Chapter 29: Ghosts Don't Stay Dead
DRAVEN
Twelve years ago, my world burned right in front of my eyes. The packhouse was filled with flames, kids screaming at the top of their voices, and Blood flow through the ground, pooling around bodies—torn, broken, and tossed like garbage. Sweat stung my eyes, and every time I blinked, I prayed it was a nightmare. But it wasn't.
They spit on me, called me an abomination, a freak. Then Alfred came running, my father's butler, his long hair wild, eyes crazed with fear.
He shouted my name, reaching for me, but a spear came of nowhere, ripping through his stomach. He hit the ground hard, blood gushing, his gray eyes locked on mine.
"I'm sorry, Draven," he whispered, "for not protecting you." Then everything went black.
Now, that same man stood in my court, alive, older, but him—same sharp gray eyes, same neat hair, now dusted with white, his beard trimmed tight.
Alfred.
