He answers with a guttural roar of assent. We fold our wings and dive. The world becomes a blur as we plummet, two living meteors of black scale and golden fire. The clearbloods hear our approach too late. They look up, their faces paling to the color of bone as two dragons descend upon them.
I land first, the impact cratering the earth. I backhand one ofthem with a claw the size of his entire torso, sending him flying into a tree with a sickening crack of bone. Byzu lands beside me, his tail lashing out, sweeping the legs out from under the second operative.
I hear shouts at the forest’s edge. Silver tendrils erupt, snaking out and wrapping around the clearbloods’ limbs. They are hoisted into the air, screaming curses, bound tight in Nyv’s magic. Ridge steps out beside her, his hands pressed to the ground, and thorny vines thick as my arm burst from the earth, adding another layer to their prison.
They drag the struggling clearbloods toward them, their faces grim and determined. We have our prisoners. We have our proof. And we have the beginning of a war that just arrived at Darkbirch’s front door.
12
BRYNN
The aftermath is a controlled chaos of grim-faced darkbloods and two very large, very real dragons shifting back into… very naked human forms. As Corvin throws them robes, they’re still radiating enough heat to warp the air around them.
Ridge and Nyv have the two Heathborne operatives suspended in a nasty tangle of magic, their faces bloodied and masks of pure, fanatical hatred.
Director Reinhardt is already there, and doesn’t waste time on pleasantries. He gestures, and two senior trainers cut the heavy packs from the prisoners’ shoulders. They handle them like unexploded bombs, which, I suppose, is exactly what they are.
Inside each pack, nestled in high-tech foam, is another cobalt-blue projectile. Two more. My blood runs cold. Three shots. They weren’t planning on just one test.
“They weren’t counting on a draconic interception,” Reinhardt murmurs, his fingers tracing the casing of one of the projectiles without actually touching it. He looks up, his darkgaze sweeping over the council members who have gathered, his eyes lingering on Dayn and Byzu. “I’m guessing this wasn’t just an assassination attempt. It was a weapons test. They’re probing our defenses, striking while our shield is still healing.” His voice drops, carrying a weight that settles in my bones. “Our time is running out. It’s only going to get worse.”
Esme, who quickly joined the crowd, clenches her jaw. “We need to extract everything we can from the prisoners.” She turns, her eyes pinning me. “Coming?”
I nod. I don’t particularly want to, but I might be useful, and comfort really isn’t the priority right now. We descend into the dungeon’s chill, the two prisoners having been dragged ahead of us and thrown into separate cells. They’re already chanting something under their breaths, probably some clearblood air purification mantra.
Esme stands before the first cell, her arms crossed. “Who sent you?”
The man, his face a swollen mess, just spits a wad of bloody saliva that sizzles against the containment runes. “Your filth can’t hold me forever, witch.”
“I don’t need forever,” Esme replies, her voice dangerously soft. “I just need a name.”
The second operative laughs, a harsh, grating sound from the next cell over. “You’ll get nothing from us. We’d rather die than betray the cause. The world will be cleansed of your kind.”
Esme’s frustration feels almost palpable, a low hum of violence in the air. She’s used to things breaking when she applies pressure. But these men are like stones, polished smooth by their own fanaticism.
I watch them as a problem to be solved rather than a threat. A puzzle. Their chanting isn’t just a mantra; it’s a low-level warding spell, a mental reinforcement technique I’ve only readabout in clearblood texts. It’s rudimentary, but effective against basic coercion.
I step forward. Esme looks at me, a flicker of warning in her eyes.
“Their chant,” I say, addressing my sister but looking at the first prisoner. “The cadence is wrong. They’re using the seventh intonation of the Clarion Call, but the resonance pattern is for the Ward of Unyielding Will. They’re magically incompatible.”
The man falters. His eyes widen almost imperceptibly. He’s shocked that I know their internal magical terminology, let alone that I can critique it.
I press on, the words flowing from some dusty corner of my memory. “Mixing them creates a harmonic dissonance. It reinforces your will, yes, but it also creates a feedback loop. A spiritual echo.” I let that sink in. “It leaves a signature. A very specific signature that can be traced back to the caster who taught you.”
This is a bluff. A partial one. The theory is sound, but tracing it would be nearly impossible without the right artifacts. But they don’t know that. The second operative has stopped chanting. He’s staring at me now, doubt warring with his ingrained discipline.
“So,” I say, pushing my glasses up my nose, my voice calm, almost academic. “Let's try this again. Who was your target?” I glance between the two cells. “What were your exact orders? Test the weapon and retreat? Or were you meant to take out a specific member of the council?”
The first operative glares, the fanaticism in his eyes barely diluted. The second one remains silent, his jaw clenched.
“No extraction plan, then?” I continue, my tone conversational. “Expendable assets. It makes sense. Why waste resources recovering soldiers whose magicaltraining is so... flawed?”
Esme catches on, her lips curling. “She's right. Your seniors sent you here to die. To see what would happen.”
The first man's composure finally cracks. “We serve the true cause!” he hisses. “And we willnevergive you what you want.”
I exhale slowly. This is probably a waste of time. I can see the frustration tightening the muscles in Esme’s shoulders, preparing for more violent methods.
