Nerovian removed his purple vest without a word as he saw Draven waiting in the training yard. He was not late, not this time, but the look in the young lord’s eyes foretold a lesson to come. It seemed even Eridol’s efforts had not been enough to assuage his temper.
“Good morning, Lord Nerovian,” Draven said. Respect and deference were the weapons he used to strike at the raging fire in the young lord’s eyes.
“Ready yourself, Low Blood.” Nerovian’s voice was icy. Respect was wind brushing against deaf ears. “It is time you understand not to meddle with matters that are not of your concern.”
He sprinted at Draven with measured steps, low posture, and bent knees. Anger might cloud his judgment, but the combat skill taught to him in years past was not forgotten by the outburst of emotion.
A kick to Draven’s thigh sent stabs of pain to his hip. A punch to the gut knocked the wind out of him, but he remained calm. He sent an arm flailing out, the perfect imitation of panic, and Nerovian took the bait.
Draven stepped back and fell, rolling onto the ground, grasping his thigh with a grunt, while the young lord grabbed nothing but empty air. Virien or not, he was not about to let this bastard make a habit of breaking his bones.
It should be enough now. An opponent on the ground, their pride reduced to winces and grunts of pain, was enough to put out even the fiercest of fires. Draven looked up to gauge Nerovian’s reaction, and a boot greeted him in the chin.
“You are my servant, Low Blood, not my sister’s!” Another kick cracked Draven’s ribs. “My interests are your ceiling. Nobody else’s needs should be in that uneducated mind of yours.”
Something bludgeoned Draven in the face. A dark sort of rage boiled inside him.
“If I require the services of someone, it is not within your responsibilities to thwart it! Did that father of yours not teach you how to respect your betters?” Nerovian scoffed.
Draven’s father had been the pillar of their family, the strength and wisdom that kept the cold at bay, the hunger outside. After his death—after his murder—Draven's mother did everything to keep them safe, protecting them from those who might harm them.
People like Nerovian.
“Perhaps if he had taught you better, you would not have ended up an Orisanth.” Nerovian took his arm again.
The rage that Draven had kept on a short leash broke loose. Something else took hold of his body.
As Nerovian held his arm behind his back, his eagerness to break it clear in his vice-like grip, Draven pushed his head back and head-butted him in the face. The sound of bones breaking and the warmth of pain brought no respite to his anger.
Nerovian thought he was better than him, but his blood flowed just as red. His heart pulsed with surprise, with undisguised fear, if only for a moment. Draven would have his blood, drink it, savor it as he despaired when the realization of imminent death dawned upon him.
No! He shook off the foreign will that tried to guide his action. This was not him.
“A servant who strikes at his master,” Altavir’s voice drifted past his ears.
Draven blinked in confusion. It was like looking through the eyes of a stranger, for he did not remember what had happened. Nerovian’s nose was bloody, twisted in an odd shape. Draven’s arm was in a similar state, broken beyond doubt. Yet he did not remember how such an event had unfolded.
For one second, he blacked out. No, something made me black out.
“A rabid animal who deserves to be put down.” Blood manifested around him in chains, binding his limbs with strength greater than steel. “I knew there’s something dark inside you, boy. It’s good to know my instincts are sharp as ever.”
A spear burst out of Altavir’s skin as he approached, crimson and crystalline like the armament Overseer Travor once wielded. The bald man’s face was rigid with disapproval, and where Draven expected to see the pleasure at the contemplation of taking a life, there was only cold-minded reason.
“What is the meaning of this, brother?” Lady Seraphina entered the courtyard with Rose, who wore a nicer outfit that resembled her own.
Altavir turned around and kept his hand.
Nerovian looked at his sister, made no sign he had heard her, and ignored the question altogether. “Do you make a habit of ignoring your lord’s orders, servant?” He snapped at Rose, who cowered behind Seraphina.
“I will have you know, dear Nerovian,” Seraphina’s voice trembled with rage. She did not fancy being ignored. “Rose is, as of yesterday, my handmaiden. Any further attempts to supersede my authority—or to shame her—will not stay as a quarrel between brother and sister.”
Draven was just glad they had postponed his sentence for a little longer.
Nerovian whistled in outraged amusement. “You would put these Low Bloods before your own family, sister? Father would be most—”
“Have you visited our mother this year, brother?” Seraphina glowered at him.
All the amusement fled from Nerovian’s face. He clenched his jaw so tightly that some of his teeth might very well crack, but nothing of that mattered to Draven. He was not about to die—not a chance. If it came to it, his only option was to fight back.
