Draven

It’s as if the sun itself has suddenly appeared in this narrow, dirty alley. I throw up an arm to shield my eyes, momentarily blinded. In that same instant, something—no, someone—crashes into me with enough force to knock the wind from my lungs.

I stumble backwards, my arms instinctively wrapping around whoever or whatever just collided with me. The light fades as quickly as it appears, and I find myself staring down at. . . a woman?

Where in the name of all the gods did she come from?

There’s no time to ponder this impossibility. I can hear yelling in the distance, growing closer. The bounty hunters haven’t given up the chase. My mind races. I can’t leave her here—whoever she is, she doesn’t deserve to face those men.

Without allowing myself to second-guess my decision, I grab her hand and start running. “Come on, we have to—”

I’m cut off as she yanks her arm free with surprising strength. “Don’t touch me,” she hisses, her eyes darting around wildly. Despite her obvious disorientation, there’s a fierce, wary look in her eyes.

“Listen,” I say, trying to convey the urgency of the situation, “there are men coming. Dangerous men. We need to move, now.”

She hesitates for a moment, then nods curtly. “Lead the way,” she says, her tone making it clear she’s not happy about it. “But keep your hands to yourself.”

We dash through the twisting alleys of Cauldry, my mind awhirl with questions. Who is this woman? Where did she come from? I’ve lived in these streets for a long time, know every nook and cranny of this gods-forsaken town. That alley was a dead end—I’m sure of it. And yet, in a flash of light, there she was.

It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. But right now, survival takes precedence over understanding.

I lead her through the labyrinth of back streets, my feet finding the path without conscious thought. Left here, right there, ducking under a low-hanging sign, leaping over a pile of discarded crates. The woman keeps pace admirably, her eyes constantly scanning our surroundings.

Finally, I spot our destination.

I remember this old, abandoned home from when I was a child. Then, it was full of life. Unfortunately, since sickness crashed through this little village, it’s since been left to rot. A sad reality, but right now, it’s our saving grace.

Dashing toward the rickety porch, I can feel her hesitation as she begins to pull from me. I can’t blame her for her weariness, but right now, we have no other options. The door creaks ominously as I push it open and gesture for her to enter. She eyes the doorway suspiciously, then shakes her head.

“I’m not going in there,” she states firmly. “For all I know, you could be leading me into a trap.”

“Look,” I say, frustration creeping into my voice, “I’m trying to help you. Those men will be here any second.”

As if on cue, we hear voices in the distance. The woman’s eyes narrow, clearly weighing her options. Finally, she nods once and darts inside. I follow quickly, shutting the door behind us.

In the gloom, I can see her eyes darting around, taking in the debris-strewn floor and the musty, decaying furniture. Her stance is tense, ready for action.

With no time for explanations, I head straight for the trapdoor in the back, dragging it open to reveal the cellar below. The woman eyes it warily.

“After you,” she says, her tone brooking no argument.

I hesitate, but there’s no time to argue. I descend the stairs quickly, and after a moment’s pause, she follows, pulling the trap door shut behind us.

Darkness enfolds us, broken only by thin slivers of light seeping through cracks in the door. As my eyes get used to the dim light, I guide us to a far corner, where we hide behind a large crate.

Above us, floorboards creak. Voices filter down, muffled but distinguishable.

“Where did they go?”

“Check down there!”

“Don’t let them escape!”

I hold my breath, every muscle tense. Beside me, I can feel the woman doing the same. For several long moments, we stay frozen, barely daring to breathe. Then, gradually, the voices fade. The floorboards creak one last time, and then silence descends.

I let out a long, slow breath. I’ve gotten away again, but I’m not sure when my luck will run out.

Turning to the woman beside me, I open my mouth to speak, to offer some kind of explanation or reassurance. But before I can utter a word, she beats me to it, springing to her feet.

“Start talking,” she demands in a fierce whisper as she stands up, keeping her distance. “Where am I? Who are you? What's going on?”

Her questions hit me like a physical blow. How can I possibly answer when I’m just as confused as she is? I stare at her, my mind scrambling for some kind of response that won’t sound completely made up.

And that’s when I truly see her for the first time.

In the little bit of light filtering into the cellar, I notice that she’s. . . breathtaking.

She’s small, probably no more than five and a half feet tall, but there’s a strength in her stance that makes her seem larger. Her hair, falling just past her shoulders, is a rich brown color, similar to my favorite mead, that seems to catch what little light there is.

But it’s her eyes that truly capture me—a bright, startling blue that’s almost white, like the heart of a flame. They seem to glow in the darkness, filled with a mix of fear, confusion, and fierce determination.

Her face is heart-shaped, with high cheekbones dusted with a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Despite the dirt and sweat from our flight, there’s a glow to her skin that seems almost otherworldly. She’s slim, but I can see the lean muscle in her arms and the way she holds herself speaks of someone used to physical activity.

She’s beautiful in a way I’ve never seen before—and trust me, I’ve seen my fair share of beautiful women. But there’s something different about her, something I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s as if she doesn’t quite. . . fit.

Like she’s a painting hung in the wrong gallery.

“Hello?” Her voice, still hushed but with an edge of impatience, snaps me back to reality. “I asked you a question. Several, actually. And I suggest you answer them—quickly.”

I shake my head, trying to clear it. Focus, Draven. This is no time to be moonstruck by a pretty face, no matter how extraordinary.

“I’m Draven,” I say, keeping my voice low. No need to risk being overheard, even if I’m fairly certain our pursuers have moved on. “And this is Cauldry.”

Her brow furrows in confusion. “Cauldry? I’ve never heard of such a place. What country are we in?”

Now it’s my turn to be confused. How can she not have heard of Cauldry? It might be a miserable excuse for a town, but it’s not exactly unknown.

“Your turn,” I say. “Who are you? Where are you from?”?” She hesitates, clearly weighing how much to tell me. “I’m Vivian,” she says finally. “And “I. . . I’m not sure how to answer that,” she says finally. “The last thing I remember clearly is being in Santa Monica, running from some men who were after me. Then there was darkness, and then. . . I was here.”

“Santa Monica? I’ve never heard of such a place,” I state as a cold feeling settles in my stomach. Clearly more is going on here than a simple case of being lost.

“And those men chasing us?” Vivian asks, her eyes narrowing. “Who were they? Were they after me?”

I run a hand through my hair, a habit I’ve had since childhood when I’m stressed or thinking hard. “They were after me, not you,” I admit. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this, but I couldn’t leave you there.”

Vivian’s eyes widen slightly at my words, then narrow again. “So you’re some kind of criminal,” she says flatly. It’s not a question.

“It’s. . . complicated,” I say, wincing internally at how weak that sounds. “Look, I know you have no reason to trust me, but right now, we need to work together to figure out what’s going on.”

Vivian studies me for a long moment, her gaze intense. I can almost see the gears turning in her head as she weighs her options.

“Alright,” she says finally. “I’ll go with you. But let’s get one thing straight: I don’t trust you. I’m only agreeing because I don’t have any better options right now. The moment that changes, I’m gone. Understood?”

I nod, respecting her caution. “Understood. Now, let’s get moving. It’s not safe to stay in one place for too long.”

We emerge from the cellar cautiously, but the streets are quiet. Night has fallen over Cauldry, and most sensible folk are indoors. It doesn’t take us long to reach our destination—Dreaghor’s.

Neiman’s not going to believe this.