Nectar of War: The Song of Verity and Serenity (The Nectar of War Series Book 1)
Nectar of War: EXORDIUM

STRAVAN PROVANSEVA

PROVAS CITADEL — REALM OF THE FAE

S avarina paces the floor of my study as I levitate a silver orb—her silver eyes glower at it. “No, I will not allow this.”

Our youngest brother Sloan laughs. His head falls forward as it shakes from side to side; he, too, replaces it comical that Sava assumes she can tell me what I may and may not do, especially regarding this situation.

Both of them are lucky I am sharing this information with them and not just going to other realms on my own.

“Sava,” I close my hand into a fist—the orb that was once floating above my palm turns to dust, falling like a gentle snow onto my bureau. “I was not enquiring for your assent.”

“Do you ever? High King.”

Derision.

“No,” I smile, “because I need acquiescence from no one.” Then, leaning back in my chair, I realign the white gold rings on my fingers before witnessing her glowering shift to me.

“What would Dyena say if she heard you speak like this? What would she do if she saw the obtuse way you have been acting?”

And just as the words leave her mouth, all rational thought begins to fade as she thinks she is reminding me of why I am behaving the way I have. From the corner, Sloan stands, wary of what may transpire. He urgently glances between Savarina and me, he is prepared to diffuse anything that may arise.

“All of this is for Dyena.” I remind her.

As I rise to my feet, the ground gradually thunders below us in a deep tremor. I press my hands into the tan stone of my bureau, and Savarina stiffens. “Every bit of what I am doing is for her. Do not ever forget it.”

A twinge of fear dances in her eyes. “Tame your anger before your magic tears our home to shreds.”

The more I sense her distress, the more satisfied I become.

“Strav,” Sloan forebodingly calls. I mind him no attention.

“You wish to call me obtuse; I will act as so.”

The ground reverberates deeper—the wall to our left forms a small crack, and Savarina grimaces at the destruction.

“How would you react, Sava? How would you retaliate if your mate went missing? You wake up discovering your bed is empty. A trace of nothing.” Novels and small statues fall from the shelves as the walls increasingly convulse. I can hear the sound of tearing books, and sculptures around us erupt like stars on Solstice. “Not a single scent of who took them. Everything is in place as it was before you went to bed, but they are gone. How could that possibly be?”

She assesses the mutilation around us and looks back at me pleadingly. “Please, Stravan . . . stop this.”

Windows around us begin to shatter—one by one. The echoing burst of glass rattles through the land, igniting the outlying animals to move in a frightful run.

Savarina’s head whips toward me, her silver braid swinging with the motion. “Must I beg you?”

Shrugging in response, I sit down in the chair.

The quaking comes to a stop.

The room is repaired as if it was never destroyed.

She begins again. “You cannot–” I cut my eyes at her.

“For fucks sake,” Sloan rubs his hands over his eyes to ease the stress I know we both are causing him.

She corrects herself. “You can go to other realms, but it is not logical. You ruined the last realm you visited in search of Dyena. Half of the Sorcerer’s Realm was left in near ash.”

“Savarina,” Sloan scoffs. “What would you do?”

His lavender eyes bore into hers. She is at a standstill, choosing not to respond. “If Daevien went missing you would detonate the wrath inside you fiercer than you would ever know. So, do not stand here as if you would be a modest Miss Innocent.”

“I would not have destroyed an entire continent. He left Galitan in ruins!”

“As he should have.” Daevien smoothly walks into the study, fixing his black leather topcoat. He looks over Savarina before meeting her ice-cold silver eyes. “Do not forget he restored it as well,” Daevien approaches her, wiping away a stray tear. “They were withholding information on Dyena; they are lucky he gave them back what he took.” Sava leans into him as his hand rubs down the sleeve of her sheer, black dress.

I look away from them, unable to watch a bond thrive before me while remembering my own was taken.

Daevien steps forward. “That was their augury, their promise. Lie again, and the Sorcerer’s Realm will be removed from the map without a trace of them ever living.” As I glance up, Daevien’s head is turned to look at Savarina. “Do not question Stravan’s actions, love. I would rip this universe to pieces if you went missing as well.”

