Page 18 of Nocturn

“Yes, Lord Draven.” A soft, wheedling voice invaded the silence. A man stepped out of the line, the cut of his stature slight. He walked to the base of the stairs, his fire-colored hair haloed around his temples.

Lord Draven.

Of all the information I had of him, I had not known what his given name was.

“Bring me the prophet,” the Warlord ordered.

I followed Lord Horveau’s gaze as he jerked his chin to the side to look at an officer. There were two of them standing there, almost blending with the walls in their uniforms.

“What troubles you, Lord Draven? If there is any dissatisfaction with the current plan of attack on the Northern border⁠—”

“Why is my Vessel a filthy redblood?” he drawled calmly, arms braced on the throne’s armrests.

Lord Horveau paled as his mouth flapped open and closed.

“If I may speak, Lord Draven,” the stocky, white-haired man said, age lines bracketing his mouth.

He didn’t move until Lord Draven waved him forward.

“Lord Vaner,” Lord Horveau murmured as he backed away to take his place in the line.

The man he stepped next to gave him a look, and Lord Horveau shook his head the slightest bit. It was so brief, I could have misinterpreted the interaction . . . Surely, that was the case of the strangeness.

“The prophet will have answers for you, my lord.”

Footsteps echoed, and the officers escorted a robed figure forward. Sapphire jewels adorned the lip of the hood masking the face. The officers retreated as the figure approached the dais and slim hands reached to expose the face underneath.

A woman, rouge painting her lips and with her face powdered, came into view. Maturity lined her features; she held herself poised. Her eyes flicked to me hovering behind his throne, and she held her hand out.

“Approach the prophet,” Lord Vaner ordered, gaze on mine. I remained frozen, unable to move.

“Now, redblood!” Lord Draven boomed.

I jumped from the force of his shout, his voice causing a visceral fear to propel me forward. With speed I had not thought my body could muster, I rushed to the base of the steps and stopped before crashing into her. I straightened my back and met her gaze.

“Prophet, a redblood has the Sigil. Has a mistake been made?” Lord Draven asked.

As she studied me, I studied her.

This woman couldn’t be much older than I. Perhaps an annum more than me, yet she’d been blessed as a prophet. The most revered position after the Warlord. It was said that only one prophet existed across the lands, including the other realms past the Barren, and Sycarious was her keeper.

The prophet continued to study me, and she began to circle me. The intensity of her focus on my Sigil drew my shoulders higher.

“You are blessed to be in the presence of the prophet,” Lord Horveau snapped. “Straighten.”

He neared the dais, leaving the line of council members. That tone . . . I knew he looked familiar.

Lord Horveau’s son was the Duke of Rowek. Their lineage was one of the Elite families of the East. I had chaperoned Miriam to a ball the Duke and Duchess attended during their visit to the North.

His boastful comments about his father still rang in my thoughts.

The council will ensure redbloods will not be a problem for long.

All while I stood near the wall, a few paces from him.

The prophet reached out, and her touch grazed my collarbone, right below the metal at my throat. I recoiled from her cold skin. A flicker of pity crossed her elegant features. Suddenly, she dropped to her knees, her eyes rolling back. Lord Vaner caught her before she smacked into the hard stone. Her breathing turned shallow, and she convulsed.

I staggered back until my ankle hit the edge of the steps, and I dropped onto the floor. Once the prophet stopped convulsing, Lord Vaner helped her up. She leaned on him. The urge to bolt crawled up my throat. Lord Horveau stared at my exposed legs. I yanked the shredded fabric of my dress over my thigh as best I could.