The green-eyed stranger gave a knowing smile from the shadows.
“Young Lord Orenn is not as careless as one might think. An Empyrean as his Primus only makes sense.” The lord matched his height, his brown hair, deep caramel eyes, and square jaw evoking a sense of familiarity within Draven. “But that shielding technique is sloppy at best. Yet I suppose it serves its purpose in muddying the sight of your astra.”
Relief spread through Draven’s body as his heart unclenched. The man knew he was an Empyrean, but he did not know what kind—what path he belonged to. It was the best he could hope for from an unsalvageable situation.
“Draven Orisanth.” Draven extended a handshake. “And I would appreciate it if you kept this matter a secret. Lord Orenn would not look kindly if he found out.”
The green-eyed man ignored his warning. “I can only imagine. Black eye, broken arm, a few too many bruises to count. Maker be kind, fellow, but on what manner of stairs have you been falling lately?”
Draven looked away. No name, no introduction. Whoever this person was, he also wanted his presence to remain secret. It was risky, but he had to take chances if it meant protecting his identity.
“Green eyes, sight that can pierce the soul. Call me crazy, but I don’t remember House Orenn inviting another Evoker to their midst,” Draven said.
It was a bluff; he did not have the slightest idea regarding the guest list. But this sort of Empyrean was rare. Feared. No house would invite an outsider of this caliber to their midst, for they saw through the secrets most guarded with their lives.
A slight trembling in the man’s left eyelid told Draven he had his attention. “Not to worry, friend. Some things are better left unmentioned.”
Silence meandered amidst the shadows, in the echoes of the murmuring that surrounded them. It was overbearing and life-threatening, but it was an answer meant only for the watchful eyes.
“Indeed.” The mysterious man nodded. “Orisanth… where did I hear that name—”
“It’s an orphanage south of Anaverith,” Draven interrupted.
In the city, the name Orisanth was well known. An orphanage that raised the sons and daughters of Low Bloods whose families were no more, it was a great service provided by the Magistry of the White Rose. That this man did not recognize it meant a lot.
“You must not be from around here—”
His gaze drifted behind Draven to something that made his ever-narrowed eyes widen in surprise—maybe even a hint of alarm. It was only then that Draven noticed the murmurs had stopped. Silence reigned amidst the Sovran as a single man strode forward, his steps confident and full of authority.
Black hair streaked with white strands foretold of his aging, but that was the only sign that the ravages of time had any sway over him, for his body was carved in a powerful build. A black and white attire, simple with no ornate embroideries, yet luxurious in its lack of extravagance, adorned his figure as he made his way to the lonesome mountain of a guard.
“Lord Nospheo, Master awaits you.” The armored man spoke with a nod—a demonstration of respect that had been absent even to Nerovian Orenn.
“Arzhan,” he said in a curt, raspy voice. Nospheo stood in front of the man, who was a head taller than him, yet his presence seemed to tower above the guard. “My son has been wondering when you would visit us again.”
“Times are hectic, my lord. But we shall see if duty can relieve me after the day of the Severing.” He bowed slightly and moved aside.
“I will hold you to that.” Nospheo nodded and disappeared inside.
“Early Ascendence! He knows we are here now, you fool!” A teenager’s voice chastised behind Draven.
“Silence, Vaelor,” the green-eyed snapped.
Draven turned around to see a scene from nightmares. A green, ethereal head, with features distinct from the man’s own, tried to free itself from his flesh. The nameless man had fallen to a knee, sweat dripping down the sides of his face. Another head popped to the surface on the other side.
“He’s a Chroner, you dimwit. Of course, he knows we’re here now! The guy probably walked around the entire room while we were frozen in time,” the other head said.
Specters!
It did not take a genius to deduce. But how come they seemed so full of life, of personality? The one who had hunted Draven earlier had resembled nothing but a husk of a person driven only by orders. The more he examined the faces of the mysterious man and his two Specters, the more they resembled each other.
The ethereal faces looked younger, maybe four to five years, but if Draven ignored that, they might as well have belonged to a single individual. These three could have been brothers. No, something told him they were brothers—triplets.
“What are you looking at, Craven?” One face admonished Draven’s staring. “Never seen a Specter before? You think this is a show or something?”
“Get lost, weirdo!” The other one snarled.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
“Please, settle down.” The man shook. “I’m losing the hold again.”
“Maybe you should just let us do it then.” One of them huffed.
“You were always too soft for your own good.” The other sighed. “Let’s go, Helion, that’s enough embarrassment for one day.”
The Specters disappeared without another word, but the man did not rise to his feet. His heartbeat was fast as if he had been running nonstop for hours.
His heartbeat. With sudden realization, Draven noticed he could hear it.
It came naturally, like breathing—he did not need to will the hexion in some strange way. Hearing was easier when the noises were closer to oneself, but the hearing of a Heightened Sovran was different.
The noise, the music of hearts, was there. He needed only to listen.
“Nospheo the Blade of Eons. Abyss take my soul, eat it, and spit its rancid stupidity out!” The man continued to curse as if Draven’s presence had entirely escaped his mind. “Good meeting you, Draven. Now I must go before I find my head separated from my neck.”
