Page 31

Draven fell back, heaving angered breaths. He looked down at his foot, the Serpent’s light healing the breaks in his toes from his outburst. He pulled up his pant leg, noticing first how skinny and pale the limb looked. His gaze drifted to his arm, his hand, bony fingers, and long, brittle nails. He reached for his face, the angles of it unfamiliar—thinner, sharper. His touch fell to the long, ratty sections of hair trailing down his back.

This is all your fault!

He dumped out the bag, searching for the knife. He cut his hair at random, not stopping until the weight of it lifted off his skull, the knife pressing close to his scalp. He dragged himself over to the next machine, examining his reflection in the metal.

I don’t see him.

Partly because Draven’s time in stasis left him unrecognizable. Lips dry, skin pallid and emaciated, he looked like he had come back from the dead. Valen wore his hair long, and his children were expected to do the same, though Draven pushed that expectation whenever he could. He shared his father’s angled features, but his skin was darker and his hair a deep brown, traits he assumed came from his biological mother. The differences never stopped the palace’s court from mentioning the similarities to him.

At one point, Draven actively sought out those praises—to be compared to a vessel worthy of taking control of the entity responsible for all life in Eizreth, one not chosen by birth but achieved through desire—the highest of honors.

Was. It was an honor.

And then there were his eyes, no longer the color of the sun, but an emerald green.

A wry smile touched his lips. Like a snake.

Though it was Diseased, the Serpent didn’t show it. No blackened streaks or voids of color. It looked just as it did the night he swallowed it.

Hunger panged his stomach.

Draven grazed over the spilled contents of the bag in search of food. He found some, and after biting off a piece of dried jerky, he slipped on a worn pair of leather boots.

His focus landed on a folded piece of parchment.

Opening it revealed a map of the east side of the continent Eocera. A hand drawn circle encompassed the town of Dalhurst at the base of the mountains.

Scrawled below the map was a note.

Raven’s Wing Inn

If the man I met earlier is the one who emerges in the sun, I hope he’ll meet me there.

Another worrying chill trailed up his spine, but this time it was apparent it was the Serpent trying to get his attention. Draven was about to shove it down until he heard movement just outside of the room. He launched to his feet, startling a scrawny man who immediately ducked back through the doorway.

He peeked around the corner. “Lord Hazevale?”

Surprised, Draven stared at him.

“It is you.” The man fumbled out into the light. “Praise Erebria, you are unharmed.”

This man wasn’t among the group who woke him. He spoke in the soft sounds of Retian, but Draven couldn’t place the dialect. To be expected after three hundred fucking years.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The man halted, falling to his knees and dropping his head. “Deepest apologies, my Lord. I am Croll. Croll of House Whitlock. The keeper of your Coffer. I maintain the machinery and adjust the levels to accommodate your body’s needs.”

He looked up at him with bright green eyes, black hair flopping over his pale skin. A Serpent colored soul who reeked of fear.

“I don’t recognize the name.”

“You wouldn’t, my Lord. My ancestors weren’t given the responsibility of guarding your chamber until after your passing.”

Despite what the man’s mannerisms suggested, he was dressed in fine black robes. No rips or tatters, although the edges were coated in dust. “And which realm do you come from?”

“Reave, sir.”

Draven faltered. “That name is also unfamiliar to me. Is it a part of Reatia?”