His confession lands with all the grace of a drunk griffin at a fancy garden party, and I'm left staring at him like he's just sprouted a second head—one that speaks exclusively in bad poetry.
His face freezes in a way that tells me he's just surprised himself as much as he's surprised me.
I can't stop staring at him. There's this hot, tight knot of angerin my chest, but it's getting tangled up with something else—something fluttery and unwelcome that I absolutely refuse to examine right now. The ring feels suddenly heavy on my finger. A leash. A proof. A confession I didn’t ask for.
“This thing is a liability,” I say finally, my voice regaining its steady, analytical tone. I pull the ring off with a sharp tug. The connection snaps, and his energy vanishes so completely it leaves a weird hollow feeling, like missing a step on a staircase. “If Rothmere ever gets his hands on it again, he controls you completely.”
“I know.” His voice is quiet.
“I’ll look for a way to destroy it,” I say, slipping it into my pocket. “To break the enchantment without breaking you.” I force myself to look at him directly, and we stare at each other for approximately seven very uncomfortable seconds. “I'll consider talking to Reinhardt. Explaining... whatever this is. Maybe even vouch for you as an asset, if I'm feeling particularly unhinged that day.”
His face does this thing where relief and wariness battle for dominance. It's almost fascinating, in a lab-specimen kind of way.
“Maybe,” I add, already turning to leave because I've hit my quota of emotional revelations for the decade. “For now, enjoy your five-star dungeon experience. The cots down here are absolute murder on the lower lumbar region. I'd know—I've face-planted on the lab floor enough times to qualify as furniture.”
I walk away before he can respond, my boots making that dramatic echo-on-stone sound that would be perfect for a villain exit. Which, given recent developments, might actually be what I am.
16
DAYN
The academy is a hive of frantic activity, but I move through it untouched, a ghost of fire in their cold stone halls. The council meeting was a predictable exercise in futility. They cling to their ancient rituals and their hatreds like drowning men clinging to an anchor. They would rather sacrifice their best weapon than trust mine.
My feet carry me upward, spiraling through the academy’s labyrinthine corridors. I am not guided by memory, but by an instinct far older, a pull in my blood that seeks its counterpart. The bond. At close distances, it hums, a low thrumming beneath my skin, leading me to her.
Her room is at the apex of the tallest, most isolated residential turret. Of course it is. A perch for a predator, a cage for a solitary soul. Her door is plain black wood. Beside it, a single torch burns with a rose-gold flame that is steady even when the mountain winds claw across the battlements. The flame’s color strikes me as… oddly romantic, for Esme. For a moment, I am amused. It seems even the deadliest of witches has a sentimental streak for a pretty fire.
I knock briefly on the door, then push it open and step inside.
The room is exactly as I expect: sparse, severe, a testament to a life stripped of all but necessity. A narrow bed, neatly made. A desk, its surface clear save for a single, leather-bound book. A row of blades gleams on a rack against one wall. The air smells of her—clean linen, sharp steel, and the faint, intoxicating scent of shadow magic and wildflowers.
She stands at the arched window, a black silhouette against the bruised twilight sky. She doesn’t turn, but I see her shoulders tense. She knew I was coming.
“The guest quarters weren’t enough for you?” she asks, her voice quiet. “You had to invade my room as well?”
“I go where I please,” I say, closing the door behind me. The sound echoes in the small space, sealing us in. “And I am not finished with our conversation.”
I move to the center of the room, feeling the oppressive weight of the coven’s magic even here. It’s weaker than normal, but it’s still everywhere, clinging to the stones. A constant, irritating pressure.
“What conversation?” She finally turns, her arms crossed over her chest. Her face is pale in the fading light, her storm-gray eyes wide but reserved. “I’m sure you’ll understand why I don’t have time to spare right now. The council’s decided the trials will commence at dawn.”
“The council has decided to throw you into a fire and hope something useful crawls out of the ashes,” I counter, my voice a low growl. “It is not strategy. It is desperation.”
“It’s a calculated risk,” she says, her chin lifting in that infuriating, stubborn way. “We’re used to taking them. And this one, we have to take.”
“A riskyouhave to take,” I correct, taking a step closer. The air between us thickens, charged with the heat radiating from my skin. “And for what? For the belief that crossing a mortal’sboundaries would somehow lead to something good? There are other options. My options.”
“Your options involve trusting clearbloods and begging dragons for a truce,” she scoffs. “Forgive me if I’m not inspired by the plan.”
“My plan doesn’t involve you channeling a power that could tear your soul apart.” I am closer now, close enough to see the flicker of something in her eyes: not just anger, but uncertainty. She is concerned. Good. Fear can be reasoned with. Stubborn pride cannot. “You’re the strongest witch they have for this. But even you will struggle with an Ide.”
My hand lifts, an involuntary movement, and my fingers brush her arm. Her skin is cool and I feel her pulse hammering beneath my fingertips, a frantic, wild rhythm. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.
“Your mother knows it could be a death sentence,” I murmur, my gaze dropping to her mouth. “I saw it in her eyes. Your sister knows it. Even Corvin knows it, though he’d never admit it.” I lean in, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You know it, too.”
Her breath hitches. Her scent fills my senses, a heady mix of defiance and a vulnerability she would die before admitting to. It is a dangerous combination. It makes me want to protect her. It makes me want to devour her.
“I’m used to risks,” she murmurs. “And this is the only solid plan we have.”
