Page 31 of Nocturn

The rug I trod across spanned various paces. At the far end, Lord Draven sat before a desk. Towering cases hosting books of different shapes and sizes stood behind him. Onyx columns rose and arched to meet at a point atop each section of books. They continued to stretch the span of the wall behind him. In some sections, scrolls lay one atop the other.

The contents on his desk became clearer as I reached it. He had a parchment spread out before him, several hand-lengths in size, while a quill and ink sat near his wrist.

“My lord,” I murmured, stopping before him.

He leaned back. The upholstered library chair with ornate carvings along the oak wood of the base squeaked loudly. Lord Draven laced his hands at his stomach, not speaking a word as he swept me with his icy gaze, expression relaxed and observant. I did not miss the way it lingered on the slit where a sliver of my leg showed between the panel.

A linen tunic hugged the indentations of his chest; the waistcoat lay open and unbuttoned. He seemed a scholarly scribe, not a murderous Warlord.

Much less that sexual creature I had seen with the feeder. His regard left me unsteady. A sensation I had seldom known. I shifted my weight from one slipper to the other, chewing on my lip, my nerves heightening with every moment. I forced my gaze to stay away from him.

“You are excused.”

I whipped my head up, elation swelling. But his eerie gaze wasn’t on me. He flicked his hand at Egan who inclined his head and backed away.

Now I was alone with him.

I turned back to Lord Draven and observed in silence, hoping to escape his notice.

A thick, worn book lay across his desk, thick enough to span the length of my forearm. My focus was drawn to it. Each time I looked away, the urge to turn back toward it returned. He worked in silence, scribbling across a map.

“Stop fiddling about,” he ordered, head still lowered.

“Yes, Lord Draven,” I murmured, taking a closer peek at the parchment. He continued to reference the giant book. I blinked hard, and the letters became focused.

My eyesight must have worn down with age. Wait a moment. It described a section of the Barren.

Excitement spawned. I had seen nothing like this before. I did not recall there being maps having anything describing the Barren at all. Only a vast land of death.

“Is that a map of Sycarious?” I turned my head to get a better look. “You have that bit wrong.”

He stiffened as if I’d insulted his lineage.

“You can read this?”

The rushed way he said it startled me into looking at him.

“The mid-section. The map you’re creating does not have the river running through.” I neared, craning my head to study the writing, blinking hard to focus my eyes. “It says the river leads to the cascades, not to the cavern.” I nodded, fairly certain that was what I was reading. “Have you been? To the Barren, that is?”

He seemed stunned into silence.

“Lord Draven?” I murmured.

“The Barren used to not be the Barren, mortal. During the Hundred Annum War, the destruction was so tremendous that—You can read this.”

He stood, rounded the desk, and seized my hand, dragging me to the other side. I staggered after him.

He flipped the worn page toward the front, the ragged, cracked edges noisily settling.

“Come, what does this say?” His large hand squeezed my nape, forcing my belly against the edge of the desk.

In a large script, the number five was spelled out.

“Five Warlords? I think your book is wrong.”

I stiffened at the sentence that had come from my lips. I was no one to tell the Warlord he was wrong.

But five Warlords?