Forced Into Tyranny

13: The New Order

Rusthelm Town,
The Northwest Tavern.

In the dimly lit tavern, a hauberk-clad man was surrounded by a crowd of drunken fools. He swigged from his tankard and felt the ale course through his veins, stoking the fire in his belly. A foolish man sauntered up to him, slurring his words, and made a grab for his arm. In an instant, the hauberk-clad man's hand was around the fool's throat, his eyes blazing with rage.
Raven, sitting across the tavern, observed the drama. His keen eye noticed the distinctive hauberk worn by the man. His graceful movements revealed his Sablethon heritage. They had once waged war against bandits with the king and were rewarded with wealth and prosperity and the title.
How did someone of noble stature end up amidst a crowd of drunken fools? Raven shifted his focus from the brewing fight to Hamila who has settled herself on his thigh.
"You're the reason for this, Hektor. The last time we witnessed men brawling over drinks was probably in our dreams. Yet here we are today, on the outskirts of town, mingling with the bourgeoisie." She playfully kissed his nose. "This is quite something."
"It was Kriton's idea that we went in the first place. Lavish him with praises, not me." He took hold of his goblet of distilled wine. Then he gently guided Hamila away and made his way to the tavern's patio, seeking a breath of fresh air. The sensation of freedom felt unexpectedly uncomfortable and unfamiliar to him. After nearly eleven years, he had anticipated a sense of excitement in venturing outside the Den, but everything felt close to ordinary.
Taking a swig from his drink, he sat on the wooden stairs of the patio, the burn in his throat reminding him of the long nights ahead. While Kriton scoured the bawdy house for whores to ease himself, Raven stared into the night for hope.
Then, his mind traveled to yesterday - specifically his encounter with the lady, Pillus's daughter. Her eyes. The curves accentuated by her dress. The sophisticated way she spoke and her humor. It all came flooding his head. Above all, her smile that seemed to quench the most gruesome burden.
In the heat of that moment, he had felt the need to hold onto something so vital. He had grabbed her arm so tightly, unsure why. It was as if their souls intertwined in a way that defied logic or reason. And yet, he knew it was a dangerous feeling, for to be so connected to her type could lead to pain beyond measure. And in the worst-case scenario, death.
Death was out of the question, especially since he had discovered Hecuba, who could potentially reunite him with his family. The king's granting of some freedom and the reliance of his fellow warriors further emphasized his importance. Nothing could derail him from his duties. Not now.
After a while of dying from the mortal anguish of his thoughts and getting high on distilled wine, he rose, feeling nothing of his legs. Stumbling left and then right, his grip reached the small pillar that kept up the right side roof of the tavern, and he used it to hold himself up. His world had split in two, leaving him guessing which hole was his way back into the bloody drink house.
Determined, he took another step towards the tavern entrance. The one he had decided was the right way.
"Be cautious, for if you falter, I shall avert my gaze, pretending not to have witnessed the foolish blunder."
That voice...
It had emerged from behind him.
It felt incredibly familiar, as did the humor.
He swiftly turned around, his eyes meeting the very person he had longed to see. Lyra. What was she doing here in the darkness, in this part of the kingdom, without any guards or maidens?
"And if you were to be taken against your will," he responded, trying to steady his slurred speech, "I would avert my gaze, pretending not to have witnessed anything. A clever girl should not wander alone in such surroundings."
"I am not alone, you just do not see my company."
Raven scoffed, looked beyond where she stood and shook his head in disappointment at himself. Only a drunken man would even attempt to believe the words of a Syagros. He indeed was a drunk fool.
Taking a stride nearer, Lyra positioned herself under the glow of the tavern's torches, basking in their illumination. At that moment, he beheld her in her entirety. Her tresses, glistening like stars in the light, were tortuously braided, with a few loose strands framing her cheeks. Her dark green gown, festooned with golden accents, left little to the imagination in its upper part. Polished gold earrings enriched her ears, while her dainty feet were stuck in white and silver slippers.
Gnawing on his bottom lip, Raven let out an unnecessarily long and loud laughter at whatever was funny to him. His eyes then bore into her, narrow and red.
"Drunk, I reckon," Lyra spoke aloud, her voice carrying a distinct fervor as it reached Raven's ears. He wanted to stick two fingers into his ears to block out the gentle sound of the disturbing note.
"You seem incapable of silence, I surmise."
Her laughter escaped in a gentle choke, her gaze sweeping the surroundings before she took another step. "Whenever my father made a wayward bet, he and my brother would end up in a tavern like this, perhaps even this very one..." She shrugged, giving it a scrutinizing glance. "They would return home, grumbling and accusing each other of their respective misfortunes. I have grown accustomed to that sort of cacophony of merriment and tunelessness."