“Wait, I didn’t catch your name.” A last attempt at putting a name to the face.
“Elevalein von Astrais,” he said before stumbling his way out of the palace.
Nobody seemed to notice his presence. He stumbled into people who gasped in surprise, yet their sights never settled on the man. It was as if he was not there—not to them. But to Draven, it was as if he had never left. At least his name still echoed loudly in the silent hall.
Elevalein von Astrais.
It was his father’s family name—his real name.
***
Draven entered the room with a head full of questions. Who was Elevalein? Who was Nospheo? What in the Abyss was he supposed to do? He felt so empty—everything was outside his grasp. One answer led to five new questions.
Is this what incompetence feels like?
“Why the long face, Draves?” Aemon peeked his head out from over the book. “Got some good news—wait, is your arm broken?”
“Doesn’t matter, man. I can heal it whenever I want.” But ‌he could not afford to reveal his capabilities like that.
“Whatever you say. After we get your family out, we are gonna jump that snotty-nosed brat.” Aemon’s eyes were cold. His tone might have been cheerful, almost a joke, but the promise in his eyes was a serious one. “Anyway, I said I got some news, didn’t I?”
“Did you?”
“Way to pay attention. That nasty cook is making me order some huge amounts of food—expensive stuff like you wouldn’t believe. And when I say huge, I mean there’s no way these people can eat that much unless there are some guests.” He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “You get what I’m saying?”
“Smells like a party is coming. That and, well, onions again.” Draven wrinkled his nose.
“I didn’t even chop them today!” Aemon gave himself a sniff or two before giving up. “Not just a party, my friend. Why would just a regular meet-and-greet be under so much secrecy? That old bastard Theodore won’t say a thing, which already tells me everything I need to know.”
“A secret party.” Draven nodded. It made sense that something like that was about to happen—it would explain all the lords gathered in the Amethyst Palace.
Draven sat down. What he was about to do was dangerous, but there was no other way.
“Maker protect me, Draven, what are we getting into now?” There was concern in Aemon’s voice, but he would sooner die than back down. He was one of the few people Draven knew had his back.
The feeling was mutual.
“I’m gonna steal Empyrean manuals from Nerovian’s library, and I need your help.” Draven smiled. It was time to stop holding back.
“Sounds stupid, tremendously dangerous, and crazy reckless.” Aemon frowned. “Count me in.”
Nerovian had returned from the meeting with his father with a bitter face. A fire burned inside of him—an angry, roaring fire that would need to be put out. Alcohol would make it easier. The young lord’s cabinet was full of spirits, and he was fond of sipping fragrant wines while studying.
“We just need to send one of them with a selection of beverages for their lord. Call it a test before the main event.” The more the idea took shape, the more it made sense. The plan, though simple and not fully fleshed out, was bound to succeed. “He’s gonna fall for it. Add alcohol to a bad day, and we get a drunken Sovran.”
“Sounds simple. Might even work, but there’s a big problem with your plan.” Aemon shook his head. “I’m just an apprentice cook, stupid! Who would ever give me the good stuff over a blatant lie like that?”
Draven had been expecting that.
“You might be just a cook, young Aemon.” Draven patted him on the head, which earned him a slap. “But you’re looking at Nerovian’s Primus.”
Whereas Draven expected to see surprise or admiration, there was only confusion.
“What the abyss is a Primus?” he exclaimed.
That’s the thing, Finn. Draven smiled. I don’t know either!
Aemon escorted him to the kitchen with the familiar pace and impatient gait of someone who wished to do anything but follow the trodden path to its final destination. Nods and awkward half-bows accompanied them as they made their way—an uncommon sight, to say the least. There was no lord in their midst, after all.
“What is wrong with these people?” Aemon murmured.
“I had no idea you were that influential, Lord Aemon,” Draven said, poking him in the ribs.
“Are you stupid?” Aemon looked at him with outrage written all over his face. “They’re bowing to you!”
That made Draven stumble.
“Whatever that Primus ratshit is, it’s working.” Aemon shook his head and let the matter rest. “Just don’t get too much of a big head because of it. That Theodore bastard is not a bootlicker.”
Draven had his doubts about whether any of the servants would still be in the kitchen at this hour—it was past dinner time, after all—but sure enough, the noise of orders being issued drifted from the corridors into their ears.
Someone was not in a good mood.
“What do you mean, he’s out of stock?” Something broke against the wall. “I want that Pearlwight wine even if he has to sell his own mother to get it! Or does he think the Orenn House will settle for scraps?”
“I’m sorry!”
“Get your sorry ass out of here, then, and when you get back, it better be with five bottles of that wine!” A wince of pain followed as a servant came bustling out of the open door like his life depended on it.
“You know, Draves,” Aemon’s voice took on a hint of wariness. Hesitation. “Maybe we should do this another day… Tomorrow is as good as tonight.”
“Are you scared of him?” It did not take all the lightspheres in the ceiling to reveal his reluctance—it was in his voice, in the way he walked, in the unsettled stares at the door.
“You’re scared!” Aemon gulped and walked inside.