Seeds of Sorrow (Immortal Realms Book 1)

“Don’t . . . Please don’t!” Kailush pleaded, hands frantically clinging to the stone frame of the door behind him. “I b-beg of you, Your M-Majesty.”

The young vampire lordling’s heels balanced on the edge of the opening, his trembling frame backlit by a yellow crescent moon that hung in the afternoon sky.

“Begging? Is that what we’ve come to?” Draven drawled. “That last one—the maiden—did she beg you for her life before the end also?”

Wind whistled through the doorway, tugging rapidly at the young man’s hair and causing the torches on the walls to flicker around them. The wind, however, was not the coldest thing in the room.

“I didn’t know what I was—”

Draven had heard enough. With one slight push, Kailush lost the faint grasp he had on the stone and fell back, arms pinwheeling in the air as he dropped through the emptiness. Draven stood in the open doorway, watching the body plummet from the high peak the castle sat upon down into the cavernous pit below—swallowed up by the true death.

“Is this a bad time?” a voice questioned from behind him.

Satisfied that the young vampire lord was now gone, Draven stepped away from the opening, drawing the heavy wooden door closed and locking it with the loud thud of a metal arm falling into place. With a simple tug of his double-breasted jacket, he turned to face Seurat.

“Just enacting overdue justice.” Draven glanced at his manservant, taking in the windswept quality of his appearance. “You’ve been in the owlery.” He could smell it on him: feathers, straw, and droppings.

“A missive just arrived from Midniva, Your Grace.” Seurat stepped forward at the inclination of Draven’s head, holding out the rolled note for him to take.

Draven accepted the parchment, his deft fingers quickly unfurling it. A frown pinched at his features as he read the hurriedly scrawled words. “It is from Travion. I am needed at once in the middle realm.”

“I will prepare your things straight away.”

“I’m not certain there is a need for that, nor time . . . ”

“There is always time, sire,” Seurat countered, and with a bow of his head, quickly left the room.

“Keep it light, Seurat!” he called after him, though was uncertain whether the man had heard or not.

Shaking his head, Draven looked at the note in his hand once more. Travion had been brief, mentioning only that he and Zryan were both in Midniva and had need of him. The haste with which the letter had been sent concerned him, and with this in mind, he set off to find General Ailith, commander of his army. In his absence, she would be in charge.

In the end, three chariots pulled by glistening black kelpies left the castle in Andhera, traveling the lone road that led to the barriers between realms, the day moon following their journey.

The party had to cross through the Veil at just the right moment in order to time their entrance into the middle realm perfectly with the setting of Midniva’s sun. Should they spend too long a time in the Veil, they may find themselves lost to its empty landscape. However, if they passed into Midniva before the sun set, Draven would find himself in the throes of agony, burning from the outside in.

It was a task that Captain Hannelore, Ailith’s second-in-command, took upon herself most seriously, pacing their agitated steeds as they crossed the wasteland that was the non-space between realms.

When at last the party slipped through the large stone arch into Midniva, the last rays of that day’s sun were just fading beyond the horizon. Draven cast a glance to Hannelore, the harpy’s smooth features wearing a relieved look.

“Be at peace, Hannelore. Night is upon us,” he called out to her.

“You refused to let me cross first,” she shot back, frustration now shining through the relief that had been there a mere moment ago. “We had no way of being certain!”

Draven only spurred his kelpie Rayvnin on faster, heading down the main road leading to the coast. There hadn’t been a need for the extra precaution; he had known Captain Hannelore would bring them through the pass at just the right time. His people did not fail him.

A heavy beat of wings sounded behind Draven as Hannelore took to the skies. Her steed continued on its course alongside Seurat and Captain Channon, who rode together in the third chariot. The harpy flew ahead, checking their path to be certain no outlying threats awaited them.

The three black chariots arrived at the seaside castle within the hour, bright torches lining the lane and bridge up to the main courtyard, and large floral bouquets flanking the stone steps. Though hesitantly, Travion’s stable hands received the kelpies, taking them to be stabled alongside nervous horses. Entering the castle, Draven swept down the corridors, ignoring a footman who bustled quickly to catch up, wishing to properly announce the arrival of the king of the dark realm.

Draven was surprised and confused to find the air in the castle was not one of hushed concern but rather festive. Servants rushed about with more bouquets of flowers, while, from the northern wing, sounds of instruments being fine-tuned caught his ear.

