Chapter 3
ESME
There’s one perk to being an unwilling guest in Draethys.
My chamber has an en-suite bath with mineral-infused thermal waters.
I let myself sink into the liquid heat as soon as I wake, trying to forget the problems suffocating me for just a moment as I wash, letting my eyes wander.
Crystals in a variety of reds, purples, and greens cover the walls and the floor, all of them jutting out and making me feel as though I’m smack in the heart of a precious stone mine.
I can’t feel my grandmother at all. Every time I try to reach out, even with a blood spell, I’m met with silence.
The steam rises in lazy rolls off the surface of the water, filling my nostrils as I scrub my skin clean with a soft cloth.
Colorful bottles of body oils sit on a silver tray beside the tub that is carved into the floor, and I make liberal use of one that smells of late summer with hints of roses and smoked wood.
“May I come in?” Nyssa’s voice echoes from across the room.
I can see her from where I’m sitting as she comes through the door.
“I’m in here,” I call out.
“How are you feeling this morning, my lady?” she asks, then disappears from my line of sight as she carries what looks like a dress over to my bed.
If I’m honest, I slept more deeply than I expected. I’m not sure how or why. I doubt I even turned while I drowned in dreams I can no longer remember. But I woke up thirsting for dragon’s blood. His.
“How does a prisoner usually sleep in this place?” I reply, then finish rubbing the scented oil onto my skin before I wrap myself in a towel and join Nyssa in the bedroom.
“My lady, you are our guest here. Not a prisoner.”
“Can I leave?”
She blinks once, as if I asked a stupid question. “No.”
“Case in point,” I reply and point at the dress laid out on my bed. “What’s that?”
“Your attire for this morning’s breakfast,” Nyssa says with a soft, polite smile. “Lord Daynthazar instructed me with regard to your favorite color…”
I stare at it for a bitter moment. The dress is white—long, flowing, embroidered with blue roses across the chest. Greek in its drape, almost ceremonial.
The shoulder straps are solid gold, wide but delicate, filigreed with impossible precision.
They probably weigh nothing, but the sight of them feels heavy enough.
“White and blue are not my favorite colors,” I tell her flatly.
Nyssa blinks, clearly thrown. “Lord Daynthazar insisted that I select—”
“Dayn is a dick,” I cut in, sparing her the trouble. “Those are Heathborne colors. He did this on purpose.”
The realization burns as it settles in—I’m sure it’s a deliberate taunt.
A reminder that he always sees straight through me, past every mask and layer of defense.
Just like at Heathborne, he instantly saw my true colors.
Always one step ahead. Always in control.
The thought alone makes my blood simmer.
“Oh,” Nyssa pauses, glancing at the dress for a long, awkward moment. “Clearblood academia, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Precisely.”
“And you’re a darkblood. The very opposite.”
“Indeed.”
“The world above has gone crazy.” She sighs deeply and smoothens a crease in the dress.
I shoot her a look. “It was crazy long before you and I were even born.”
“True, but I’ve read the histories of the world,” Nyssa says. “Of eons past, of a balance that should be restored. Could be. Someday. There was no division between the people, long ago. There was peace.”
“Until someone discovered how much power they could amass by hurting others. I’m pretty sure your people started the first wars… Anyway, I’m not wearing that,” I say, the words clipped and final.
Nyssa’s polite mask falters, a flicker of genuine alarm in her eyes. “My lady, the dress was chosen for you by the prince himself. To refuse…”
“Is what, an insult? Good.” I stalk past her, the towel clutched tight. He wants to play games, fine. But I won’t be his doll, dressed up in the colors of my enemies. “Find me something else. Something black.”
Nyssa looks pained. “There is nothing else prepared on such short notice. The breakfast—”
“Then I’ll go naked,” I snarl, turning back to the dress.
An idea, dark and satisfying, begins to form.
My shadows answer the call, coiling around my fingers.
Maybe I don’t need another dress. Maybe I just need to…
redecorate. With a flick of my wrist, a tendril of darkness lashes out, dyeing the blue roses a deep, defiant obsidian.
Nyssa gasps softly, taking an involuntary step back.
“It’s either this, or I’ll go to this meal wrapped in those crimson sheets and tell everyone the prince has a particular fondness for the bedding.”
