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"He said nothing as they slit his throat beside mine. Just looked at me—wide-eyed and waiting—as though even death wouldn't end the silence between us."
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The tavern was lit like a fever dream — drunk on shadows, thick with pipe smoke and secrets. Dren Talovar leaned against the rotting frame of the booth, his silver-ringed fingers drumming in a rhythm only he could hear. The air was moist with sweat and spilled ale, but his sharp gaze stayed locked on the man in the far corner — a silhouette carved out of quiet, his face half-covered with a veil of black feathers.
He didn't belong here.
And that's why Dren smiled.
"You've got some nerve," Dren said as he approached, voice like wine left too long in the sun — bitter, dark, intoxicating.
The man didn't lift his head. "I didn't come for pleasantries."
"No. You came because I called."
Silence.
Then, a rasp like metal on rust. "You called, and I bled."
The figure finally looked up — his eyes ink-dark, rimmed with crimson. Not red from magic. From grief.
Valcian Myrrh.
Known in low whispers as the Raven Prince, though no one knew which kingdom he'd once ruled. Or ruined.
He was the boy who died beside Dren Talovar in a pit of bones.
And the man who'd risen, stitched by spells and scars.
Dren slid into the opposite seat. "Still dressing like a funeral?"
Valcian's voice was graveled by years of silence. "Some of us mourn differently."
"And some of us don't mourn at all."
Valcian's eyes flickered with old heat. "Do you think I forget what they did to us?"
"No," Dren said. "I think you forget what I did for you."
A silence coiled between them, thick as blood.
Valcian had once been a prince of a small border nation—now nothing more than ash. His parents slaughtered in the Inquisitors' purge. He and Dren had been taken as boys, branded heretics for their bloodline magic. Their escape had been written in fire and screams. Dren had watched Valcian die.
And then he watched him come back.
Not as a boy.
As something else.
Dren's lips curved. "Tell me, Valcian. Have you ever stopped dreaming of her?"
Valcian's jaw clenched. "Lysara Vale is not my concern."
"Isn't she?" Dren leaned forward, his voice silk-wrapped steel. "She was there. That night. Her hands held the torch. Her voice named us. She's the reason we burned."
"She spared you," Valcian growled. "She let you live."
"And yet, here you are—alive. Because I dragged your body from the fire."
Valcian's eyes darkened. "You brought me back… to use me."
"To free you," Dren whispered. "But freedom tastes bitter without purpose, doesn't it?"
The silence between them screamed.
Dren didn't blink. "I need you."
Valcian laughed once — a hollow sound. "Need me? Or need what I've become?"
Dren's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Both."
He let the silence stretch like a noose, then spoke low.
"There's a girl in Ashengar. A ward of the high sanctum. Her bloodline runs deeper than anyone suspects. She's the key to the old spell."
Valcian raised a brow. "You want me to kill her?"
"No," Dren said, eyes alight. "I want you to guard her. Get close. Make her trust you."
Valcian's lips curled. "You're still playing the long game."
"Isn't that the only game worth playing?"
He tossed a folded parchment across the table. Valcian snatched it mid-air, eyes scanning the rune-marked map. There, marked in ink that shimmered faintly with cursed silver, was a single name:
Selene Mirthvale.
Valcian's expression didn't change. But his breath did. Shallower. Controlled.
He knew that name.
"You've done your homework," he muttered.
"She's not just a pawn," Dren said. "She's a gate. And once opened, I need someone I can trust watching it."
Valcian's hand clenched around the paper. "Why me?"
Dren didn't hesitate. "Because you owe me. And because when this is over, I'll give you what no one else can."
Valcian stared.
"Her."
Dren nodded slowly. "Lysara Vale. Bound. Broken. Yours."
The words hung between them like sin.
Valcian stood. "Careful, Dren. Promises like that require blood."
Dren's smile sharpened. "Then bleed for me, Raven Prince."
Without another word, Valcian vanished into the night.
But Dren remained, watching the door long after it shut.
Because for all his shadows and scars, Valcian Myrrh still dreamed of Lysara Vale.
And Dren knew.
That kind of dreaming?
It always ended in ruin.