“He is with me,” Chad snarls, and his voice is like a damned soul.
Isander stares, his fangs retracting in shock. Vampires are ancient and powerful, but a true demon is something else entirely. They are a force of chaos and destruction that even the undead respect.
“Valgrave,” Isander whispers, taking an involuntary step back. “What is the meaning of this?”
“The meaning is you will leave,” Chad commands, taking a step forward. The ground cracks beneath his boot. “Now. Before I get hungry.”
The threat is not idle. The vampires scatter, melting back into the trees as silently as they appeared, Isander casting one last look of venomous hatred at me before vanishing into the canopy.
I’m sure we’ll meet again, friend.
We are left in a tense triangle of mutual distrust. Chad, the traitor. Byzu, the warrior. And me, the exiled king. The demonic power recedes from Chad, his eyes fading back to their familiar green, his claws and fangs retracting. He looks haggard, drained by the display.
“You have questions,” he says, his voice once again his own, though strained.
“Starting with why you just saved us from that vampire nuisance,” Byzu growls, not lowering his guard.
Chad’s gaze flicks between us, landing on me. There’s no apology in his eyes, only a grim, calculated resolve.
“Because as much as you may distrust me,” he says, “we have a mutual interest in not letting this world burn to the ground.” He gestures deeper into the woods. “Follow me. Weneed to talk before the rest of Darkbirch realizes who just broke down their front door.”
5
DAYN
We follow him through a maze of thick trees, the ground soft and silent underfoot. He leads us to a collapsed stone circle, the ruins of some ancient darkblood ritual site. Moss clings to the fallen menhirs like a shroud. It’s secluded enough. For now.
The moment we stop, Byzu glares at Chad. “So, talk. Why are you here? What games are you playing?”
My gaze bores into the half-demon. “As I mentioned, I remember you, Valgrave. A shadow in Rothmere’s halls. The Chancellor’s pet project. So tell me, what does he want with my wife? What does he want with me?”
Chad exhales, a harsh sound, as he leans slightly against a tree. Then, unevenly, a story spills out of him: a history of coercion, of a mother’s murder held as leverage, of being molded into the perfect mole for a master who saw him as nothing more than an expendable tool. He tells us of Rothmere’s obsession with my blood, with my powers and now with Esme’s, with finding the location of Draethys. He tells us of the confrontationat the Salt Flats, of choosing a side, of taking the first step toward his freedom.
“Words are cheap,” I say, unmoved. “Especially from a spy.”
“Then how about this?” Chad reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bejeweled silver ring. He tosses it onto the mossy ground between us.
I feel its magic instantly. It’s ancient, draconic in origin, but… perverted. Twisted with clearblood runes and binding spells I’ve only read about in the most forbidden texts. A control ward. A leash for the soul. Another relic evidencing Rothmere’s obsession with the magic of my kind.
I kneel, my own fingers hovering over the ring, not quite touching it. I trace the flow of power, searching for a weakness, a seam in the spellwork. There is no obvious one. It is a masterpiece of magical cruelty, woven so tightly into the gemstone that to break the spell would possibly be to shatter the soul it’s keyed to.
“Rothmere’s,” Chad says quietly. “He used it to control me. To suppress… the other part of me.”
“And you haven’t been able to break this,” I say. “It’s been modified, layered with spells that counteract each other… A paradox of power.”
“I know,” Chad mutters, aggravation coloring his tone. “But as long as it’s off his finger, he has no direct control over me. I’m free.”
“And of course,” I say, thoughtful, “whoever puts it on… they get the leash, if they wish to assert it.”
Chad nods stiffly.
At least about the Rothmere part of the story, he was possibly telling the truth.
He retrieves the ring, and as Byzu and I continue to study his face, it feels as if a fragile understanding begins to settle between us, slowly. A truce born of a shared enemy rather than trust.
I know what it is to live under Rothmere’s chains.
The snap of a twig disrupts the quiet.
