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Occupying Sarnin should’ve been straightforward. It was a small, independent city with a military no match for the Swarm, and though Valen made no formal claim, its proximity to the empire made his intentions obvious—to Tyrsia, and to one vengeful Imordial.

Keara Evelian rejected Valen as the Guardian’s vessel long before Draven was born. He rarely spoke of it, but she despised him—for wiping out the Ivrans, the Guardian’s true bloodline, for rejecting death itself, and for daring to believe he could erase it entirely.

Her opposition remained distant until Sarnin. What should’ve been a peaceful occupation unraveled the moment she and her Coven struck. They didn’t meet steel with steel, but turned the Swarm’s own fallen against them, warping their auras and raising their corpses like puppets on strings.

Draven didn’t fear death. But after Sarnin, he understood why his father did.

He did everything he could to avoid the bloodshed of innocents, and Keara did everything in her power to spill as much as possible. She proved that death was destruction. It was pain, and it was fear. It was vile and everything the Dusk Flares embodied wrapped in a single soul. Power like that needed to be controlled at best, eliminated at worst.

It made the idea of containing it within himself easier.

“The Wraith won’t be at Alokya,” Draven said.

“That’s what father says, but—”

“She doesn’t know what’s going to happen. And if she did, Ashbourne are not a war prepared people. They have no allies to call on, making her resources limited after what they did in Sarnin. Moving up the date only acts in our favor.”

“But—”

“No more of this. It’s one of my last days where I don’t have to think about it.” Draven grabbed the painting and lifted it to his line of sight. “Where do you think I should put it?”

“Careful! It still needs to dry.” Caine gently pried the painting away from him and placed it back on the easel. Hands still gripping the edge of the canvas, he sighed. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Tell me not to worry when you clearly are.”

“I told you, the Wraith—”

“No,” Caine muttered. “Your purpose. Are you sure you can handle it?”

Draven’s expression faltered only because his brother wasn’t looking. No. Hoarding three Flares beside the piece of his own wasn’t going to be easy. Valen ensured it was possible, and Draven had absorbed, dispelled, and destroyed many souls to prepare.

He wasn’t worried about failure—it wasn’t an option. What scared him was what followed afterward, akin to the Pantheon’s warnings for Chiman. The balance they set was cracking, two of the three bonds holding on by a thread. What would become of the Flares left without their opposite? What would that do to the land?

To him?

Draven glanced at the painting, now seeing the lack of purple in the flames. “Do you think I’ll be given passage to Erebria? Even after what I’ve done?”

Caine met Draven’s gaze over his shoulder, the gold sheen in their eyes identical. “If father has his way, I think this is the closest you’ll ever come to it.”

“You’ll find him inside.”

Draven’s thoughts released him back to Brialis, staring at him from across the corridor. They stood in front of a grand set of doors. The hall, once brightly polished, was now gray like watered down ash. The space reminded him of the insipid air of the Coffers.

The throne room was beyond.

He approached, bracing the handles.

“It’s interesting,” Brialis whispered from the shadows beside him, “how from all your meddling of Valen’s vision, you’ve managed to avoid the Wraith’s touch when you deserve it the most.”

The more she spoke, the more he heard their father. He inspected the precarious pieces that made up her demeanor. Her skin was too smooth, like it could crack with a strong pull of emotion, but her lips were dry and split. She reminded Draven of a doll; the sort he felt was watching him when his back was turned.

He pushed open the doors, the heavy timber groaning as they swung open.

A blast of stale air hit him. His stomach heaved, and he noted the scent of burned, earthy incense mingled within. The throne room matched the dreary image of the rest of the castle. However, it was completely encased in darkness, except for a brightly lit, silver chamber resting in place at the top of a small landing. One he stood atop beside Valen.

Draven treaded down the walkway outlined by misshapen mounds of candle wax. The stairs of the landing all held flowers, more candles, and rotting fruit. Dirty water filled a clay jug. Bells and gongs lined the edge of the chamber. All remnants of Reatian customs after death.