Taimon, Travion’s steward, attempted to halt him in his quick stride, but Draven brushed him off as well, having no desire to stop and speak with the man when he was far more interested in what his brothers had to say for themselves.

Feeling rage beginning to rise up inside of him, Draven marched through the halls, his gray velvet cape snapping behind him in protest. Pushing his way into the throne room, Draven found his brothers both situated at a small table, casually having a cup of wine as they laughed. They fell silent when Draven appeared, his harpy soldier to his right and his were-wolf guard to the left. Seurat, carrying a bag over his arm, brought up the rear.

“Someone had best be dying,” he spat out, sensing that the state of emergency his brothers had led him to believe was taking place was far less dire than he had presumed.

“Draven!” Zryan called out, a smile on his face as he stood. “You’ve arrived. When was the last time we three were all in a room together?”

Travion, though he also stood, had the decency to wear a mild look of guilt on his face. Which meant this had been Zryan’s doing all along. “Welcome, brother,” he uttered.

“You didn’t tell him, did you?” came a voice from the doorway.

Draven did not need to look behind him to know that Alessia, his sister-in-law, had entered the room. She made her way to his side, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek by way of greeting.

“Hello, darling,” she murmured, her dark brown eyes offering a silent apology for whatever her husband had planned.

“Hello, Less,” he growled back, his pinched features softening slightly.

On her stunning form, Alessia wore a sheer gown of soft blush that flowed down to the floor in cascading ruffles that did nothing to conceal the lean body beneath. Her dark, almost black hair fell over her shoulders, shining in the candlelight from the chandelier overhead. Gliding over to the table, she stole Zryan’s wine goblet from his hand and sipped from it.

“Why have you called me here?” Draven demanded. He looked over his siblings as a coiling annoyance tightened his gut and caused his sharpened canines to prick his bottom lip. Dragging his tongue over one fine point, he considered biting a chunk out of his youngest brother simply for the inconvenience of his haste.

“Well, for you to attend this evening’s ball, of course!” Zryan was wearing the smug smirk on his features that was all too common and never an omen of good fortune.

“A ball?” Draven sounded dumbfounded because he was. “You called me, last minute, to Midniva . . . for a ball?” His eyes narrowed on Zryan’s grinning face; over his shoulder, he could see Travion shifting restlessly.

“I told you he would not be pleased,” Alessia drawled, having wandered a little ways away with the wine.

“Not just any ball,” Zryan continued, ignoring her. “Spring Festivus!” He clapped his hands and moved forward. Zryan’s light eyes were full of mirth, and his dark hair was swept back from his face in a careless manner. He had manipulated his way into getting what he wanted, as usual.

Draven simply stared at him, his hands clenched at his sides. “And why do I care about Spring Festivus? It has nothing to do with the tidings in Andhera.”

“Zryan . . . and I,” Travion began, “felt it would be good for you to join high society for an evening. We see you so rarely these days, it is as if you prefer the dark crevices of Andhera to the company of family.” The long sweep of his hair fell over his forehead, threatening to cascade into his eyes, but obeying some unspoken rule, it remained in place. As second born, Travion was the perfect blend of his two brothers.

In truth, Draven did prefer Andhera. This world of sunshine and growth, where springtime was celebrated and nights gave way to the dawn, was a far cry from the eternal darkness of Andhera. Draven was now as foreign a creature to this land as were his subjects.

“Think of it as a chance for brotherly affection,” Zryan interjected.

“You thought a ball would be the best opportunity for this?”

“It was Seurat’s idea,” Zryan stated, smirking.

Behind him, Draven heard Seurat cough in a manner much resembling a gasp of horror. The dark king had little doubt this was a lie.

“I will not be attending the ball. We will return to Andhera at once.”

“Come now, Draven. You’re already here. What is the harm in staying?” Travion was giving him a pleading look, and Draven couldn’t help but wonder what nonsense Zryan had spouted to have him agree with all of this.

“He speaks the truth, and don’t make Seurat have brought your freshly pressed garments all this way for naught.” Zryan was offering the charming smile that worked on so many in his court but only made Draven’s desire to bite something all the fiercer—perhaps the pulse point in his throat.

At the mention of dress clothes, Draven looked back and found a shamefaced Seurat moving forward, the draped bag over his arm. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I do have fresh attire for you.”