Hexion waited for his call deep inside his soul.
Seraphina looked at Draven for a long moment, something in her eyes trying to convey a message. But he was too busy debating whether it was a good idea to free himself and run.
“Altavir, mend the Low Blood—”
“He will do no such thing,” Nerovian interrupted her. “If Rose is your handmaiden, she is outside my authority. I will not abuse my position to interfere with your servant. Honor demands I respect Virien customs. But you, sister, better practice what you preach.”
“Draven is not your Primus, Nerovian. He is a servant of House Orenn. I have every right to—”
“Draven Orisanth.” Nerovian’s voice cut through her words. “I, Nerovian Orenn, hereby name you as my sword—the shadow which shall guard me against ill—my Primus. Let the Maker hear these words, for they are true and shall remain so.”
Seraphina opened her mouth, then closed it. A frown overtook her pristine face, a look of disappointment as genuine as the light of the torches. “I wonder if pride or custom will prevent you from bestowing upon him the same treatment his four predecessors incurred.”Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.
“That is no longer any of your concern,” Nerovian snarled through his bloody nose.
“Empty words and empty promises,” Seraphina sighed. “Look no further than your own blood to see the error of your ways, brother,” she said before leaving.
Nerovian clenched his fists and stared at the empty hallway.
“To mend or to kill,” Altavir shook his head, the spear dispersing into a cloud of bloody mist that soon got absorbed into his open hand. “No matter where I go, I can never outrun this question. What will it be, Lord Nerovian?”
“It shall be neither, Altavir.” Nerovian shook his head, pinched his nose, and snapped it into place. “If I were to order his death right after naming him Primus, what manner of lord would that make me? A Primus protects his lord, but the oath works both ways.”
“An unconventional one,” Altavir laughed, though his eyes displayed no mirth when he looked at Draven.
“Clean yourself, Draven.” The fire in Nerovian’s eyes had diminished, though not vanished entirely. “I have important matters to attend to, and as my Primus, you are expected to follow.”
“Lord Nerovian, I never wanted—”
“There is no need for apologies.” Nerovian interrupted.
Apologizing was the last thing on Draven’s mind—he had been about to refuse this undesired position. A Primus, whatever that meant, drew attention he desperately needed to avoid.
“What happened yesterday shall be left in the past. Meet me in my quarters in half an hour. We shall go to the Amethyst Palace from there,” the lord said as he left.
Sometimes, it’s good to shut up.
If Draven had spoken—if Nerovian had let him—he might very well have wasted the opportunity to go to the very place he needed to. Amethyst Palace, the residence of all Empyreans of House Orenn, the place where his family was most likely kept.
With a broken arm, cracked rib, and black eye, only a fool would not notice his presence. All plans of sneaking around, shielded by the shadows of obscurity, were out the window. He was Primus now—whatever that meant. His best chance was to hide in plain sight.
***
Draven wondered why one of the major houses had so few Empyreans present in its castle, but as the Amethyst Palace emerged from within the labyrinth of plants and flowers, he was certain. Forged out of dark purple stone, its texture almost resembling that of a gem, the palace lay hidden in the center of the castle’s inner part like a precious jewel inside a geode.
The Amethyst Palace was not as vast as the Orenn Castle, which easily matched the size of a Catalyst District, but that did not diminish its overbearing aura. The gardens surrounding it fed four entrances, each guarded by a pair of armored men, supplying the artificial gem of architecture with a steady stream of people Draven had never met.
Guests, perhaps.
The guards at the front gate were focused, their heads held straight with discipline and confidence. They held no weapons, for they were deadly themselves. Empyreans. It was clear to Draven with no need for a word from the silent young lord: all the Heightened of House Orenn lived in this place.
It was a death trap.
“Young Lord, the Virien is expecting you in the High Chamber,” one guard said.
Nerovian nodded and passed through as the doors opened. The guards looked at Draven with glares full of suspicion, their attention focused on his black eye, hastily tied-up broken arm, and awkward gait, but they knew better than to prevent him from entering. Either they knew of his promotion, or the young lord’s acidic expression made them reluctant to interfere.
Bright as day, the hall inside had lightspheres glistening in the distant ceiling like torches far above. The ground was smooth like glass, a dark purple imitation that shone with a fuzzy reflection of whoever dared sully its pristine appearance with their steps. The walls were of a lighter shade of purple, and the occasional white and gold accents stood as reminders of the authority that reigned within.
Well-dressed people—a lot of them, more than Draven could count—bustled back and forth. Servants offered drinks and aperitifs on gold and white metal plates, their contents probably worth more than the average low blood could earn in a year.
