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“That is not known. Only one was captured, but she could not have held off our men alone. I understand your disappointment, my Lord, but the Evelians’ Coven is no bigger than the Ivrans’ old Order. Forty priests and priestesses at most. This is not a tactic she can repeat anytime soon.”

Valen shook his head and rocked his foot. “I did not expect this from her,” he muttered.

“You’ve changed the order,” Caine responded, low enough only the three of them could hear. “These extreme measures are her way of righting you.”

“What are you saying, boy?” Chiman spat.

“To assume that number has increased,” Draven sneered, raising his voice. “It’s been thirty years since my father took control of the Guardian. Thirty years of combining our realms, amassing resources and funds for more than small colonies and expansions, and thirty years the Wraith has had to prepare while you’ve dragged your feet and delayed. To fall further than it has and to do exactly what it called its Escardians to do to the people of Sarnin.”

“All out of obligation to win my lovely counterpart over,” Chiman argued, though a long silence followed now that it was clear the Serpent’s Imordial wasn’t as easily swayed as the Vulpes’. Chiman huffed. “They’re still attacking with sticks and rocks while we build toward the future! This success is no matter to look down upon.”

“Success or not, more lives were lost than would have been without her interference,” Valen said. “You may count your victories in potential coin, Romon, but I count mine in beating hearts. Every one, no matter the need, is a loss I feel.” Valen clenched the armrest of the throne. “Bring me the priestess.”

One of the guards manning the door bowed and left the room.

Chiman shrugged and rubbed his hands together. “If cleansing the bloody cunt makes the victory a little sweeter, then by all means.” He bowed before returning to his seat and flashed Draven a crooked smile. “Wouldn’t want your exorcist to have all the fun.”

Draven ground his teeth behind closed lips. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Valen’s head twist toward him.

His father’s voice glided back into existence. “Caine.”

That earned the recognition Valen was searching for, though Draven kept it inside, never swaying or even thinking about turning from his position. The only part he couldn’t control was the drop of his heart.

“I think this one calls for you.”

Caine would answer quickly with exactly what their father wanted, so Draven needed to be quicker.

“No.”

Everyone in the room held their breath.

“No?” Valen asked.

Draven coolly turned toward him. “It is not his purpose. It is mine.”

Valen tilted his head, setting his foot on the floor and sitting up straight. “He needs to learn, and he is ready. The time to take Dabria’s influence is coming. Your body needs to prepare. To stay pure. Surely a creature who committed such abhorrence with its gift will pollute your mind and spirit.”

He’s not ready. He never should be. “Something so beneath me is not capable of infecting the gift I received from you and Ettan. The soul is born of the Wraith. It is my responsibility to send them to Theila.” Draven’s gaze flicked to his brother’s unreadable expression. “Not his.”

Valen shifted on the throne as if mulling over the prospect. A vicious smile crossed his features, and Draven felt like he’d been twisted by the arm until he was screaming for mercy.

“Let’s let this one test the waters, yes?” He clapped his hands. “Excellent! Another time, Caine.”

“Yes, sir.”

Draven turned back to face front, jaw tight and sore. It didn’t let up even after the doors yawned open and a young woman was carelessly thrown into the center of the room.

She hit the floor hard. Between quiet sobs and moans, she pulled herself up to her knees. It was a wonder she’d yet to freeze to death, draped in a tattered white robe made with a thin cloth. Covered with a hood, she kept her head low and hidden. Matted silver hair poured over her shoulder. Her hands shook on bare, folded knees. Bruises and cuts lined the bulk of her exposed skin.

It was odd. For creations so keen on killing, they were always afraid to die.

Valen let her sobs carry through the quiet space until he spoke to her in Ash. It was harsh and grating, but it could’ve been because Draven simply didn’t understand the language. The woman answered each of his inquiries meekly between catches of breath.

Valen snickered, returning to Retian. “Well? Say it again.”

She shivered. “I—I’ve m-made my p-peace with Dabria,” she said, mimicking Valen’s tongue.

There were several muffled laughs through the room.