Nerovian rushed at Draven with the speed of a superior race. His footwork had no wasted movements, and the line of his vision showed no sign of his target. He was good, the better fighter, but no Empyrean. Not yet.
But Draven had to lose.
To win meant death, both to Draven and his family. To lose meant pain, and that he was used to. A punch to the gut knocked the wind out of his lungs. This guy is strong. Draven’s arms raised out of instinct, preparing for a counter, but the lord of House Orenn was fast.
Nerovian grabbed his arm, pushing his elbow down while pulling the limb towards him until a resounding crack echoed in the training grounds. The sound of broken bones, the stab of pain accompanied by the burning warmth, threatened to awaken something inside Draven.
Rage.
On the ground, cradling a broken arm, Draven looked at Nerovian, his heart pounding violently. No. I can’t resist! To show him a defiant front will only hurt my goal. Though it ate at his guts, Draven swallowed down the anger and mustered a pathetic expression to mask his actual feelings.
“Forgiveness, my lord.” He let his voice quiver like it used to so long ago. It felt like being a miner again in the presence of a Sovran. “Mercy! It won’t happen again, my lord.”
Draven saw the satisfaction in the Sovran’s face. Nerovian saw no wrongness in his deed, only the simpleminded assurance of his right to trample over other people’s lives. This was the man Draven had to serve; a cut from the same cloth as all the other Sovran he had ever seen.
“Let this lesson be enough for the day, Low Blood.” Nerovian walked to the sword rack and took his vest back. “Now follow me, my room sorely needs a deft hand to clean it,” the heir to House Orenn said, his tone oblivious to the violence of a few seconds ago.
“I am intrigued. How is breaking the man’s arm supposed to aid his deftness, brother?” A melodious voice spoke from one of the many doors leading out of the open courtyard, but her figure remained covered in the shadows. “Forgive me my lack of foresight, but the entire ordeal appears counterproductive.”
“Seraphina.” Nerovian sighed. “Must you interfere with matters beyond your business at every chance presented to you?”
“I have grown to enjoy it, brother.” She giggled and stepped out of the shadows. “You may call it a hobby.”
She was of the same height as her brother. Her black hair trailed down her back in complicated braids, with purple flowers of shining metal attached to it in careful harmony. She wore a similar purple vest, longer than her Nerovian’s, opening at the front and falling to the sides to reveal ornate boots and pants.
Rose, the servant girl, hid in the shadows behind her, but they provided no obstacle to Draven’s sight. Her gaze darted to Nerovian as if to confirm the Sovran had not noticed her presence.
“I have no time to waste, sister. The Severing is soon to come, and there is much to learn about our future responsibilities.” Nerovian shook his head at his sister with visible consternation. “I would suggest you turn diligent study into one of your hobbies, but I’m afraid the advice would fall on deaf ears.”
The smile on Seraphina’s face faded; Nerovian must have struck a chord. “Master Altavir, will you heal the servant so he is not a hindrance to my brother’s future responsibilities?” Seraphina spoke with narrowed eyes that defied her brother to object.
Concern sent goosebumps over Draven’s skin as the bald man approached with a smile. He was no Evoker, so he did not have the means to see inside his soul, only to feel it. Unbreakable Veil—if what Helvan said was true—could mask one’s soul. He only had to withstand the man’s presence and scrutiny.
“Relax, boy,” the bald man said out loud. “Bet it’s your first time receiving mending, but no need for concern. It will just hurt a little.”
Altavir’s words set questions into motion in Draven’s mind. Myra’s healing had never hurt—it only produced a soothing feeling wherever she touched. The bald man grabbed his hand, and rampaging hexion scored his bones, burning them, forcibly setting them into place.
A gasp escaped Draven’s mouth. By the abyss, does this guy even know what he’s doing?
“Just a gasp, really?” Altavir narrowed his eyes and looked at Draven—really looked at him—for the first time. “Something about you isn’t right, boy,” he whispered, so only the two of them heard. “That quivering baby act was good. I’ll give you that, but you forgot only one thing.”
“Are you done, Master Altavir?” Nerovian spoke as he tried to avoid his sister.
“I don’t… understand, my lord,” Draven said.
In reality, he knew all too well what the man was talking about. It was his mistake. He had been so focused on analyzing Nerovian’s moves that he had forgotten to keep the act together. The young lord had not noticed, but his master had.
“You never screamed.” The look in Altavir’s eyes was dangerous, filled with suspicion. “You never so much as whimpered as the young lord broke your arm.”
Heartsense. If Altavir was a Mender worth his hexion, he knew how to read falsehoods in people’s lips, so lying was the last thing Draven could do.
“I’m used to it, my lord.” He forced the words out. “My previous… lord was not so kind.” It was the truth, though it missed a lot of context.
