The words don’t fully connect. “N-Now? How long have I been…”
“A few hours,” she says, her grip tightening, forcing me to focus. “But we don’t have longer. The dragons are too close now, Esme. Closer than anticipated. We must ensure our defenses can match them, as soon as possible.”
My mouth is desert-dry. I reach for the glass of water on my nightstand, my hand trembling slightly. The cool liquid does little to quench the hollow feeling in my throat, my stomach... everywhere. I drag myself upright, wincing at the strain, and as quickly as my aching body will allow, I dress in the dark fatigues Blythe has laid over my chair.
Blythe takes my arm in a steadying grip—far stronger than any human her age should have—and leads me from my dorm into the belly of our war academy.
We move through the corridors, churning with people and preparation. Darkbloods in battle leathers rush past with arms full of spelled weapons, while seniors trace protection sigils in glowing crimson across exterior stone walls. The air reeks of iron and fear, punctuated by the metallic tang of blood magic.
We’re heading for Merlin’s chamber, of course, but as we pass through the main entrance hall, a commotion makes me stop in my tracks.
The hall is a knot of tension. Brynn stands there, looking disheveled but unharmed, glasses perched on her nose. Beside her is Chad, his expression a thundercloud. Flanking them are two vampires I don’t recognize, their faces impassive and pale. But it’s the figure they’re all gathered around that makes my breath catch.
An injured female dragon.
She’s petite for her kind, with blonde hair matted with bloodand dirt. Her body is covered in burns and bruises. But even slumped against the vampire holding her, I recognize the proud set of her jaw, the noble crest branded on her shoulder.
She’s a Rogon.
Corvin stalks over to them, the tendons in his neck standing out like cords as he squares his shoulders, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the stone floor. He crosses his arms over his chest, wearing that extra grim look he’s been favoring a lot lately. “Where the hell have you been? You vanish for hours, and then show up withthis.”
“Rescuing her,” Brynn says, her voice heavy with exhaustion. She launches into a clipped, abbreviated version of their story—a clearblood camp, a capture, a fight.
The dragon lifts her head, her burning eyes finding mine across the hall. The look she gives me is laced with surprise, suspicion, and curiosity.
“My name is Ariella,” she says, her voice a pained rasp, though she addresses the whole room. “Of House Rogon. The clearbloods had me. They were torturing me… drawing my energy. They were sending me to Heathborne. For their experiments. For their weapons.”
Ariella Rogon. I know that name, even if I don’t remember coming face to face with her in Draethys. She’s the niece of the infamous Colonel who kicked my ass, and cousin to… that bitch Raelle.
Her gaze lingers on me, more suspicion this time, and I understand why. She probably still believes the lies Anees has spread. That Dayn is a kinslayer, a traitor. That I am his willing accomplice.
Dayn.
My brain stutters at his name. It stirs something in me, a strange ache in a space that feels like it should be full… of rage or irritation, or something. Dayn. The dragon who kidnapped me. The one I am married to. My eyes scan the hall, a subconscious reflex, but I don’t see him. I wonder where he is. The last time I saw him was… just after the last trial.
Blythe’s hand clamps firmly on my arm. “We don’t have time for this, Esme. Come on.” She doesn’t give me another moment to linger.
She sweeps me past the tableau, her grip unyielding, pulling me back toward my fate, back toward Merlin’s chamber and the last trial that waits to test the final strength of whatever soul dares enter.
37
ESME
The heavy stone door of Merlin’s chamber groans open under Blythe’s hand for what I hope will be the last time in these circumstances, and the familiar scent of dust and a terrifying, dormant power rushes out to meet us.
But it’s not the tomb that catches my eye first.
It’s… him.
Dayn leans against the far wall, his tall frame cast in shadow. His arms are crossed over his chest, his jaw set, eyes gleaming like molten gold in the dim light.
He’s already here, waiting. As if he knew the exact moment we would arrive. The breath stalls in my lungs.
I stop so abruptly that Blythe’s grip yanks my shoulder. She hisses a reprimand, but I barely hear it. All I can do is stare across the candle-glow at the man—the dragon—who has apparently claimed squatter’s rights inside my pulse.
His gaze locks on mine like he’s been counting heartbeats since I left. Mine stutters. A flicker of heat, quick as static, arcs through my sternum. I don’t know why. I don’t know him, not really. Not outside kidnapping and bloodvows and that odd, hollow ache behind my ribs whenever he’s near. But the air feels different with him in it, thick with cedar and storm and something achingly… familiar.
Blythe releases me, stepping aside with a curt exhale. “Dayn,” she says, her voice sharp with surprise and disapproval. “You were not called this time.”
