I turn from her, leaving her to ponder the weight of my threat. The rage has cooled now, forged into a singular, cold purpose. Esther wants a puppet, a weapon honed by duty and stripped of messy emotion. She wants the perfect Salem heir to fulfill a plan possibly centuries in the making.
But I don’t want a weapon. I want my witch.
I walk out of Merlin’s chamber and into the echoing corridors of Darkbirch. The stone feels cold beneath my boots as I emerge into the main concourse. The academy, which just recently was a bastion of quiet, disciplined tension, is now a hive of controlled chaos. A young darkblood, his face smudged with soot and streaked with tears, stumbles through the main entrance, collapsing into the arms of a waiting healer. His words are a choked torrent of panic.
“—gone. The perimeter couldn’t… hold their combined force. They came from the east, so many…”
Another report comes in, this one through a communication crystal that flares to life on a pedestal in the hall, its light pulsing an angry crimson. A woman’s voice, tinny and laced with static, crackles through the air. “Coven Blackwood has fallen. Repeat, Blackwood is ash. They’re moving south.”
I hear more reports from small covens. Coven Stonegate in the northern mountains. The Mirefolk Coven in the southern swamps. My kind are moving swiftly and tactfully, starting with the small, the vulnerable, those without substantial defenses. Building up their strength, their practice. They’ve already moved on from probing.
Godsdamned Anees.
Then comes a report that makes even my skin chill. “Heathborne is under attack. The western wing of their institute is burning. They’re holding, but for how long…”
Heathborne already. That coven’s defenses were damaged by my breakout, and I doubt it’s fully recovered yet. But still, striking there already is daring. It means Anees could send recruits back here anytime, and more of them.
More darkbloods are arriving now: refugees. The great doors of Darkbirch’s military institute have been thrown open, and they stream in—a ragged, terrified procession. They carry the stench of burnt homes and scorched earth. Some are wounded, leaning on others, their clothes shredded and stained with blood and soot. Children weep in their mothers’ arms, their eyes wide with a terror no child should know.
This is what Draethys and Anees have unleashed already. A world on fire.
As I stand there, a silent, imposing figure amidst the chaos, I feel their eyes on me. Every darkblood that passes turns to stare, their gazes a mixture of fear, hatred, and raw accusation. I am the monster in their midst, the face of the enemy they have just fled. I see Ridge and Nyv across the hall, their faces grim as they direct the flow of refugees. Nyv’s eyes meet mine, and the look she gives me is cold enough to freeze blood. Even Isola glares at me with undisguised venom.
I struggle to blame them. I would feel the same.
“He should be in the dungeons,” a harsh voice cuts through the din.
I turn. Esme’s uncle, Edwin Salem, stands before me, flanked by two of his colleagues. He is a hard-faced man, built like a battering ram, with none of Director Reinhardt’s calculated calm. His eyes are chips of steel. “For all we know, you’re a beacon, drawing them here.”
Director Reinhardt stalks over, his presence a shield ofauthority. “That’s enough, Edwin. Dayn fought beside us. He has proven himself an ally and can help with strategy.”
Edwin’s jaw tightens, but he falls silent, his glare promising that this conversation is not over. He turns and stalks away, barking orders to his children.
Corvin approaches, his expression one of grim efficiency. He looks from Reinhardt to me, his gaze lingering on me with a fresh weight of suspicion. “Byzu is still missing.”
The name hangs in the air, this stinging accusation resurfacing. My brother. The one I brought here, vouched for, allowed within these walls.
“We’ve swept every inch of the grounds, checked every ward,” Corvin continues, his voice flat. “He’s gone. Vanished without a trace just before that first attack.” He exhales sharply. “He came here for intelligence. To map our defenses, learn our numbers. He was a scout for the main invasion.”
The conclusion is logical. It is what I would have done. Yet something still doesn't align for me—Byzu's betrayal still feels too abrupt… too complete. The thought sits like ice in my stomach. I've been consumed with Esme, with protecting what's ours, leaving little room for my brother's machinations. If he has truly abandoned our blood bond so carelessly, our next meeting will end only one way. But Byzu must wait. I still have more pressing issues.
“The boy we captured,” Reinhardt says, his focus shifting back to the immediate threat. “Hale Braynor. He was lying. Or he was misinformed.”
I turn to him, a cold premonition settling over me. “Meaning?”
“He said they were still days away,” Corvin says, jaw tight. “Bad report. The scryers confirmed it—a fleet, large enough to blot out the stars and moving fast. They’re not days away, Draxion.”He pauses, letting the weight of his next words fill the space. “We’re talking morning.”
33
BRYNN
Tomorrow morning. The words hit me like a brick to the sternum, echoing in the library's oppressive silence. Every tick of that pretentious grandfather clock in the hall feels like a hammer blow, counting down the seconds. My ink-stained fingers fly across the brittle pages of theCodex Draconis. I'm searching for anything remotely useful. A weakness. A forgotten ritual. Hell, even a footnote about dragon allergies. Just one single, desperate silver bullet buried in this mountain of ancient, probably useless lore.
The air reeks of old paper, leather, and that electric ozone smell from the wards practically having panic attacks under the weight of everyone's fear. Silver lining: our boundaries got juiced up from Esme's insane trials, even if she hasn't finished the whole set. Too late to talk her out of them now. They’re happening—whether I or dragon-guy like it or not—and we’re all going to have to deal with whatever cosmic horror show is waiting at the finish line.
The elders are practically salivating to find out what's there, like it's some magical pot of gold at the end of a seriouslymessed-up rainbow. “Game-changing,” they keep saying. Yeah, well, so was the atomic bomb. I just hope whatever we unleash won't make dragons look like pets in comparison.
I shove my glasses up for the millionth time, my eyes feeling like they've been scrubbed raw. Esme's in her room, passed out and recuperating from the latest trial’s trauma. She's the sword—swift and deadly purpose. I'm supposed to be the shield, the brain that finds the one weak spot to aim for. But dragon armor doesn't have a lot of weak spots, and my brain feels like a colander right now, every half-decent theory draining away into a puddle of “did you know dragons can smell fear from three miles away?” Fantastic.
