As I walk back to the dungeons, the lingering shock in the academy is a low hum I can practically feel through the soles of my boots. People rush past, their faces tight with fear and purpose. But I move through it all like a ghost. Ezekiel and Angus trail behind me, their spectral presence still a silent, sorrowful weight.
Down the stone steps I go, back into the chill. The two dead clearblood bodies have been removed, but theair is still thick with the metallic tang of their terror. Chad is exactly where I left him, standing near the bars of his cell. He watches me approach, his expression unreadable.
I stop in front of him, the cold iron of the bars a stark line between us. I hold up my hand, uncurling my fingers to reveal Rothmere’s ring resting in my palm. His eyes fix on it.
“A leash,” I say, my voice flat. “That’s what you called it.”
“It is,” he confirms, his voice low.
“And you’re giving it to me.”
“I am.”
I look from the ring to his face, searching for the lie, the angle, the hidden clause in this insane contract. I find only a deep, profound exhaustion. With a decision that feels both reckless and necessary, I slide the ring onto the middle finger of my right hand.
The magic hits me like a plunge into icy water. It’s a cold, intricate web of power that sinks hooks directly into my mind, but it doesn’t stop there. A single, shimmering thread shoots out from the sapphire, crossing the space between us and burrowing deep into Chad. I can feel him. The raw energy of him—the simmering demonic power he keeps so tightly coiled, a caged beast pacing behind the bars of his control.
The ring is definitely a key, and I am holding it.
A strange, giddy sense of power rushes through me. I look at him, at his perfect, rigid posture. “Let’s test this, shall we?”
He just watches me, his jaw tight.
I need to test this. What's something harmless but impossible to do with dignity? Something that would annoy him without consequences…
“Pat your head and rub your stomach,” I say, discovering the limits of my own maturity.
His body jerks like he's been shocked. His right hand rises to his hair—that hair I've rarely seen with a strand out of place—and begins patting awkwardly. His left hand circles his stomach like he's soothing an upset kid. The coordination is a disaster. His expression, though—that's priceless. Pure Chad. Half murder, half mortification. “I will end you” and “end this, now.”
“Okay, stop,” I command.
His hands drop to his sides. He glares at me, his knuckles white.
“Thoroughly amused?” he asks.
“Not yet.” The cold anger I’ve been nursing bubbles to the surface, sharp and clean. “I want the truth, Chad. All of it. From the beginning. And if I sense even a hint of a lie…” I flex the finger wearing the ring. “…I'll make you recreate that dance challenge with the splits that went viral last month. The one with the hair flips. Trust me, your ass is not built for that kind of flexibility.”
He exhales, a long, slow breath that seems to carry all the fight out of him. He leans his forehead against the bars, his eyes closing for a moment.
“Rothmere found me when I was just a kid,” he begins, his voice a low monotone. He tells me everything. About his mother’s murder, a crime apparently committed by an unidentified darkblood. About the years of brutal training, molding him into the perfect weapon, the perfect spy. About the ring, a tool to control the demonic half Rothmere both coveted and feared. He tells me about his mission at Darkbirch, about reporting on our defenses, about feeding Rothmere my research—but supposedly not all of it.
“You must have wanted to get close to Esme,” I say, the pieces clicking into place. “But you got me instead.”
“Well, yes and no… She was too much like him,” he says, his voice rough. “All fire and ambition. You… you were quiet. You saw things other people missed. You were a challenge.” He looks up then, his green eyes meeting mine through the bars. “Rothmere… he wanted Draethys. That was the endgame. And he wanted Dayn’s blood.”
“And you were going to give it all to him,” I say, the accusation flat.
“I was,” he admits. “Until the Salt Flats. Until he basically told me my death was inevitable. He was never going to give me the name of my mother’s killer. He was never going to let me go. I was just a tool to be discarded.”
He takes a breath that seems to cost him something. The dungeon torchlight catches the hollows beneath his cheekbones, making shadows dance across his face. Gods, he looks tired. Almost human.
“So I came back,” he continues. “To warn you. To... try to fix what I could.”
“Why?” The question burns in my throat. Nothing about this adds up, and I hate puzzles I can't solve. “Self-preservation? A sudden crisis of conscience? You could have just bolted, made another life elsewhere.”
His eyes lock onto mine through the bars. “Because he would have used everything I gave him to destroy this place. To destroy your family. To destroy you.” The words tumble out of him like they're being chased. “I gave you the ring because it's the only proof I have that I'm done with him. Because I couldn't let him hurt… you, everyone here. It's why I came back. Because I... I care. About… about you, Brynn.”
Oh.