A muscle in Draven’s jaw leaped, and he clenched his teeth together. “It would seem,” he ground out, “that I am attending the ball.”

“Fabulous! Be down in an hour, we wish to greet the guests together. As a family!” Zryan trumpeted in triumph.

Draven did not come down in time to greet the guests as they arrived. The thought of watching each one approach him with apprehension, eyes downcast for fear the nightmare king would steal away their soul, was not at the top of his priorities.

Instead, he allowed Seurat to dress him in a black dress shirt, with a slim-fitted brocade vest over top. It had double rows of brass buttons and leather bindings across the front. Slim black slacks covered his legs, and there was a shining pair of lamia leather boots for his feet. Seurat finished the look off with his velvet cape, looped around his neck and draped over his left shoulder.

Standing in the mirror as Seurat arranged the cape, Draven took in his appearance. The face staring back at him did not appear frightening, though it was severe. Short-cropped auburn hair cast a light shadow over his jaw and softened the rugged nature of his features. Though his blue eyes had hardened over the millennia, they did not denote the extent of the change he had undergone, if one were able to ignore the sheen of predatory light in their depths. It was the sharply pointed canines, exposed when he became angry or hungry, that belied the truth of his transformation.

Unlike his brothers, Draven was no longer a child of the light but one of the beasts that hunted in the shadows.

“Should you feed, Your Grace? Before you go down?” Seurat met his gaze in the mirror, the dark skin of the other man’s features a contrast to his own pale cheeks.

“I am sure Travion will have something prepared for me.” His brother was aware of the great strain being around those of fae blood was for Draven, their scent a constant, delicious temptation.

He had given in once, in the early years, when living a normal life had still seemed possible. The fae blood on his tongue had been intoxicating, and there had been no way to contain himself. He had killed an innocent that day, no better than the monsters he sought to control, and quickly realized there was no place for him here in the other realms.

“Very well, sir.”

Turning from the sight of himself, Draven nodded his thanks and left his chambers. He had purposefully prolonged his preparations, wishing to wait until the majority of the guests had arrived. If he were lucky, Draven would be able to slip into the ball mostly unnoticed and spend the better portion of the night in the recesses of the ballroom.

Descending the grand staircase, Draven could hear the sounds of music filtering from the north wing, the strains a trill of happiness. Following it, he came to stand in the doorway, watching the men and women as they twirled around the dance floor. The gaiety made him snarl, and so he carried himself through the throng of people, making a beeline for the servant holding a tray that bore a single goblet ringed in rubies.

Snatching up the goblet, which he knew contained a mixture of blood and wine, Draven watched the startled servant back away in surprise and quickly composed himself.

“Y-your Grace!”

Draven didn’t say anything, merely tipped back the goblet and downed the contents as quickly as he could. Discarding the empty cup back on the tray, he shouldered past the servant and headed toward the terrace. Filled with blood, at least he would be better able to cope with the alluring scents of the fae surrounding him, but he still wasn’t sure he could stomach the frightened glances as people recognized him.

There was a reason he stayed away.

Stepping out onto the terrace, Draven drew a deep breath, allowing the fresh spring air of Midniva to calm him. If he stayed out here, he could enjoy being away from Andhera for an evening and avoid the strained conversations that were bound to happen inside. The humans in the ballroom tended to avoid Draven at all costs, seeing him as little more than a beast coming to feed on their life force. The fae were hardly better, gazing at him with disdain for the creature he had become. The reasons for his descent into the dark realm had long since been forgotten by most.

Walking to the edge of the railing, Draven looked down over the garden and noticed a slender form in the dim light.

The young lady, wearing a long sapphire-blue gown with a sweeping skirt that trailed behind her, was stooped over in the garden, rooting around in one of the bushes. Finding himself amused and curious, Draven turned to his right, descended the few steps down into the garden itself, and made his way toward her. As he drew closer, the details of her dress became clearer. Blue sheer over a cream skirt and bodice, decorated in softly falling petals. Like a cherry tree raining blossoms on a warm spring day. The gown itself was off the shoulder, allowing for an expanse of warm, cream flesh to glow in the torchlight around them.

“What, pray tell, are you doing?” he asked, his hands clasped behind his back.