Altavir looked at him, and without warning, his Presence crashed into Draven’s shield. He paled, falling on one knee as cracks spread in the fabric of the Unbreakable Veil. Hold! He forced them together with his will. Cracks spread throughout its entire surface. Dammit, hold! He roared inside his soul.
Draven's will manifested in front of him, spreading throughout the shield, keeping it together. Just as suddenly, the pressure vanished. The experience left him trembling on the ground, and this time it was no act—whoever this man was, he was not to be trifled with; his Presence felt almost as overbearing as Helvan’s.
“I was wrong about you, boy.” He turned and left.
***
A lord’s room was unlike anything Draven had ever seen; the bed alone was larger than the rooms he and Aemon had shared in weeks past. Embroidered artwork served merely as bedsheets; warrior sculptures, frozen in glorious poses, became mere ornaments, forgotten in a corner.
The bedroom flowed seamlessly into a library that put Helvan’s to shame. Rows of books on gold-engraved shelves hid the walls, but a thin layer of dust revealed why Draven was needed.
In the middle of the walls of knowledge, Nerovian sat behind his desk, an open tome in front of him, hands furiously scribbling notes about whatever he was reading. Open books lay spread on the ground near the desk, piled into unstable towers that remained upright on luck alone.
Draven got to work before the lordling found another excuse to relay his teachings. Stepping around the books, focusing on his breathing and stance to reduce the noise, he carefully organized them into whatever empty spaces he found.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
“There must be order to chaos, Low Blood. Are you able to read?” Nerovian sighed.
“Yes, my lord.” Draven nodded.
“Then history books to my right, Empyrean manuals to the left, and everything else on the shelves behind my desk.” His pen fell back onto the paper as soon as he confirmed his instructions were being followed.
Empyrean manuals.
That sounded like something worth taking a look at, but Draven needed to be careful—the last thing he wanted was to anger Nerovian with his curiosity. Whenever he opened a book, he took an extra amount of time to read its title, maybe even flipping through a couple of pages before putting them away.
He opened a red leather tome, thick as his arm and heavy as a brick, and bottled his excitement as he read its title. A Comprehensive Study of The Blood Path. Damn him the abyss, if he did not want to read it, but he could not.
Maker forgive me, but that’s the one thing I can’t be found reading.
A servant—a Low Blood, as Nerovian called—had no place taking interest in the Empyrean paths. Something like that was bound to raise uncomfortable questions about his identity and motives. Minutes stretched into hours until the room was organized at last.
“I wonder, Low Blood, did you find anything that piqued your curiosity?” Nerovian put down the pen and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Studying one’s areas of interest is often a more pleasant experience than…” He looked at the tome in front of him and sighed. “This.”
Draven immediately thought of the book he had put away. Abyss, he could pinpoint its location in the library with his eyes closed, but revealing it was out of the question. “Yes, my lord. The Severing and The Red Eclipse.”
Nerovian’s eyes widened marginally, his focus sharpening on Draven. He had the lordling’s attention, the one thing he did not want.
Dammit, did I say something wrong? I just chose something randomly.
“Curious.” Nerovian narrowed his eyes. “You are the first of my attendants interested in history rather than the marvels of the Empyrean Paths. One would think a Low Blood would jump at the opportunity to learn more about the things they will never attain rather than deepen their understanding of matters more easily accessible to the common eye.”
He stared at Draven, as if he wanted something. An answer, perhaps, though he asked no question.
“My dad once told me to understand the world I lived in, my lord.” It was easier to tell a lie when parts of it were true. “I never got his meaning, not before he died. So I have to make up for that lost time.”
“The world we live in…” Nerovian closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and hummed. “Wise words. My grandfather had a saying of his own: ‘It’s better to walk one thousand miles than read one thousand books.’”
Draven did not know what to say. A journey of such magnitude was beyond his comprehension, and so was the idea of reading one thousand books, so silence fell between them. It did not seem to bother the lord.
“How could a simple journey teach more than the condensed knowledge of one thousand minds put together?” Nerovian shook his head, a sad smile on his face. “He was quite old in the end, prone to spouting delirious nonsense.”
“You are welcome to borrow that book as long as you return it in the same condition.” He waved Draven away in a clear, dismissive gesture. “Return to my quarters before daybreak. And do not be late this time.”
***
Eridol escorted him to the lower levels of the castle, through hallways of bustling servants to empty halls filled with nothing but artwork. His eyebrow raised at the sight of the book Draven carried, but that alone did not tempt him to start a conversation.
Draven wondered why the old man seemed so bitter. “Lord Eridol?” He broke the silence as they walked.
