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Draven opened his mouth to speak, but Valen lifted a silencing palm.

“What of it?” he challenged the boy. “Your skill with steel does not equate to your mastery of soul absorption. This is Draven’s purpose.”

Caine’s lips sealed shut, and he glanced at Draven, whose heart ached. His brother was so eager to please, but Caine had yet to learn you couldn’t truly satisfy Valen. The man never yelled, yet the disappointed stares or underhanded remarks ensured you would never forget your mistakes.

But if you impressed him? There was no better feeling. Even a small twinkle in his eye warmed you straight to the soul. So that’s what this was to the youngest of his children: a fight to stay in his good graces. To be better than the other sibling vying for the emperor’s endearment.

Draven couldn’t blame him, and normally he’d gladly lie down for Caine to walk all over him.

“Your will is strong, I will concede there,” Valen continued, “but your body is not.” He turned back to his eldest, eyes ablaze like yellow flames. “Draven has been training both for years.”

Draven endured the weight of his gaze like he had so many times before, but he did not cower. Not with the lives lost and souls destroyed by his hands for the purpose of training. All of it had to be for something. And if Valen thought Draven was capable of ridding the world of its darker influences, then he had to try.

And if he couldn’t, then Caine would.

He met Valen’s energy with silent, confident agreement. You’re right. I have, and I will do it.

Slowly, amid the whip of the bitter wind and over the woman dying at their feet, the Guardian calmed behind Valen’s eyes. “And I have faith in him. My First Incarnation—the first reflection of myself in body and soul.” Valen extended a hand over Leona. “A pure vessel.”

Draven’s confidence dropped to his gut with the appearance of the Serpent—an emerald green ball of flame rising from Leona’s open mouth. Her eyes were opaque. Empty. The light in her chest extinguished.

Supposedly, souls spoke with songs that were barely more than whispers. He’d never heard one speak, but as he watched this soul—this god—thrash and convulse, he imagined it screeched like claws dragging over glass.

Valen kept it suspended between them in offering. “First to welcome the power of more than one Flare.”

Draven’s pulse hammered against his ribcage, but he accepted, taking it into his hand seamlessly. The chill was unlike any from a common or blessed soul. It was so freezing that it burned. It hovered just above his skin, its energy thrumming through his hand and up his arm.

What did a Flare taste like? He never thought to ask Valen. His stomach churned as he recalled the icy, sugary taste of a common soul ghosting across his tongue. He pushed it down as he lifted the Serpent to his face, parting his lips.

He inhaled.

An onslaught of unknown energy slammed through Draven’s body. His ears rang with so much noise he thought the drums would burst. His veins so engorged they may pop. He clamped his eyes shut and fell to his knees, grasping his head as if it would keep his skull from splitting apart.

It felt like a war was waging within him, barely restrained by the cage of his bones.

It hurt! It hurt so terribly that Draven thought he would die right then and there. At least then, it would be over.

“Draven.”

Caine’s call forced its way between the rush of energy. Draven lifted his head, managing to find him through a blur of green and golden fog. His face had fallen, mouth agape, tears brimming his widened eyes. Beside him, Valen watched with a sadistic, self-satisfied grin he could hardly contain.

He’s never going to stop. I can’t die here. If I do, it will all have been for nothing.

Draven fought, but as the pain peaked, his vision faded, and all sensation ceased.

It will be worth it.

The memory faded, and just as he expected it to start over, time spun backwards.

Sensation crashed into him—sights, sounds, and smells rushed by as if he were careening out of control in a speeding carriage. Everything passed quickly, coming to a stop with an assault of light.

His body lurched forward, slapping wet and heavy against a freezing surface. A high, insistent ringing filled his ears as consciousness returned to him. Fire gathered in his chest, and he willed his hands to reach for his face, but they wouldn’t obey.

He cracked open his eyes at a squint. Silhouettes were shuffling above.

Move! he demanded of himself, but he couldn’t. He was too weak.

Panic filled his chest, and as if responding, a rush of energy he didn’t invite tore through his head, frothing out of control like a raging river. It traveled down his torso, lending its strength to his weakened limbs. Using it, he lifted himself to his knees, still fighting to intake air.