closer.
“Nevara’s mother was already gone,” he added after a moment, “so she was forced to stand before the gathered nobility, listing every vision she’d had that month, and to summon more whenever my father’s favored lords stepped forward.
Tell them who was still alive at the warfront.
Who had fallen. Who would turn traitor.”
Draven’s grip tightened around the bottle, and frost laced out from his touch to cover the constellations.
“My father had her skewing her visions toward optimism, though. Enough truth to sound credible, enough lies to gather more forces, all the while making his Visionary dance like a marionette.”
A knot formed in my throat, not just from his words, but because I could see it. All of it. Through our bond, Draven showed me the cruel smiles and the echoing cries. I could hear the laughter, smell the intoxicating scent of liquor and ale, as servants rushed past with their trays.
And I could feel his anger. It curled around my heart and latched onto my ribs in a bruising vicegrip. Batty nestled her tiny head against my palm, as if to offer what little comfort she could.
“She held until one of the lords began asking questions about his son who had been sent to the front the month before,” Draven continued.
“He begged her for answers, told her he hadn’t replied to any of their phoenixes.
Nevara froze. I remember it was the first time she ever seemed unsure of what to say. ”
Draven sighed. “When he kept pressing, she finally just refused to answer him, made something up about how the Shard Mother had informed her that she’d already shared too much.”
He let out a low, dangerous chuckle, and the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees. “My father praised her ‘restraint’, of course. It was better for him to appear as if he was in control and not a matter of his young Visionary disobeying his will.”
It was hard to breathe as I watched the male who looked so much like my husband while he viciously grinned down at a much younger Nevara.
There was nothing kind in the expression, only violence brimming in his cruel eyes.
The silent, assured expectation of the pain that would come that night for her failure.
Then Draven’s mother was back, her beautiful features drawn into careful consideration. She stepped between Nevara and the king, drawing the attention of the courtiers away from the young Visionary.
Looping one arm through her husband’s, she used the other to subtly gesture toward her son.
“And that was when I pulled her away,” Draven added. He swallowed hard. “And I didn’t stop walking until we reached the cellars. I knew the lords weren’t likely to follow us so deep into the palace.”
The pit in my stomach widened.
“It wasn’t until we were tucked away behind the tallest shelves that she let her mask slip even a little.”
I could see her lower lip trembling, her small hands clench into fists as she took several calming breaths.
Draven turned away to give her a moment of privacy, though I could still hear her breaths hitching from her place at his back.
“When she finally spoke again, it was to tell me that the lord’s son was dead. Had been for weeks,” he continued. “That his death played out in a neverending loop in her mind. An endless, exhausting echo of blood and torture.”
My breath caught.
“She said she couldn’t relive it by speaking it aloud again. Not that night.” He exhaled. “I told her that made sense. And it did.”
The silence that stretched between us was heavy with the memory of things they had been too young to bear.
Finally, Draven lifted the bottle in his hands. “She pulled this bottle off the shelf and held it out to me like it was some peace offering for sharing the truth.”
He imitated her voice: “‘Be a dear, won’t you?’”
Despite everything, warmth curled through my chest, and a small grin tempted the corner of my lips.
“She made me open it,” Draven said, lifting the bottle between us. “We shared it behind a tapestry. Talking about the war. What would happen to Winter if the Unseelie won. What might become of her if my father kept using her visions like this.”
I couldn’t help but wonder if he was sharing so much because I had accused him of never telling me anything at all. If it was his way of making strides in the only way he knew how, or if the memories would have unfolded this way no matter what.
Silence fell over us again like a blanket of snow on a mountain range. At first glance, it might appear peaceful or calm… But all it would take was one wrong move, one sound that rang out too loudly, for all of it to come crashing down.
And yet, I couldn’t allow the quiet to linger. I was transfixed. I needed to know more. To know him. To soothe the pain in his chest that was cleaving him in two.
“And what happened then?” I asked softly.
Draven stared at the bottle. He traced the embossed stars and the half-chipped paintings of constellations with something close to reverence.
“I told her that when I became king,” he said, voice low and steady, “I would find a way to free her.”
The ache in those words… it nearly split me open.
Through our bond, I watched as Nevara gave him a sad smile in return. She didn’t say anything, just popped the cork back into the bottle and told him that they would open it again when the war was over.
I swallowed. “But you didn’t.”
“No,” Draven said with a shake of his head. “We knew the war was really just beginning.”