Lord Helvan escorted Draven to a dimly lit room. The man might be Sovran, but he sure as coal kept his word. The thought of serving someone as dignified as this man did not fill Draven with shame.
Cain sure could learn a thing or two under these sorts of people.
Maybe a better life for them was just around the corner. Draven just needed to prove himself enough so that both of them could get it.
“Lord Helvan, what can I do for you?” Stupid! Show some manners to the lord, Draven reprimanded himself. “If it’s alright to ask.”
“I require nothing less than what you swore, Ed Brightlight,” Lord Helvan spoke with a frown on his face.
Sovrans could be weird to understand sometimes, for Draven swore he did nothing to put that frown on the old man’s forehead. Following his line of sight brought him answers and a throbbing headache to boot. Abyss take me, those are… runes!
Draven looked away in the blink of an eye, for he did not fancy getting sentenced to a cleansing. No sir. This was not his fault; it was just a glance.
“Remove your attire and lay down on that altar,” Lord Helvan said.
The Sovran’s instructions were odd, but he was not the only man of his word. Draven swore his life belonged to Lord Helvan once his daughter's murderer was dead. The lord kept his word. If he had some weird fancies for him, so be it. No amount of pride could fill a man’s belly.
Draven did as instructed, but the Sovran did not follow suit. Perhaps he was wrong, thank the Maker. A colorful cube appeared in Lord Helvan's hand, and the gasp of surprise fled Draven’s lips like all the times he had witnessed the man's powers. One just did not get used to this sort of thing.
No sir.
“I want you to know, Ed.” Lord Helvan put the cube on the ground, and the entire room lit with the force of the Torch itself during Ascension Day. “That your sacrifice will aid the betterment of the Haven itself.”
“Say what—” Something grabbed Draven’s arms and legs. It burned like a bonfire against his skin. “Argh! Lord Helvan… what is… ah!”
“Let your soul be the fuel of change. Let your body pave the path to saving this cursed world,” Lord Helvan said.
Light itself held Draven down. He could not move. Abyss take him, he could not move. His body grew hot suddenly, his eyes burned, his skin burned. Everything burned. The pain was unlike anything he had ever experienced, beyond his wildest nightmares.
Draven watched in terror as the pain faded, as his limbs burned into black smoke. He met the empty eyes of the man he had placed his hopes in, and nothing but his reflection stared back at him. He was wrong, Maker forgive him. Lord Helvan was no different from any other Sovran.
Let his life be the only one Lord Helvan discarded. Let his son not pay the price for his mistakes.
***
“You… killed…” Draven tried to speak, but the words refused to come out. “You…”
Something was wrong. He could not speak the words he thought, for something shackled his mouth with an ethereal grip. The black smoke. An oath forced into his soul. With their cryptic answers and refusal to elaborate, Draven understood now why nobody spoke of Heightening; it was not a lack of honesty but of agency.
He tried to open his mouth, to accuse Helvan of sacrificing Ed’s life like an animal, but the words refused to materialize outside his thoughts. It felt like actively refusing the oath he had taken in exchange for his family’s rescue.
“He was a good man, Helvan.” Rage burned inside his chest as he stood up.
“So they were.” Helvan merely nodded.
“They?” Draven’s stomach dropped. Of course. Ed was not the only one—the same fate fell upon Cain, his son. “Ed looked up to you like you were the Maker himself. How could you do this?”
Myra swallowed and looked away.
Helvan met Draven’s eyes with not a hint of emotion. “His admiration changes nothing, Draven. It might be hard for you to accept, but their life had more worth in death. The life of two miners to produce a Dreamer and a Mender? Nobody but an idealistic fool would shy away from such a bargain.”
“It’s wrong! Why can’t you see it—”
“When will you wake up? Mourn the deaths of people you barely knew if you must, but be warned that the same fate will encroach upon those you call your family,” Helvan shouted. “Come to me once you have seen reason.” He turned away and left.
Draven still felt Ed’s pain, the shadows of his memories, but something else was on his mind. Catalyst District. The Ascension. By the abyss, it all makes sense now. Miners were born and raised for the sole purpose of fueling the Heightening of Sovrans, and his family was no exception.
“I have to go.” He had to stop them. Draven had to save his family, and he had to save them now. “Are they even alive? I have to go, Myra!”
“They’re alive, you can be sure of that.” She handed his clothes to him. “Virien houses—the nobility amongst Sovran—don’t go around doing Heightening whenever they want. There’s culture—prestige in having their scions shown to the world as Empyreans.”