Far beyond the rows of tables and chairs, secluded from the politicking and small talk of the Sovran gathered, stood a dark gate. A single person guarded it, but no one made a move to get close to him.
Two heads taller than even the tallest Sovran, dressed in bulky purple and black armor from head to toe, his eyes were the only thing Draven saw. One green, one black. It sent shivers down his spine.
Two men approached—lords, if their clothing was any sign of their stature. Two others, dressed in plain, less luxurious clothes, swords strapped at their sides, followed at a distance.
“If it isn’t Lord Nerovian.” Red hair flowed down the man’s back in an intricate braid that fitted a woman more than a man, but Draven was not fool enough to point that out. His smile was wide, too wide—almost derisive.
“Lord Artros, a pleasure as always,” Nerovian nodded, though his features disagreed with the words he uttered.
Curt words. Nerovian and this Artros did not have a good relationship, either that or the sore mood from previous events still lingered in his mind.
“We thought training would hold you for longer.” A young man with brown hair, a square jawline, and green eyes nodded. “How are your preparations going? It might be wise to ask your lord father if you have any doubts. Maker be my witness, hexion is not something one should blindly experiment with.”
You got that right.
“Lord Balthrian, we have not seen each other in ages.” A genuine smile adorned Nerovian’s face, and even his shoulders seemed to lighten. “I have the Chaos Scripture all but memorized. Yet knowledge alone is worthless without the lessons learned through trials.”
“Worry not, Nero.” Balthrian sighed and put a hand on his shoulder. “Yours shall arrive soon, and all the trials you could ever hope for will follow in its wake.”
Not if I can stop it.
“Nerovian, are you not going to introduce your companion?” Artros examined Draven as he would a beast for sale. “Quite the exquisite attire, if I may add. Have you perhaps unemployed Master Altavir? This young man looks to be in dire need of some mending.”
“A lesson for those who refuse to mind their own business.” Nerovian stared at Lord Artros, the words unclear as to whom they were meant for. “Nevertheless, he is Draven Orisanth, my Primus, as of this morning.”
“Surely you jest!” Lord Artros burst into laughter.
“If you would excuse me, gentlemen, my father requires my presence.” Nerovian gave Balthrian a nod, completely ignoring the astounded expression frozen on the other lord’s face, and left without further clarification.
The news must have spread fast, courtesy of a certain red-haired individual, as the entire hall was soon looking at them. Murmurs echoed amidst the noise—speculations, ridicule—but Nerovian did not seem to care.
Draven was sweating. This was way more attention than he had anticipated. The station of a Primus seemed to be a way bigger deal than he had thought.
As they approached the lone guard, Draven broke the silence between them. “Lord Nerovian, if I may ask something…”
“What is it?” Nerovian replied, yet his attention remained ahead.
“What is a Primus?” Draven had to ask, even though his lack of knowledge might raise some unwanted scrutiny. “It seems… important.”
Nerovian shook his head. “It was a mistake.” He cursed under his breath. “One that I, unfortunately, cannot take back. The word Primus, Draven, means ‘entwined fate’—a brother of a different mother—someone with whom a lord must forge a bond of mutual protection.”
“Why me then?” Draven blurted out. “Not to sound ungrateful, but I just started the other day.”
“Like I said, a mistake. Seraphina has a way of making me lose composure.” Nerovian shook his head as he approached the armored man.
“Lord Orenn is expecting you,” a deep, scratching voice escaped from under the helmet. As Draven moved to follow, the man blocked him with a massive hand. “Not you, Primus,” he mocked.
Nerovian sucked in a deep breath, for he too understood the meaning of the man’s words. “Maker protect me,” he mumbled before disappearing inside.
Draven moved to the side, beside the pillars, away from the people and the watchful eyes. The shadows were a good place to observe, and that was exactly what he needed. Two corridors on each side, none of which were guarded. One set of stairs disappeared around a corner, presumably ascending the palace’s heights, while another descended toward its depths—both of which were guarded.
If they were to place my family somewhere, it has to be in one of those.
Miners, or catalysts, were not easily affordable or easy to come by. The Ascension only happened every five years, after all. Something as valuable as the key to producing new Empyreans was bound to be locked under heavy surveillance.
“You know, it’s common courtesy to at least introduce yourself.” A voice spoke from behind him. “Especially since you are looking to steal my spot. A duel-worthy dispute, some might say.”
Burning green eyes stared at Draven—through him—from the darkness. A shiver racked his soul, effortlessly bypassing his veil, and he knew he was exposed.