Chapter 18 Drayven
Drayven
The greatest trick of the Laughing God is convincing us that games can be won.”
— FALLEN HUNTER’S CONFESSION
My fingers twitch over Kasaros’s mask. One slip into madness, and I could tear through this Labyrinth like a storm. Finding Flori will be less risky that way. But I can’t claim her like that. It feels wrong. So wrong.
So the mask stays off.
Which means I’ll be weak. I’ll have to rely on someone else to have my back and I’ve never done that before. Florienne is the only person I trust. But she trusts Demaya. She must. Otherwise, she wouldn’t sacrifice herself to save the girl.
Maybe Demaya is right. There’s only one of me. I’ve changed. Made mistakes. I lived a little, but I still have many years ahead. And I would still rather die than be apart from Flori. I’d still rather go down fighting.
So if claiming her as my bride means giving Flori the chance to love my darker parts, then that’s what I’ll do.
It’s what, deep down, I want to do. At the thought of spending every waking hour with her as my bride, something dark and hungry unfurls in my chest, and I toss the crumpled mask at Demaya’s feet.
“She’s going to hate that I don’t get you to safety,” I warn.
She lifts her chin. “No, she won’t. Flori knows our voice is only as loud as the choices we stand by. This is mine.” Her gaze pierces me. “And yours is her.”
“You always this sure of yourself? Or do you actually have a plan?”
Her eyes glitter with mischief. “I might have a few tricks up my sleeve.”
“Fine,” I grunt, unconvinced. But beggars can’t be choosers.
“Lead the way, oh wise one.”
“That’s your plan?” I roll my eyes.
“You seem to know your way around here.” She shrugs. “And you found me hiding in a barn when no one else could.”
“The mask gives me special skills.”
“Oh.”
Growling, I shake my head. “The ignorance of youth.”
The recent rain still lingers, mingling with the metallic scent of blood, stone, and damp earth.
I check the blood moon’s position and nearby flora types for bearings.
Lots of thorns. Not much else but stone, moss, and dirt.
There was a structural shift during my escape.
It was only minutes ago, but it could mean finding Flori again is difficult.
Our best option will be to walk on top of the walls, even if that means risking being caught in a shift. Walking along the base of the nearest wall, I search for a way up.
“How’s your balance?” I ask.
No response.
I glance over my shoulder and catch Demaya staring at the discarded mask with too much interest.
“Don’t,” I caution. “It’s cursed.”
“But it made you strong, right?”
“Foolish girl.” I start hiking up the wall, using the scimitar and my fingers to find footing. “The word ‘cursed’ is all you need to know. Hurry up.”
She releases a huff that sounds so like Florienne that I have the fleeting notion a daughter of ours would sound like Demaya. Incorrigible, defiant, and willful. It’s enough to make me check to see if she’s following. Brown, bouncing ringlets directly below me. Good.
We move swiftly through the Labyrinth atop the walls, aiming for Amara’s courtyard of ruins.
I follow a trail of fresh blooming roses, thinking it could only lead us to that sanctuary, but as the maze walls grow darker and colder, I fear I’ve been misled.
But then I glimpse a flash of blue moving through a passage below. My heart lurches. Florienne.
The Baron’s men are herding her through the passage. Her steps are slow, measured. Resigned.
“There,” I whisper, pointing.
“I count six,” she utters.
I scan the wall tops. Last time, the Baron had a few strategic archers up high, but no one keeps guard. Looking down at the passage, I pick out more shadows lining the walls. “They’re all on the ground,” I murmur. “Too many to count.”
They think their job is almost over. Probably lining up for payment.
“I’ve got the hunters. You get Flori.” Demaya nocks an arrow. “Wait until they notice me. I’ll lure them away.”
I nod, muscles coiling as I jog further along the wall, preparing to leap down.
A guilty part of my mind tells me Demaya won’t be able to fend off so many soldiers, but she made this choice.
And then I see him—the Baron. He strides behind Flori, hunger in his eyes.
His hands are already working at the fastenings of his breeches.
Red fills my vision. The urge to rend and tear surges through me.
Forgetting Demaya’s words, I launch off the wall and land hard, rolling to absorb the impact.
My scimitar flashes as I cut down the nearest mercenary.
Blood sprays across my face, hot and sticky.
I lick my lips, tasting copper. It only reminds me of what stands in my way.
The Baron sees me but says nothing. He steps before Flori, blocking my view. A horn sounds somewhere, and more hired hunters and brutes rush at me. Blue hair flashes between the gaps in their moving bodies. I give chase, heedless of the gathering mob.
She didn’t notice me.
Or didn’t want to.
I should have shouted, should have—a sword lances toward my neck but doesn’t connect. Demaya fells him with an arrow to the heart.
“Snap out of it, Drayven!” she shouts, nocks another arrow, aims, then fires at another mercenary. When it hits him in the center of his forehead she pulls another arrow, muttering, “Love also makes you stupid.”
Love.
I love Flori.
