Page 48

There was never enough Draven could do to repay him. He gave him so much, but Valen took away more. And Draven realized it all too late.

He hated him.

So why did it hurt?

His hands dug into the Coffer, denting the shell.

“Draven.”

Brialis was at the bottom of the dais, hand outstretched, palm open. “Leave him.” She looked as scared as he felt. Truly mortal and not the mask over a god.

Part of him wanted to take her hand.

But more of him wanted to leave this behind.

The doors loomed before him, fear twisting in his chest at what might be waiting on the other side.

Lanna turned to him, her eyes the shade of a freshly picked cherry. She always wore a milk-colored apron over a woolen dress, this one a muted green.

Tears pricked behind Draven’s eyes.

She leaned down, wiping them away with her apron before wrapping him in her arms. The pendant of her family crest pressed hard into his chest.

“You’ll always have a place with me. Understand?”

“I do,” he whispered into her shoulder.

“Don’t let him tear you apart. You’re a good boy.” She pushed him back and cupped his forehead. “Here.” She placed her other palm over his heart. “And here. Never forget that.”

He sucked in a shallow breath “I’ll try.”

She stood back up, tall and as fierce as she could at her short stature.

He grabbed her hand. “I’ll come visit. I promise.”

She smiled. “I’ll be waiting.”

Fog pooled around the cemetery like a shroud, muffling the sounds of the waking world. The sun peeked from beyond the hills, and with it came the smell of icy dew. Somewhere far in the distance, on the outskirts of the city, a bell tolled in the dark.

The tips of Draven’s hair beaded with ice, his breath blending with the mist around him. He rested against the chipped stairs of a mausoleum that stood abandoned and grimy. The emblem of the Everlasting Root contained in the circular shape of a sun—Erebria—was barely visible under muck and packed snow. An old, rusty lock kept the gate shut tight. There was no need to touch it. What he sought lay inside, for the gate wouldn’t exist if it didn’t.

Draven kept still, hoping he’d silently become one with his brother’s tomb if all it took was the want to do so.

The events of that last night played over and over in his head. There was no changing it.

Keara’s ornate gaze latched onto his mind.

“But you can decide what happens next.”

Draven’s eyes roamed over his hand, seemingly frozen in place, hanging off his knee. The gash in his chest had healed completely. The only trace of it was the dried blood on his coat.

The Serpent wanted him alive, that much was clear. Why? What did it want with the man who stole it from its rightful vessel? What good could possibly come from his existence?

Draven sighed as he thought of Kyer.

“What constitutes a ‘good act’ to someone like Imperial Prince Draven Hazevale?”

He could set things right. Put the Flares back in their rightful places and make amends to the Imordials he wronged. In a way, he did that the night he died. The Gnaw seemed to be back with the Argent family. And trusting what Brialis said, he understood the Wraith’s familial line was alive.