Startled, the young lady nearly toppled into the bush. Righting herself, she turned bashfully and faced him only to find the full skirt of her gown caught on a nearby bush.

“Here, allow me.” Draven stepped forward, and reaching out to the rose bush, carefully unpicked the delicate fabric from the cloying thorns. As he straightened, he found a pair of bright green eyes staring up at him in a shy but open manner.

“There are little men in the flowers,” she murmured quietly, as if unsure she should’ve said it at all.

Draven’s eyes wandered down to the bush. He half expected to see a goblin tucked away beneath it. “Little men?” He looked at her once more, his features questioning.

A happy trill of laughter left the maiden, her light red hair brought to life by the firelight of the torch nearby. “Not actual men. Look.” A slender hand reached out to embrace one of the green floral cups, angling it toward him.

Taking pause for a moment, Draven found himself studying the youthful features before him. Full lips, high cheekbones with a smattering of freckles, and wide, beautiful eyes that seemed to dance with life. Leaning in, Draven gazed into the cup and smirked at the sight of white petals nestled inside that did, indeed, look like a tiny man.

“It appears he is wearing a hat,” Draven commented, and it brought a truly brilliant smile to the young lady’s face.

“It does!” she agreed cheerfully.

If Draven could reach out and bottle rays of sunshine, he was certain they would be similar to the happiness radiating from her. Innocence and wonder were ripe upon her, and the warm, tantalizing scent wafting from her spoke of magic. She was fae, and if he could make a guess by her gown, he would say she was one of the Lucem fae, here only for an evening of celebration. But one could never be too sure.

“Do you often wander the gardens finding flower men to keep you company rather than dancing with the actual gentleman at the ball?”

“I don’t generally do either. This is the first ball I’ve ever been to in Midniva . . . and only my second ball in general,” the maiden explained.

Draven looked at her in surprise, realizing at once that the innocence about her was not an act but simply the truth of a life yet not experienced.

“Then all the more question as to why I find you out here in the gardens and not inside.” Was she also running from the crush of bodies and knowing eyes?

“And miss all of this?” Her hands lifted, indicating the garden surrounding them.

Draven found himself glancing around, and for the first time, truly taking a moment to admire what his brother had built for himself here in Midniva. This inner courtyard was a sanctuary of lush greenery and flora. Soft, sweet scents were carried on the spring breeze from the multitude of flowers bursting with life. In the corners stood lush fruit trees, heavy with blossoms, and in the center sat a marble fountain where a stone satyr danced with a water nymph.

“I must agree with you, this is preferable to anything found inside.”

The young fae plucked a hanging blossom from a trellis and brought it to her upturned nose. “Besides, I was curious about King Travion’s gardens.”

Draven lifted his brows. “Oh? And why is that?”

“I’ve heard that all three kings have gardens worth coveting, and that because they’re all from Lucem, each one pays homage to that in some way.”

Draven was close enough to see the fluttering of the pulse in her throat. “And have you seen Lucem’s palace gardens?”

She ran her fingertips along the petals of the blossom. “When I was little, my papa brought me to a fete, and I ran into the gardens.”

“This seems to be a theme of yours.”

Her lips twisted into a sheepish smile, but there was mischief sparkling in her eyes. They were still close enough that when she reached out, she easily tucked the white blossom into a fold of his dress jacket. “It’s no secret that I prefer the tranquility of nature to the venomous members of the court.” She bit her bottom lip, as if regretting her choice of words, then tapped her finger just below the blossom.

For a brief moment, they shared a smile, which was quickly interrupted by another voice sounding out, loud and harsh. “Eden! Foolish girl, there you are!”

Draven watched the light die in her eyes as concern and embarrassment filled them instead. Looking over his shoulder, he recognized the stern features of Naya Damaris storming their way. Quickly, Draven looked back to the young woman before him. Offering a dip of his head, he excused himself and headed for the terrace once more.

Naya gave him a horrified glance of recognition in their passing, bowing just enough to be considered acknowledgement. He could just make out the hushed whispers of disapproval as she reached her daughter.

Walking to the doorway leading back into the ballroom, Draven found Zryan leaning there waiting. “I see you’ve met the young Eden, daughter of the ever-enchanting Naya Damaris . . . ” Zryan was smirking, a look in his eyes that Draven did not feel like unpuzzling.

Instead of responding, he stepped past his brother and submerged himself into the tumult of the ball around him.