“Not just liquor,” he murmured. “Starlit Vodka. My mother’s favorite.”
He sank onto the low velvet bench beside the cabinet, turning the dark blue bottle over in his hands.
Images flitted through my consciousness—a crowd of courtiers, the forced smile of a much younger Nevara standing before them, her sightless eyes going bright with starlight as her visions took her wherever she was commanded toSee.
Then there was the gentle smile of a female with the same frosted hue of blonde hair as the king before me now. Her icy green eyes glinted with kindness as she stared down at her son.
My sharp intake of breath echoed off the tower walls.
Memories. These wereDraven’smemories.
He nodded in confirmation, then tilted his head toward Nevara’s bed.
“She was fifteen,” he said after a moment. “And I was just shy of sixteen. The palace was hosting a War Summit, some politicalperformance meant to bolster morale, and send more soldiers to the front.”
The corner of his lip curled faintly. “My father’s idea. Invite every lord we needed support from. Ply them with wine and false hope before forcing them to send more fae to the frontlines.”
I eased onto the bench beside him. I hadn’t even realized that I’d moved closer.
“Nevara’s mother was already gone,” he added after a moment, “so she was forced to stand before the gathered nobility, listing every vision she’d had that month, and to summon more whenever my father’s favored lords stepped forward. Tell them who was still alive at the warfront. Who had fallen. Who would turn traitor.”
Draven’s grip tightened around the bottle, and frost laced out from his touch to cover the constellations.
“My father had her skewing her visions toward optimism, though. Enough truth to sound credible, enough lies to gather more forces, all the while making his Visionary dance like a marionette.”
A knot formed in my throat, not just from his words, but because I could see it. All of it. Through our bond, Draven showed me the cruel smiles and the echoing cries. I could hear the laughter, smell the intoxicating scent of liquor and ale, as servants rushed past with their trays.
And I could feel his anger. It curled around my heart and latched onto my ribs in a bruising vicegrip. Batty nestled her tiny head against my palm, as if to offer what little comfort she could.
“She held until one of the lords began asking questions about his son who had been sent to the front the month before,” Draven continued. “He begged her for answers, told her he hadn’t replied to any of their phoenixes. Nevara froze. I remember it was the first time she ever seemed unsure of what to say.”
Draven sighed. “When he kept pressing, she finally just refused to answer him, made something up about how the Shard Mother had informed her that she’d already shared too much.”
He let out a low, dangerous chuckle, and the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees. “My father praised her ‘restraint’, of course. It was better for him to appear as if he was in control and not a matter of his young Visionary disobeying his will.”
It was hard to breathe as I watched the male who looked so much like my husband while he viciously grinned down at a much younger Nevara. There was nothing kind in the expression, only violence brimming in his cruel eyes. The silent, assured expectation of the pain that would come that night for her failure.
Then Draven’s mother was back, her beautiful features drawn into careful consideration. She stepped between Nevara and the king, drawing the attention of the courtiers away from the young Visionary.
Looping one arm through her husband’s, she used the other to subtly gesture toward her son.
“And that was when I pulled her away,” Draven added. He swallowed hard. “And I didn’t stop walking until we reached the cellars. I knew the lords weren’t likely to follow us so deep into the palace.”
The pit in my stomach widened.
“It wasn’t until we were tucked away behind the tallest shelves that she let her mask slip even a little.”
I could see her lower lip trembling, her small hands clench into fists as she took several calming breaths.
Draven turned away to give her a moment of privacy, though I could still hear her breaths hitching from her place at his back.
“When she finally spoke again, it was to tell me that the lord’s son was dead. Had been for weeks,” he continued. “That hisdeath played out in a neverending loop in her mind. An endless, exhausting echo of blood and torture.”
My breath caught.
“She said she couldn’t relive it by speaking it aloud again. Not that night.” He exhaled. “I told her that made sense. And it did.”
The silence that stretched between us was heavy with the memory of things they had been too young to bear.
