“I’m not sure that last part is true,” I say. My voice is quiet but my grip on her arm tightens fractionally. I watch her carefully, seeing the way her shields rise, the way her gaze hardens. “Your sister said something in the council chamber. About your ancestor. Helena.”
She tries to pull her arm back, but I hold her fast.
“It was nothing,” she says, her voice sharper. “Ancestral gibberish, like I said.”
“You are a terrible liar, wife.” The word is a deliberate provocation, and it lands with the intended effect. A flash of pure anger ignites in her eyes. “She told you something. Something you’re not telling me. Something you’re not telling any of them. Another path. What exactly did she say?”
“I said it was nothing, and certainly nothing solid!” She shoves against my chest, her strength surprising. I let her break the contact, the sudden absence of her touch leaving a strange chill on my skin. She backs away, putting the desk between us like a barricade. “The trials are happening, Dayn. With or without your approval. I am a Salem. I am a darkblood of this coven. I have a duty.”
“Duty is a fine thing to hide behind,” I say, not moving to follow her. “It won’t protect you from a force like this.”
I see the truth of it in the rigid line of her shoulders, in the way she won’t meet my gaze. She is hiding something. Helena’s words were not gibberish, they were an alternative. An alternative she is refusing to explore.
I need every detail of what Helena said. Dragons may hoard knowledge, but an ancient spirit’s perspective is always singular. They exist beyond the physical, seeing angles and truths flesh and bone could never reach.
But the silence stretches, filled with the unspoken things between us—the bond, the kiss, the war, the secret she guards so fiercely. She is walking to her own execution, and she is refusing the one hand that might pull her back from the ledge.
“Leave, please, Dayn,” she says, her voice uncharacteristically polite, purged of emotion. “I have to rest.”
For a moment, I consider refusing. I consider walking around that desk, pinning her to the cold stone wall, and forcing the truth from her lips. The dragon in me roars at the thought, at her defiance. It craves submission. It craves… her.
But the man—the king who must think in strategiesand alliances—knows that would solve nothing. It would only drive her further away.
I turn and walk to the door, my movements stiff with the effort of controlling myself. My hand rests on the iron latch. “When you are standing on the precipice tomorrow,” I say without turning back, “and you feel that power begin to unmake you, remember that you chose it. You chose it over the truth.”
I leave her there, a solitary queen in her tower, surrounded by blades and secrets, and walk out into the cold, watchful night. The trials begin at dawn.
But I’m nowhere near done.
17
CHAD
The sound of a key turning in the lock of my cell door slices through the pre-dawn gloom. I look up from the stone cot, my muscles stiff from a sleepless night spent cataloging every mistake I’ve ever made.
The list is long.
Corvin stands in the doorway, his face etched with exhaustion. But to my surprise, he doesn’t look at me with the contempt of a jailer.
“On your feet, Valgrave,” he says wearily.
I rise without a word. He tosses a bundle of dark clothing onto the cot, standard Darkbirch fatigues. “Get changed. You’re being reassigned.”
I pull on the clothes, the familiar fabric a weird comfort. “Reassigned where?” I ask, my voice rough from disuse.
“Brynn Salem’s detail,” he says. “She’s… spoken for you. In a manner of speaking.”
I swallow, trying to restore some of the moisture to my mouth. Brynn did that… already?
“You managed to escort her into Draethys after all,” Corvinadds, his gaze sharpening. “And our sources have confirmed Rothmere sustained a grievous injury. He’s gone to ground. Whereabouts… unknown.”
A cold snake uncoils in my gut at that last piece of information. Rothmere isn’t a man who accepts defeat; he simply tries to refine his methods. He’ll be plotting something new. Still, I now have time of my own. He isn’t the only one who can fight dirty.
“I’ll take that into consideration,” I say, my voice flat.
Corvin gives a curt nod. “Follow me. You're being reassigned as Brynn's shadow—mentor, bodyguard—and whatever other capacity the coven may require in the coming days. Should you prove yourself worthy.”
I nod stiffly and we walk through the academy’s corridors. The place reeks of fear—sweat-slick palms gripping weapons too tightly, whispered strategies cut short when I pass. Familiar faces turn unfamiliar. That’s the part that hurts most. Even Markus—with whom I shared a dorm room for two years—flinches when our eyes meet. His hands subconsciously ball. I feel a hollow ache beneath my ribs.
