Lord Draven’s suspicion

James returned from the slave camp long after the sun had dipped behind the mountains. His body ached with fatigue. Sweat clung to his skin, and his muscles burned with the strain of yet another grueling day pretending to be someone he wasn’t. His stomach growled, empty and restless, twisting painfully as if gnawing at itself from within. He hadn't eaten since morning, and now he felt like he could devour an entire roast beast if it stood in his path.

But strangely, for the first time in weeks, James didn’t return in a storm of fury or pain. Tonight was different. His heart beat not from rage but from something he hadn’t felt in years, fascination. Something, or rather someone, had occupied his thoughts entirely. A certain slave girl with fire in her spirit and defiance in her gaze.

Sara.

Her image flared in his mind with startling clarity, the messy strands of her hair clinging to her cheeks, the bruise on her neck refusing to hide her beauty, the way her eyes burned when she looked at him, unafraid. She had stood tall even when everyone else cowered. Her voice had trembled, but not from fear. She had spoken like a warrior, even in chains.

He remembered the way she moved, fluid, confident, restrained only by the chains that bound her. He had caught a glimpse of her hands earlier: calloused, blistered, but capable. He saw her spirit, wild and unbroken. That kind of woman couldn’t be easily broken. That kind of woman… was dangerous.

And yet, she made him smile. Not in mockery, not with cruelty, but a soft, involuntary smile that surprised even him.

For a moment, the hunger faded. The rage dulled. All he could see was her, and the mystery she carried.

He was still lost in his thoughts as he approached the great stone doors of the courtyard. His boots thudded against the floor with each heavy step. The towering torches crackled on either side, casting shadows that danced against the walls like restless spirits.

But the moment he pushed the doors open, the warmth drained from him.

Lord Draven was waiting.

Standing with his back turned, facing the grand throne that loomed above the dais, Draven did not turn to greet him. The air was colder here. Tense. Still.

James paused briefly, composing himself before bowing slightly and saying, “Good day, Lord Draven.”

A beat of silence passed. Then, without facing him, Draven spoke.

“How was it… with the slaves?”

James noticed the hesitation in his tone. It wasn’t a question of curiosity. It was suspicion wrapped in politeness.

He kept his voice calm. “It was a long day, my lord. I’m still adjusting, trying to understand how everything works at the camp. But I believe in time, I’ll adapt.”

Draven chuckled softly. It wasn’t warm. It was the kind that prickled the back of James’ neck.

“Adjust?” Draven repeated. “Adjust to pampering slaves?”

James blinked, startled. “No, my lord. I haven’t pampered anyone.”

Draven finally moved. Slowly. He walked down the steps from his throne, still not looking James in the eye.

“Then what are these words I’m hearing?” he asked.

“From whom, my lord?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Draven said sharply, waving his hand. “Let me tell you a story instead.”

James tensed.

“There was once a young man,” Draven began, his voice steady, almost theatrical. “Broad chest. So handsome even his enemies paused to admire. He had the strength of a thousand men. No blade could touch him. No spear could pierce him. Every war he entered, he returned unscarred. Unchallenged. Unbeaten.”

Draven turned ever so slightly, just enough for James to see the cruel curve of his smile.

“He was so powerful that even his king feared him. None dared speak ill of him. No one… except one woman. Just one.”

James narrowed his eyes.

“A kiss,” Draven whispered. “That’s all it took. Just one kiss. And he was undone. The mighty warrior fell, not to blade or poison, but to love.”

James felt a chill creep up his spine.

“And now…” Draven turned fully, facing him for the first time, eyes burning with suspicion. “I hear you saved a slave girl today, Garrick.”

The name rang like a bell in James’ head. He froze. His expression shifted from confusion to restrained fury. His jaw clenched, and his hands balled into fists at his side.

He didn’t have to guess who had whispered that lie into Draven’s ears.

Varek.

That snake. He must’ve been watching him closely, just waiting for something to report.

“I didn’t save anyone, my lord,” James said, forcing his voice to remain steady.

Draven’s eyes narrowed.

“Then what happened?” he asked. “Because I’d love to hear your side.”

James took a breath. “My lord, we know why we keep these slaves. They labor for us. If we kill or cripple them, who will remain to do the work? What use are broken tools?”

Draven’s voice dropped lower, almost too quiet. “Garrick, Garrick, Garrick…”

James stiffened.

“This… is not the Garrick I remember. The Garrick I knew would slit the throat of any bastard slave who dared raise their voice. He wouldn’t speak of usefulness. He wouldn’t speak of restraint.”

Then, with deliberate cruelty, Draven leaned forward and asked, “Or perhaps… you are not Garrick at all.”

Silence.

The words hit James like a warhammer. His chest tightened. His heart stopped. His blood ran cold.

His mask nearly slipped.

Draven’s eyes were locked on him, watching, calculating.

James’ expression went blank for a second, too blank. A fraction too long.

Then he blinked and lowered his gaze, hiding the storm inside him. “I am Garrick, my lord. Your faithful servant.”

Draven stared at him, unconvinced.

“Then act like it,” he said coldly. “No more whispers of compassion. No more softness. You pamper them, they rise. They rise, they build hope. Hope leads to rebellion. And rebellion… leads to death. Our death.”

“Yes, my lord,” James replied through gritted teeth.

Draven stepped closer, almost nose to nose with him now.

“Be careful, Garrick,” he said slowly, his voice like ice. “You know me too well… if you are Garrick.”

With that, he turned and stormed off toward his chambers, the sound of his boots echoing down the hall.

James stood there, rooted to the spot. The air was thick with tension. He wasn’t angry for himself.

He was angry… at Draven.

Everything he had endured, every mask he wore, every moment of restraint,,Draven had insulted it all in seconds.

And worst of all, Varek. That traitor had poisoned the air between them. James knew it. He felt it.

He turned sharply and stormed off to his own quarters.

Once inside, he slammed the door behind him, locked it, and fell to his knees.

Rage tore from his throat in a scream. A long, guttural scream that echoed off the stone walls. It wasn't just anger, it was betrayal, frustration, helplessness, all pouring out at once.

Behind the door, unseen by James, someone watched.

Lord Varek had lingered in the shadows of the courtyard during the entire conversation. Hidden by a tall column, he had heard every word. Every hesitation in James' voice. Every flicker of doubt on Draven's face.

And now, he followed silently, curiosity gleaming in his cruel eyes. He wanted to see how the man who claimed to be Garrick would react once alone.

He crept down the corridor, slow and silent. He stopped outside James’ chambers, his ear pressed to the door.

The scream made him smile.

Then… silence.

Varek waited.

Inside, James had collapsed fully on the floor, his chest rising and falling heavily. The energy drained from him completely. The fire inside burned out by despair and fatigue. He laid there, eyes half-closed, unmoving.

And finally… he slept.

Exhausted. Bitter. And more determined than ever.

Now satisfied, Varek waited patiently, eager to see James’ next move, and watch him walk right into his trap once again.