"The ways of men elude you completely," Raven shot back, fighting to keep his gaze leveled. "Even if you had a dozen fathers and twice as many brothers, you'd still be as blind as a bat in daylight."
"You are awfully impolite, I am certain," she responded, her nostrils flaring and her cheeks heating with mild anger. "It costs nothing to be..." she held back a laugh. "...nice to wandering girls, for you just might help them find their way back."
Raven remained silent, his mind occupied with the whereabouts of her ride. He hoped to swiftly dismiss her incessant chatter by directing her towards a carriage. Yet, to his surprise, none was in sight — which begged the question: how had she arrived there in the first place?
"You are not lost," Raven said with certainty, teetering on the brink of calamity as he abandoned his supportive pillar and made his way back to the stairs where he had been seated earlier. However, he nearly missed a step, prompting Lyra to rush to his aid.
The goblet shattered upon impact with the wooden floor, dousing Lyra's face and hair with the remnants of Raven's wine.
"I could leave you here, claiming ignorance of men," she said distastefully, guiding him to crouch down on the patio as she wiped her face. "But I suppose my wit surpasses your arrogance."
Raven proved too burdensome for her delicate frame to support his unresponsive legs all the way down. She looped his muscular arm around her neck, clasped him around his sturdy waist, and attempted to descend. However, the weight proved overwhelming, causing her to lose her balance and him to land squarely on his first finger.
Raven winced, his voice strained. "And my arrogance will always surpass your wit, little Crow," he said with a groan, lifting his bruised finger to meet her gaze. "You know nothing of—"
"Oh, be quiet," she snapped. "If you knew anything about men, about yourself, you'd know that one too many flasks of wine could inevitably bring you to your knees."
The man gave a pained smile, the ghost of his usual confidence returning to his eyes. Lyra tore a length of cloth from the hem of her dress to wrap around his bloodied finger, her movements tense.
As she skillfully tended to his injury, Raven extended his hand and gently grazed his fingers against her cheek. Her breath hitched, causing her to retreat and divert her gaze from his intense stare to his injured finger.
Be careful," she said in a low voice, warning him not to proceed further or they might endanger their self control.
The consumed man slowly withdrew his hand, and a hint of remorse crept into his voice. "Why are you here..." He paused, and his words faltered, uncharacteristically uncertain when he continued, "Does anyone know of your whereabouts?"
"Yes, my maiden alone." Pressing the bandaged injury, Lyra bit her lips with an aura of severity. "She is keeping my coachman and the guard preoccupied, as they mustn't know I have ventured beyond the Holy Oak—"
"Hold!" His eyes seemed to clear as a significant amount of wine vanished from them. "Let me grasp something..." His gaze hardened on hers, almost as if he contemplated sensually placing his finger in her mouth. "You do know the significance of the Holy Oak? And you understand why you journeyed from there?"
Lost in her own tumultuously wild thoughts, Lyra momentarily forgot her words, until Raven's croak brought her back to attention. "Yes. Ahem." She adjusted herself, withdrawing her hand from his. "Uh... yes. Yes. Yes."
"Yes what?"
"I know the Holy Oak is a madhouse, yes." Her nod was firm. Certain. "I went in search for a presumably mad woman. Once I gathered the necessary information, I instructed my maiden to inform the guard that I needed to use the privy, allowing me to slip away unnoticed through the rear. They likely assume I've fallen ill."
"Why did you dare to venture here?" Raven's words carried a weight, but the anticipation for her response weighed even more. "Did you know I would be here? And how?"
Without hesitation, she confessed, "Your address to the king. I inquired around and was informed that the warriors were reveling at the tavern in the northeast. And so, here I am."
She was desperately ambitious, he thought, much like her father. Hers seemed even more dangerous, because she was a woman...and women weren't allowed this level of freewill. "For what purpose?" He asked her. He wanted to know what exactly would make her go through the hassle to get here.
Raven held his breath until she said, "You left an indelible mark on me, one that is hard to forget." She swallowed, her gaze shifting to the sky while a tinge of embarrassment flickered in her eyes. "And I do not mean the mark you left on my skin, although I wouldn't mind if you did it again. I mean an impression."
His breath of wine, mingled with the musky notes of cinnamon and oak, wafted through his mouth, like a scorching flame, and it caressed her skin, prompting her to close her eyes and savor the sensation. It trailed from her face to her neck, and down to her chest, leaving a trail of tingling goosebumps in its wake. His eyes and breath searing with the heady heat of alcohol left her feeling light-headed. She swallowed, the dryness of her throat competing with the thirst that his presence kindled within her. As he leaned closer, the taste of the wine lingered on his lips, a kiss of temptation that she found hard to resist.