“What do you mean?” Her assurance brought Draven no peace.
“Three weeks, Draven. In three weeks, all of Anaverith—all of Elysium—will celebrate the Severing. A sacred day that symbolizes the creation of the Haven, an opportunity for all those vying for power to display their worth to the Maker.” She gripped his shoulder. “That’s when they’re going to do it. We’ll strike a day before it, or as soon as you know their location, truth be told.”
“Get used to your Heightened self, now! I suggest you take a look at what you can do with hexion now. Maybe take a peek at your astra. Heightening is supposed to get you one, but since you already had one… well, let me know what you find, so we can get back to training.”
She turned to leave, but Draven held her hand. “I’m not strong enough to get them out.”
“It’s not about strength, silly.” Myra smiled, a playful furrow on her forehead. “It’s about heart.”
He was left alone in the room, forced to face his unspoken words. You are wrong, Myra. I was wrong. Heart without strength is dust in the wind, but so is strength without heart. Draven had to find the balance, and he had to do it fast. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Time was running out.
***
A few rations and another pair of clothing were the only items inside Draven’s backpack, besides a few silvers given by Helvan. A few empty goodbyes later and instructions to meet at a tavern called Wild Voice had marked their uneventful parting.
The bustling noise of Anaverith only grew as the torches above shone with greater intensity, welcoming another day, and chasing the remaining shadows of the previous night. Aemon walked beside Draven with an empty look in his eyes.
Ed and Cain were sacrificed, like their lives were worth less than the dirt they stepped on. It was not surprising—that was the same treatment miners received since birth—but comfort had a way of making people forget hardship.
Today’s events were nothing but a painful reminder of how the world worked, and Draven vowed to never forget it again.
Aemon was sullen, and Draven did not have the energy to muster words of consolation, so they walked in silence. Helvan had given them instructions on how to find the Orenn House inside the city, but he might as well have not bothered, for it was hard to miss the gigantic purple spire in the city's heart.
The castle soared well above the wall, a towering architecture that dwarfed the few three-story buildings surrounding it and the forest of meticulous green crafted as a living jewel. The streets were wide enough that carriages passed side by side with room for a healthy crowd to navigate the sides.
The sight of the four-legged creatures, their heads elongated, short silver fur shining like metal, struck Draven with awe the first time he saw them. That feeling quickly faded. Everything was new; if every novelty surprised him on the way, he would soon collect flies inside his slack jaw.
Merchants shouted over the crowd’s noise, announcing their wares, vying for attention amidst the organized chaos. But another thing struck a deep chord within Draven: there were no miners in sight. Every person walking the streets was Sovran. The moment he realized the truth behind Heightening, he foresaw this outcome, but expecting it did nothing to assuage how hurt he felt.
The Ascension was a lie. It had always been.
“Soon as I finish the job, I’m out.” Aemon’s voice broke the silence between them. “You should come with me. There’s nothing for us with those people. You and me might look like them, but we couldn’t be more different.”
Draven nodded. It was the truth, unmasked by oath and deception. “I’ll get my family out, and we’ll go. You never told me what’s in all this for you. Why did you even sign that oath?”
“Been asking myself the same thing.” Aemon’s gaze swept through the crowd as if looking for someone. “There’s someone I gotta kill, that’s all.”
Not my business, Draven told himself. But in some ways, Aemon was the only person he could trust among these strangers. It comforted him he was undergoing this mission with Aemon, because there was a wordless sense of trust between them.
Flowers bloomed in man-made patterns surrounding the Orenn House’s gate. The trees were tall and old, their trunks wide enough that even two Sovrans would have a hard time embracing them fully.
Lots of places to hide amidst the bushes and thick vegetation.
A tall middle-aged man stood in front of the gate with an impatient expression on his face. Two guards stood behind him, one on each side of the gate, hands lazily holding sheathed swords, eyes drooping with boredom. Guarding the most powerful house of Anaverith seemed like an uneventful job.
What manner of fool would ever dare to attack a place filled with Empyreans? Draven winced, considering Helvan's group and their purpose.
“I see you two like to take your time, no?” the middle-aged man snarled. “Why don’t you lay down in our garden and take a nap? Perhaps have some tea and enjoy the view, yes?” His accent was sharp.
Draven already disliked the man. “Forgive us, lord…” He looked at him, expecting an introduction, but only received a displeased stare. “We were told to arrive before noon.”
