“You do not know such Sun,” she uttered. “She will think herself judge, jury, and executioner in this form.”
“She deserves freedom,” Draven snapped. “As every other being and Architect of Haerland does.”
The Nitesh’s lips pursed and twisted, her golden eyes blazing through him. He rubbed his neck as he took a deep breath to calm himself, and then he shook his head. “I care not of a fuck about your curses, Nari,” he said, using her true name. “I care about Aydra. She deserved to feel such a bond with her mother Sun after what her brother did to her raven.”
The Nitesh’s jaw set. “This was your intention with the ritual? Not to spite myself or my mother?”
“It was for her,” he answered sharply. “Only her.”
The Nitesh stared at the ground then as though she were contemplating his words, debating whether to believe him. Draven’s breaths evened as he watched, and he then pushed a hand through his hair, allowing it to settle off his face.
“You know, one day, someone will finish what I started,” he continued, now more calmly than before. “The Red Moons will rise. Every curse on this land’s head will break. The Noctuans will be free. The Architects and the dead will walk these grounds once more.” He paused, eyes darting over her quiet figure. “And there is nothing your mother will be able to do about it.”
The Nitesh eyed him. She shifted on her seat after a few moments and held out her hands through the bars.
“Your hands,” she insisted, more calmly than before.
“Why? So you can—” He realized then what she was doing, and his eyes widened. “Why are you calling him?”
“Cease your ramblings and take my hands.”
He contemplated her, but obeyed nonetheless.
A sudden gust encircled the cell. Draven closed his eyes. He could smell dirt, but not like the grime and stench dirt of the corners of the cell. Actual, freshly stirred, dirt. Fresh grass. Pine needles. Dew in the morning. The scents filled his nostrils and made his chest swell. In his mind he could see trees all around him. The wind engulfed his body. He could hear the scream of the Aviteth in his ears.
Home.
The chill of the Nitesh’s hands left him, and Draven opened his eyes. The Nitesh was gone. But in the shadows, he saw the man he owed his fate and life to.
“Hello, father,” Draven managed.
A man taller than he emerged from the shadows. Hair long and darker than the forest dirt. Eyes as green as the forest roof. Skin that glowed in the light of the torches on the walls. Deep scars plagued the man’s buff torso. Three long scratches cut across his face and strong brows. The man scratched the stubble on his jaw and began to fiddle with the open padlock on Draven’s cell door.
“You realize this is open?” the man asked in a rasp voice, his brow heightened on his forehead.
Draven leaned back on the stone wall and exhaled the long breath he’d been holding. “I’m aware.”
“And you don’t want to run?”
“I will not leave her to die alone.”
The man opened the door and stepped inside, where he took a seat on the barrel near the door. He pushed his hands through his hair, and Draven frowned at the sight of his giver in the cell with him so far from home.
“Why are you here, Duarb?” Draven asked.
“Do you love her?” Duarb asked.
Draven’s gaze narrowed, and he rubbed his hands nervously in front of him. “I do.”
“And does she love you?”
Draven met Duarb’s eyes. “She does.”
“Then there’s something you should know.”
Draven eyed his giver a moment, and he leaned his head back onto the stone. “I’m listening.”
Duarb avoided Draven’s gaze and stared at the ground, rubbing his neck in a manner that made Draven curious. “Arbina is not who you think she is.”