Sava starts again. “Why have you not asked the Gods for help? Go to them, plead to them.”

Finally, I look at the beautiful pair again. “I have not gone to the Gods because I do not trust them, just as I did not trust the Sorcerers.”

Sloan speaks before Savarina can say another word. “If we convince the Realm of the Wolves to ally with us, they would possibly offer help. Perhaps propose the assistance from the Gods, their Goddess.”

Artemis, Mother of the Moon. She is not as bad as her brother. Another untrustworthy bastard.

“They are the second largest realm in our world.” Sloan adds.

“You alone are stronger than the High Four,” Daevien nods in agreement. “Ask for a coalition and use it to your advantage; see if all your intellects are correct in not trusting the Gods. The Wolves’ High King is an absolute pain, but he will know not to fuck with you upon arrival.”

Savarina unexpectedly ascends from the room, leaving in a purple mist. Now all that leaves is Sloan, Dae, and me.

“I will speak with her.” Daevien nods toward the fading purple haze. He huffs and pushes a hand through his blue-black hair before his arms tightly cross over his chest.

The room silences. The only sound there is; is the waterfall outside of the study—repeatedly, I tap my finger on my bureau.

I stop.

“Twenty-four,” Daevien counted.

Slowly, I nod at him. The white and silver strands of my hair fall over my eyebrows with each nod.

“It has been twenty-four years–” I fight the tremble moving over my lips.

I push from the chair, walking to leave the study. “I am only giving one more year to replace Dyena. If she is not in my hands by the twenty-fifth year, by the time that clock strikes midnight, replace me wiping this entire fucking world clean to replace her.”

“Strav,” Sloan calls.

I stop at the doorway, narrowly turning my head to hear what he says.

He grabs my arm, turning me around. His hand grips the back of my head, and it becomes harder to fight the trembling. “What did Ma always tell us?”

We only ask for forgiveness, never permission.

“We will replace her.” He promises.

Their words will mean nothing until I have back what I want, what I need.

* * *

The melody is the same as it is every night. The piano is quiet, building louder and faster as I move my hands across the black and ivory keys.

I close my eyes, and she is there. She is donned in her favorite white silk dress.

She leans over my shoulder, smiling as I play—play for her, play for us. Yet, something is missing.

Something this song should be giving back to me. As if it is rebuilding the bond play by play, but I am not channeling it deep enough to make it take its course.

Where is it? Where is that dwindling connection?

Where has her soul run off to that I cannot replace?

‘If I am ever lost, play this song.’ I can feel the embrace of her arms wrapping around me, and the melody slows once more, gradually picking up pace again.

Those long, perfect nails gently trail over my skin.

Her scent swarms me, wild citrus and vanilla. It suffocates me until it turns into taunting. And at that moment, wicked mirth bores over me until I can no longer endure it.

The tears I must fight through my days glide, landing under my fingers that now trail salted liquid across the piano.

Strength is all I show to my people for hours upon hours while I am fading bit by bit. The eras in the night are my only chance to shed that harboring weakness so that I am capable of persisting in life.

I have played this song every day.

There were weeks I did nothing but play this every hour until my fingers felt crippling. Hoping there was some magic Dyena laced through the song to compel herself into appearance. But there is nothing.

Nothing. Just an antagonizing melody and reflections of her.

That indignation I know well returns; I yield. I clench my hands into fists so tightly my knuckles turn nearly white. The piano soars across the room, crashing into the stone wall. It sits there . . . broken under the moonlight casting from the ceiling.

The sound of the cracking piano keys spheres through the room and leisurely comes to a stop.

And then, I am sitting under that same moonlight. Wailing and begging, splintered and broken, shattered into pieces. All I can do is scream until my lungs give out, and then my screams become silent cries.

Irreparable pieces.

Only allowing myself a short period of time in this sorrow, I push from the cold floor. Subsequently, I sway a shaking hand to mend the piano and start the song over once more.