mavka [d.m]

02.

draco
———

Draco is living on borrowed time.

He hates it, of course — hates the position he's been forced into with every fibre of his being. He's never had to question his power before, never had to deal with weakness the way he has to now.

The Shadow King of Korinthos paces in his study, raking one hand through the pale tousled waves of his hair. He hasn't slept the entire night — and he knows he'll receive a scolding for it but he couldn't care less. His mind hasn't been able to shut down for the past couple months, hasn't been able to calm ever since he'd realised the threat to his kingdom.

Did it ever get easier? As a child, watching his mother rule, he'd always thought it was easy. Make a few decisions, impose a few rules, cut a few heads off and toss the others into prison — and there. The kingdom is successfully run.

But as soon as he took the throne at the tender age of eighteen — nothing more than a boy king — he'd realised maybe Narcissa Malfoy had made ruling seem a lot easier than it really was.

"Don't tell me you stayed awake the entire night." The female voice is dry and unamused, emanating from the doorway of his study. Even his Fae ears hadn't picked up the sound of her light footsteps.

Vega Van Steele looks like Death — as she always does. As the General of Draco's armies, her features have hardened into a deadly kind of beauty — yet she's never lost that teasing, cheerful nature she'd always had, even as a child.

"I reckon you've been up the entire night too." His sharp Fae senses pick up the dark mark partially hidden by the collar of her shirt. "For different reasons, of course."

Vega smirks and lifts a casual shoulder. "Just because you're too stressed to get any doesn't mean I am."

Draco rolls his eyes and perches himself on the edge of the desk, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt and folding his arms across his chest. "So? What news?"

The smile slides off Vega's face and he can physically see the way she draws herself up, subconsciously shifting into a firmer stance. "No movement on the borders."

He frowns, picking at a strand of his shirt. "None?"

"Not one." She shakes her head, crossing her own arms over her chest. "It's too quiet — but I've got eyes everywhere, Draco. If she moves, we'll know."

He releases a breath, rubs a hand across his jaw like he does when he's frustrated. "I hope so."

Vega steps forward, the early morning rays of sunlight filtering in through the drapes behind him and lighting her auburn hair. "How are you feeling?"

He sighs and shrugs, turning his head to glance out the window. "The same. It doesn't change on a day to day basis."

"Have you seen the Healer recently?"

"The Healer doesn't help."

"Draco." Her pale, freckled face is stern. "You haven't been going to your weekly visits, have you."

He pushes off the desk and rounds it, collapsing into the large leather chair behind it. "I'm not lying to you, Vega. Going to the Healer does nothing."

"If you stick with the treatment, maybe it would." She advances towards the desk, brows furrowed.

"I've been sticking with it," he retorts, tucking an arm behind his head. "It's been nearly a year." He shakes his head, leans forward and places his elbows on the table, shoving his hands through his hair and staring at the oak wood. "No, this is something else. There's something bigger going on here. I just don't know what."