“It’s before noon already, no?” The middle-aged Sovran shook his head and harrumphed. “Draven and Aemon?”
“Yes, lord,” Draven spoke, and Aemon nodded.
“Follow me then.” He motioned as the gate swung open, seemingly by itself. “Not you, boy!” He pointed at Aemon. “Rose! Rose! By the Maker, where is the girl?”
A short woman came rushing from the garden. Sweat drenched her forehead, coppery hair flew in the wind, some strands escaping the knot on the back of her head. Her eyes were the same color as her hair.
“Forgive me, Master Steward,” she spoke between breaths. “Lady Seraphina required my assistance.”
The displeased twist in his lips disappeared as the girl mentioned the reason behind her delay, but the frown remained. His forehead wrinkles probably stemmed from age, yet they contributed to his perpetually unsatisfied appearance.
“Very well, I suppose that is acceptable, yes?” He waved his hand, brushing the topic aside. “Take this man—this late Orisanth—to the kitchen quarters, and have Theodore make use of him.”
“Master Theodore?” Rose winced.
“Did I stutter, Rose?” The steward, whose name Draven still did not know, grew annoyed. “Now off you go, young lord Nerovian is not fond of waiting.”
Her complexion paled, and without another incentive, she was on her way. Aemon followed her with a worried face and a nod of goodbye. They entered the maze of flowers and ornamental bushes, their figures disappearing toward the towering castle.
The steward ushered Draven forward with haste. It seemed like he was late—a costly oversight on Helvan’s side and an effective strategy to get this Nerovian fellow to take heated notice of his presence. Good way to ruin a first impression, he supposed.
The castle ahead was many times higher than the Catalyst District’s ceiling, stretching high into the air until it seemed unsafe. It not only towered over him, but it also curved inward at the edges, suggesting its area was circular rather than the common squares in the city.
Windows of purple glass adorned its white brick, their numbers beyond his patience to count. The construction of such architecture must have employed Empyrean Art, as Draven could not imagine how such a tall structure could otherwise remain standing.
The steward walked ahead, uninterested in entertaining Draven’s attempt at small talk. The man did not even offer his name. For all the manners Sovrans bragged about having, some lacked common courtesy.
Passing under a doorless archway and after a few minutes of walking, the sound of metal clashing against steel filled the air. Heavy grunts mixed with the scent of sweat and cologne. Impacts on the ground made it shake like the beating of a heart.
Two people stood in the square room, a stark contrast to the architectural trend of the castle. One had raven-black hair and a pristine purple vest adorned with golden and white embroidery. He held his head high, even though sweat drenched his forehead. Eyes fixed forward, unbothered by the intrusion.
Draven smelled the scent of self-importance wafting from the young lord.
The other turned around to face them, sheathing his sword and nodding. He was bald, with numerous scars tracing intersecting lines on his skull. He wore black—plain and unadorned.
“It’s not common to catch you being late, Eridol,” he spoke with a crude, raspy voice.
The steward ignored the bald man with a harrumph. “Young lord Nerovian, forgive this old man for his tardiness. I bring your new servant, yes?”
“The last I remember, you were fifty-four, Eridol. That is hardly an age belonging to the elderly.” Nerovian laughed and waved Eridol’s apology off.
At least he’s reasonable.
Lord Nerovian put the sword away in the rack near the wall as he would a fork, nonchalant as a man who was used to carrying an instrument of death daily, though he did not look older than twenty. When he turned to face Draven, all the kindness in his eyes vanished.
“State your name, Low Blood, and the reason why you dare make me wait.” Nerovian might have been bare-handed, but the threat in the air smelled like blood.
“Ai—Draven, my lord. Draven Orisanth.” Low Blood? Draven thought. What does that even mean? Abyss damn you, Helvan! “I… hm… got lost in the city.” Another one of Helvan’s mistakes.
The bald man burst into laughter. “You know what, let me know when you’re done, Lord Nerovian.”
“I will, Master Altavir.” Nerovian took off his purple vest and hung it in the sword rack, revealing a black shirt underneath. “I shall forgive the mistake, Low Blood.”
What is there to forgive, you entitled piece of crap?
Draven was bad at reading people; the young lord was anything but reasonable. To no fault of his own, though he had no means to prove it, Draven had already given the worst kind of first impression possible.
“But if I were to let a mistake go unpunished, it is bound to repeat itself.” He took a stance with bent knees and raised guard. “Ready yourself, Low Blood!”
Abyss take you, Helvan!