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She crouched down to his level, offering him a gloved hand. The boy grimaced like it was infested with spiders.
“It’s safe,” Lily said.
“Mama told me the Wraith can kill you with one touch.”
Lily smiled. That required skin to skin contact. What he should’ve been more scared of was a fresh cut, or the trace of decay in the area. Blood or an already established necro aura might be easier to manipulate to a skilled Wraith than having to get close enough to someone to kill them.
Skilled was the defining factor there. Little did he know, Lily was probably in more danger than he was. She’d spent half her life neglecting her Flare, and all she knew about this Hazevale was that he was young, but she didn’t assume that made him less of a threat. The Guardian could heal, yes, but it could also manipulate living auras and souls, and she had no idea what sort of training he’d accomplished, even at this age. If he wanted to, he could kill her where she stood without having to touch her body.
“Well, I heard the Guardian can suck out your soul just by looking at you.” She inspected herself as if waiting to fade away. “And I’m still here.”
His thin lips shifted ever so slightly. The simple motion stirred something quiet in her chest, and once the boy smoothly reached out to grab her hand, she squeezed it.
“Listen to what I say and follow my directions,” she said. “I’m going to ask for some trust.”
“I think I have a little.”
Chapter Seven
Gods below, how did it manage to become even colder?
Draven rolled onto his other side, focus drifting to the gleam of metal just outside of his reach. A tinderbox he discovered within the bag Kyer left behind.
It didn’t take long for him to give up on freezing to death. He thought it’d be quick, considering the abysmal temperatures, certainly quicker than starving, but his body refused to succumb to hypothermia. It still suffered like it would, and though his want was to die—to rid himself of his Diseased soul—he wanted much more for the violent shivering to come to an end.
The tinderbox provided some relief once he managed to light it. That was until he realized Kyer’s speech before he left rang more like a literal warning.
The second light filled the room the Serpent rose to the surface.
Draven’s eyes latched onto the fire’s shadows dancing across the floor, enthralled with the way they moved on their own. The want to contain them, to force them back into the box they were born from, was fierce. The sensation coursed underneath the surface, yet he couldn’t reach it. The rush of the river swelled with every lick of the flame, engorging his mind and his muscles.
He spent hours scraping steel against flint, experimenting with how much light aggravated his soul.
As the never abating darkness stretched on, he learned it only took a spark.
Draven always ended up shutting the lid, welcoming back the cold dark in lieu of losing himself. He spent his time between attempts casually searching through the bag, finding food, water, more clothing, a long overcoat…
His gaze drifted from the tinderbox to the sheen of a blade not far away.
A knife.
He only tried once. The pain along his arm lasted until the Serpent’s light healed the wound, leaving no trace of it ever happening, not even a scar. Those that remained were the marks before he died, including the scar from Caine’s attempt on his life.
Unable to freeze, to starve—to inflict any damage at all—he wrapped the coat tightly around himself and huddled in the corner. Trapped.
Draven’s eyes drifted shut.
Caine manifested in front of him, his likeness appearing from the shadows as if the fire was still lit.
But not as he was the last time he saw him.
Twisted steel plunged deep into his flesh and then out, wrapping his mangled frame in a tight caress. The undulating image of his younger brother extended a purple splotched arm toward him. In his fist was a ball of light—green, potent, and fading.
Blood trickled out between his cracked lips, his eyes hollow
"For Eizreth."
He started awake.