I grin.
From here on, I am a force of deadly shadow.
I dance between my opponents, blade singing.
Slicing. Gutting. One, two, three fall before they even raise their weapons.
But there are too many. They press in from all sides, forcing me back.
An arrow whistles past my ear, embedding itself in a mercenary’s eye socket.
Then another, and another. Her supply is almost dry, so I become a madman.
Desperation lending strength to my strikes, I fight toward each glimpse of blue hair.
She’s so close. Just a few more steps…
A wet plop on my face. Then another. Rain.
Sudden thunderous grinding fills the air, but it’s not a storm.
“No!” I bellow, refusing to acknowledge what it means.
But walls close ahead of me, narrowing the passage.
The sky opens up and unleashes a torrent of rain.
I fist the hair of the short mercenary in my way and smash his head against the stone.
His body falls but reveals a grim sight—through the shadowed shrinking gap, the Baron smirks at me as he shoves Flori around a corner.
“Drayven, wait—” Demaya hisses, but I’m already leaping over the fresh corpse, slipping on wet flagstones. I sprint toward the diminishing space, knowing I’ll be crushed if I try to run through it.
Already looking for an alternative route, I focus left—the direction he took Flori—to where the walls still grind and jut out jagged stone blocks. The Labyrinth comes alive, shifting around me, thorny vines reaching out to snag my clothes, roots rising to trip my feet.
But nothing can stop me now.
I twist and evade, light on my feet. As if Amara herself steadies my climb, I launch up the blocks, bounce deftly between surfaces, and I’m back atop the wall before it can stop me.
Ready and calm like death, I pull my hood up to shield my vision through the rain. Lungs heaving, I creep toward two figures walking on the ground below. The problem is they head through a giant archway, disappearing into the shadows.
A building.
FUCK.
Using my scimitar to anchor me, I rappel down the wall to the ground, cutting through vines and thorns. The impact jars through my body, the wetness pulling my feet from under me. I careen, land hard, but ignore the pain. Only one thing matters now.
Flori.
I sprint toward the archway, heart pounding. Nothing here grows. Even the rain seems to avoid the temple walls. The darkness beyond seems to pulse, alive with malevolent energy.
Only one name springs to mind—Kasaros. This temple is undoubtedly his if the overgrown, lush courtyard belonged to Amara. But I don’t hesitate. I step across the threshold into the inky blackness.
For a moment, I’m blind. Then my eyes adjust.
I’m standing at the entrance of a vast circular, stone chamber ringed with flickering blue torches.
Deep cracks split the foundation as if the God’s own laughter shattered his sanctuary.
Rain drips through cracks in the ceiling, slithering down the walls like veins splitting open, pooling in hollows where bones—human and beast—lie in tangled offerings.
War drums hang limp, their rotted skins sagging.
An obsidian throne on a raised dais looms at the far end, slick with rain.
Tally marks gouge its arms, perhaps a record of Kasaros’s victories.
But closer, on the smooth floor at the center of the chamber surrounded by skeletons strangled by thorns, Flori lays herself down, her blue hair fanned out around her head like a halo. A moonbeam shines from a hole in the roof, painting her white borrowed shirt red.
The Baron’s meaty hand closes around Flori’s ankle, yanking her towards him where he kneels at her feet. His face is flushed with lust and triumph. She doesn’t resist, her eyes dull and lifeless. She simply does as she promised and parts her thighs for him. My heart clenches. This is my fault.
I should have listened to her. Should have ignored my doubts and fears. Should have fought harder. Mocking laughter fills the cavern, echoing around me.
“Yes, you should have,” Kasaros mocks in my head. “You had your chance, and you blew it.”
And then those thorny vines are back, snapping and moaning as they grow from the cracks within the walls and latch around my arms, wrists, and body.
“Flori!” I shout.
But she doesn’t turn. She’s only yards away, yet she can’t hear me. The Baron jerks her closer to him. The slide dislodges her tiara. I watch it fall beside her open palm, where it remains untouched. The laughter grows louder.
Fuck you, Kasaros. You won’t take her from me. Not this time.
Filling my lungs to the brink, I say a silent prayer to the Goddess I know is somewhere listening. For if she wasn’t, she wouldn’t have put this beautiful, strong woman in my path.
“Fight, Flori!” I roar, bucking against my sharp restraints. “Fight like hell!”
Flori’s gaze snaps to mine, her eyes widening. For a moment, hope flares in those azure depths. Then her gaze slides past me, landing on Demaya, just arriving and collecting my fallen scimitar. She starts hacking at my prison.
Surprise flickers across Florienne’s face.
The Baron doesn’t notice me or is too consumed with ripping at Flori’s top, freeing a path to his prize, to care. She doesn’t resist, but the muscles in her jaw tighten. Her fingers twitch toward the discarded tiara.
“That’s it,” I growl. “Take your crown.”
Flori’s hand darts out, snatching the tiara. In one fluid motion, she jams it into the Baron’s face.