“Master Eridol,” the middle-aged man corrected. “I’m not blessed with the blood of a Virien House, yes? How could I ever be a lord?” He gave Draven a scouring look and shook his head.
“I didn’t know.” If Eridol was to be believed, and he seemed to carry no motives to spread deception, the only difference between Low Bloods and Virien Lords was the family one hailed from.
“That much is clear, no?” Eridol glanced at the book again and sighed. “Lord Nerovian seems to like you. Draven, was it, yes?”
He nodded.
“It would be in your best interest to keep it that way. Those he dislikes rarely stay for long,” The steward said with a hollow voice.
So I’ve heard.
Four or five servants had disappeared in six months, their fate clear enough, though their whereabouts were unknown. Draven had no intention of joining their ranks; he needed the young lord’s favor, his trust, if he were to get close enough to discover where his family was.
They stopped at a door. Draven’s room, perhaps.
Eridol raised a hand and knocked. “Rose?”
“Master Steward?” Rose opened the door, surprise on her face. “How may I help you?”
“You may assist young Lord Nerovian tonight.” He raised a finger before she had the chance to retort. “If you know what is best for your family, you will swallow your pride, yes?” Eridol asserted.
The steward’s voice was strict, the full weight of his authority on display, but it felt unnatural. Hollow. Eridol’s face was a battlefield in which many emotions fought for dominance, a rictus of shame and defeat. He winced and closed his eyes as Rose teared up, but nodded.
It was not a battle he had any chance of winning.
The steward knew this as much as him. It was also not Draven’s battle; he told himself. Minding his own business was the only way to get what he wanted. But if he sacrificed all his beliefs to achieve it, what would remain of him in the end?
An empty husk filled with regrets.
“Didn’t Lady Seraphina ask for your presence tonight?” The words slipped out of Draven’s mouth.
Rose looked at him, noticing his figure for the first time, and her frown of confusion quickly lit up in understanding. “Maker forgive me, I almost forgot! Excuse me, Master Steward, but I must go.”
Her figure disappeared into the bright corridor as she abandoned all pretense and broke into a frantic sprint. Eridol called her name, but even his attempts were half-hearted at best. For all the disapproval eternally engraved on his face, there was something soft inside the steward’s heart.
“You play a dangerous game, boy.” Eridol sighed as he beckoned Draven to follow. “Young Lord Nerovian will be most displeased about the news.”
“You don’t need to tell him,” Draven assured Eridol. It was clear the steward did not disagree with his intentions.
“I don’t need to tell him, no? If that was true, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, yes?” He did not say the words, but his meaning spoke of an oath. “You protected Rose for a day, but at great cost to yourself, as you will soon come to know.”
“What do you mean?” Draven looked him in the eye. “I brought up her appointment with Lady Seraphina. Perhaps I spoke out of turn, but I felt as if it was my obligation.”
“So it seems, yes?” Eridol raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Let us both hope that is enough.”
Eridol showed Draven to his room before he left, his expression just a little lighter, as if some of the weight dragging on his shoulders had vanished. Good for him. But Draven had yet to see if that also applied to himself.
Opening the door to his room revealed a familiar sight. Aemon lay down in bed, his eyes closed, beads of sweat collected on his forehead despite the comfortable temperature of the room.
“Careful there.” Draven closed the door. “I get the feeling people around here wouldn’t look kindly on a cook refining hexion.”
Aemon’s eyes snapped open. “It’s hard to get rid of you.” He laughed and motioned to the bed opposite his own. “Make yourself at home.”
Draven’s eyes teared up as an acrid, sour smell drifted up. “Abyss take me, man! What is that?”
The amusement fled Aemon’s face, a surly expression replacing it with the usual discontent he boasted when things did not go his way. “Onion! The most vile thing the Maker has ever created. No matter how much soap I use, I just can’t shrug off the smell.”
“Can you sleep somewhere else?” Draven blocked his nose and jumped into the bed.
Aemon had been about to retort when his eyes drifted to what Draven carried in his hand, and there they stayed, as if transfixed. “At least some of us made some progress, but I never took you for a reading enthusiast.”
“Well, I’m not.” Draven passed the book to him. “Just don’t damage it or pass that rancid smell onto it. I don’t want to get another beating lying low.”
“Lord Nerovian is the violent sort?” Aemon spoke as a joke, but his eyes displayed no amusement.
“He broke my arm for being late. Don’t want to find out what that crazy guy will do if I mess up his book.” Draven waved him off and closed his eyes.
A cross-legged position was bound to raise questions if someone else were to walk in, so he lay down on his bed in pretended slumber. It was time to refine hexion, strengthen his shield, and train his Providence. Aemon, however, displeased he might be at Draven’s news, took the hint, for he understood mere pain would not stop him from reaching his goal.
Nothing would.