Lyra felt something burn between her own legs, something she had never felt. Her heart thrummed in response to the foreign sensation. She squeezed them shut, even tighter than her eyes now were. And when Raven damned the consequences and put his palm around her neck to make another mark, Lyra was forced to choke back whatever sound it was that threatened to erupt from her lips.
She wrapped her own soft palm around his arm, her hands trembling from fear and confusion and desire. A chaotic rush.
Raven's grip on her neck tightened, relishing in the way she tilted her head from side to side, adjusting to the sensation. She craved more, yet silently yearned for tenderness. Her indecision only fueled Raven's determination.
Once he was certain he had left another mark that would endure for hours, perhaps even days, he released his grip, allowing her to catch her breath once again.
Lyra, oblivious to the depths of desire and unfamiliar with the ways of passion as her governess had once preached, found herself on her knees, uncertain of what she truly desired from herself or from Raven. It was a realm she had yet to explore, one that lay beyond the realm of politics, dresses, or her artistic pursuits.
"Fuck!" Raven muttered, his gaze fixed upon her, a blend of grace, innocence, and a hint of temptation. With a forced seriousness in his voice, he called out to her, "Lyra, if you dare to remain on this patio and not venture out of Rusthelm, I would face the gallows by morning for all that I would do to you."
"Raven." She stared back, unmoving, as she had not understood the meaning of his words - whether he'd cause her to suffer or... she was at a loss for words, knowing absolutely nothing about the ways men, about this. "I do not wish to leave. You mean me no harm, do you?"
A strained smiled plagued his lips. Harm could mean different things to different people. If she was referring to slicing her throat there on this patio, then no, he meant no harm. However, if she had missed the fact that he could actually snatch her innocence and replace it with sin, then she really needed to run. Now and fast.
"Will you hurt me?" She asked again, more urgent and scared this time. Yet, Raven wouldn't speak. His gaze only grew darker and deadlier. "Oh...okay. I take your silence as a warning. I shall find my way back to the Holy Oak," she announced, gathering herself and standing.
"Do that. And never return."
He, too, stood. Lyra's fury blazed fiercely in response to his words, like embers igniting into a raging inferno. How dare he touch her when he only harbored disdain for her?
"Or what?"
Halting in his tracks, Raven cast a worried glance over his shoulder, a frown etching his face. "You will be hurt, I swear," he warned.
The next thing she knew, he had weakly retreated back into the tavern, leaving her to contemplate her own emotions alone outside.
His breath still seared her delicate skin and she felt hot all over. Nothing of his threat had registered in her head, and she hoped to find him again soon.
Upon Lyra's return to Hecuba, the maiden revealed that the guards had grown tired but remained oblivious to her absence. It was then that Lyra recalled her encounter with Imma.
Indeed, Imma had gone mad. It was not mere gossip; her sanity had already slipped away before she was whisked away from the castle. Holy Oak was indeed the perfect sanctuary for her. Her silence had become her shield, and she had no desire to engage with anyone adorned in opulence akin to monarchs. The sight of the Galterius family, whom she despised, only stirred up her distress. In that state, Imma appeared to be barely alive, which meant every occupant of that room had met an ill fate.
What then would be left of you? She thought to herself. Dead? Mad? Ill?
However, one of the keepers, specifically Imma's, had informed Hecuba about Imma's disturbing episodes. For two weeks after her arrival at the institute, Imma would scream every night, filling the ward with her chilling cries.
As they settled into the carriage, Hecuba continued recounting the keeper's tale to Lyra, "She said that Imma would always scream, 'He is coming, he is coming. Run, or he will kill you too.'"
"They never inquired about the identity of who was coming?" Lyra's curiosity heightened and she gripped her neck, only briefly remembering Raven's hand there. She immediately used her scarf to wrap it before they rode into a bright place where Hecuba would notice.
"They did."
"And who did she say?"
"His son," Hecuba said with emphasis.
"His son?"
The equally confused maiden nodded her response. "Nothing more." And so Lyra fell into solemn silence.
His son... whose son?
If this mystery was connected to her dream, then Imma must have been referring to the king. With no other theories to disprove this one, Lyra had to piece it together, or she might lose it all together.
His son... the king's son.
Teresson.
He was but a young boy, the youngest among the king's children. If anyone would sound so youthful among the princes, it could only be him.
Lyra's face lit up with determination, as she made up her mind to either uncover him in her dream or right there in the chambers above hers. "Fear not the night, but that which it hides," she said quietly and closed her eyes.