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The air hardened. “You may when your training is finished. Just as I had to do and the ordained before us.”

“It won’t take very long, will it?”

His voice dropped low and distorted, rippling through the air like broken glass. “Only a sliver of your life, my son.”

Dread seized Draven by the throat. He spun around to Valen—his father, standing over him. He wasn’t what Draven pictured when Lanna spoke of him. Black hair to his shoulders, face thin and edged, he didn’t look like the royalty of Failen who all wore embroidered silks or fine leathers and furs like Chiman. Valen always dressed in decorative long coats and a pair of slim fit trousers, both trimmed in gold or a deep red.

With his palm against his chest, and Draven too small to see what he cradled, he stared down at him as if nothing were wrong.

“I’d like to show you something.”

Hands braced on the step, Draven stood upright. Valen knelt down, and in his hand was a soul that reminded Draven of a storming sky at sunrise. His father reached for his hands and placed them in front of him—cupped like he was making an offering—and gently poured the soul into his sweaty palms. It collected around itself, floating just above Draven’s touch.

“What is it?” Draven asked.

“Vitality,” Valen said. “What gives us the joy of life.”

Draven’s curiosity was more for the color, but he didn’t want to correct Valen. “Even this one?”

“Even this one. It’s important to remember Dabria came from Erebria just as Ettan did. Both born of sacrifice and ending in sacrifice. This opposition is what we thrive on. What molds the very bones of our life force. It is a tricky line to balance.”

The soul was so cold in Draven’s hands he might as well have been holding a block of ice. Valen’s eyes were watching, fine-tuned to find anything at fault.

“This one broke that balance,” he stated as if reading Draven’s mind. “If by means of itself, or the course of its body is hard to say…”

Draven stretched out his hands to give it back. Valen wavered.

Finally he took it, twisting his hand back and forth, examining the soul.

He crushed his hand into a fist. The soul withered like that of a dying flame until it faded to nothing. “What we can do is ensure it will not happen again.”

Draven blinked, and the lowering rays of the sun ignited like the lighting of a wick. He squinted, and his focus returned to a memory years ahead of the last. The colorful sights of the garden were gone, and before him was a room painted with snow-bleached sunlight. Grand, pristine, polished, and one he had stood in more times than he could remember.

Chiman and his council lined the outer walls in regal chairs. Draven narrowed his gaze as Failen’s king glowered back at him.

The only feeling Draven allowed on these occasions was pride he was above the complacent bastard.

Only muttering carried through the picturesque throne room. Chest tall and hands behind his back, Draven risked a glance to Caine, who did not risk one back.

The grand doors flew open, and Valen trudged in. Chiman and his court stood and tipped their heads only to be ignored. Draven and Caine received the same treatment. Valen fell in the throne as if he climbed the entire mountain. The silence after his sigh was piercing. Leg cocked up on the other, he leaned into the arm rest, rubbing his temple with his fingers.

“How many?” he asked the feeble room below.

A long pause settled, and many gazes fell to Chiman. Plump and decorated in furs, the man sighed as he stood. “You are looking at this in the wrong light, my friend.”

“The light we see is very different.”

“Perhaps you should take a look through the lens we share. This is a victory, Hazevale! Sarnin is a valuable asset for access and control of Alokya. There’s always going to be—”

Valen straightened his back and his voice. “How. Many.”

“Nearly three thousand, my Lord,” Alister answered as he stood. His long auburn hair was pulled out of his face, helmet propped under his arm, plated cuirass and grieves a charcoal black. Around his back and draping over one shoulder was a thick fox pelt. “I received word from the general yesterday. Two thousand of our own and Sarnin’s casualties. A thousand from Sarnin were captured, but are still alive.”

Valen cursed under his breath and returned to sulking.

“We initiated the attack swiftly as planned, but the appearance of the Wraith was…”

“Surprising,” Valen finished. “How many of her Coven were there?”