Nyssa grimaces, but finally gives a reluctant nod, then exits the room. I watch her go, a grim satisfaction settling in my chest. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless. He will learn I am not a treasure to be displayed. I am a weapon waiting for the right moment to be aimed.
As I stand there, in the middle of the room, I have no idea what I’m walking into, but following rules in enemy territory makes my skin crawl. I didn’t do it at Heathborne, and I’m not about to do it here. Nyssa should probably give me points for restraint. I haven’t tried to kill her today—yet.
She returns precisely one minute later with another dress.
This one is… admittedly beautiful, albeit in a similar style, but in delicate shades of red and orange, like the tongues of a campfire reaching for the heavens.
“Would this please you more, my lady?”
“No. And I’d prefer you call me Esme,” I reply. She’s earned this much.
Nyssa shakes her head. “I wouldn’t dare, my lady.”
“I won’t tell anyone. Privately, you call me Esme. Privately, I call Dayn whatever I like. Fair deal?”
She chuckles softly and helps me, still reluctantly, put my now-black dress on.
“Don’t flaunt the fact you changed it,” she warns. “I won’t be able to save you from any repercussions.”
I drop the towel and slip the dress over my head.
The magic feels cool against my skin, humming with a faint, dark energy.
It fits perfectly. The filigree bands settle lightly over my shoulders, and the fabric is so smooth and soft, it feels like a delicate breeze eager to kiss every inch of my skin.
“It’s ridiculously light,” I say, taking a few steps toward the window.
The light coming through is the same. There’s no sense of day and night in Draethys. Only of fires burning, of the earth’s bowels glowing across the stone sky. If I had a heart for these people, I’d say it was sad many of them never saw the true sky.
Fortunately, I don’t.
“We prefer lighter fabrics and fewer clothes to make our transition from human to dragon form easier,” Nyssa explains. “The dress comes off easily for that purpose. The same for the gentlemen’s tunics and robes. Their armors snap off just as quickly.”
“So you strip and reveal your dragon forms,” I say, dry.
“Yes, my lady,” she begins, then stops when I clear my throat and fix her with a look. “Yes, Esme,” she corrects herself with a shy smile.
I take a look at myself in the mirror, pulling my dark hair into a loose, comfortable bun. The dress flows like dark water, outlining my figure and giving me an unfamiliar grace.
“I think I like this,” I mutter mostly to myself.
“You look beautiful in it,” Nyssa says.
“Beauty was never on my checklist.”
“Beauty comes naturally,” Nyssa replies. “In your case, it never belonged on a checklist.”
I turn to face her, surprised by the unexpected kindness. I wonder if she is simply being polite or if she really is this genuine. “Thank you, I guess.”
“Now, let’s get you downstairs. The lords are waiting.”
“The lords?”
“The dragon lords of House Draxion.”
My stomach clenches into a tight, cold knot.
I trail Nyssa out of the chamber and into a hallway that opens onto a grand staircase, a sweeping curve of polished obsidian that descends into a vast, cavernous space.
The palace is an exercise in intimidation, built to remind any non-dragon of their insignificance.
Ceilings soar into shadow, so high they swallow the sound of our footsteps, leaving only a faint, lonely echo.
The windows aren't windows at all, but massive, talon-shaped gashes cut into the stone, every sharp edge gilded and gleaming.
Fires burn everywhere, in massive braziers and deep-set hearths, feeding on some viscous oil that makes the air taste of metal and pride.
Just breathing here feels like inhaling the very essence of this place, and I’m starting to feel like the smoky, singed scent is seeping into my skin, becoming part of me.
It should irritate me to no end, but instead it sharpens the edges of my anger.
Let them fill me with their ash; I’ll turn it into something combustible.
Guards line the corridor, their polished gold armor catching the firelight as we pass.
They stand unmoving, like gilded statues, but their eyes are alive, tracking my every step the way predators watch movement in the brush.
Each gaze is a physical weight, a reminder that I am prey in the heart of the hunters’ den.
The hall opens into a room so vast it feels hollow at its center, the sound of our arrival swallowed by the sheer scale of the space.
“The breakfast room,” Nyssa whispers beside me, her voice a nervous breath. “Where Lord Daynthazar awaits, with his father and brothers.”
Floor-to-ceiling windows, framed in obsidian, open onto a wide terrace that overlooks the impossible, glowing city.
In the middle of the room stands a long marble table, its surface polished to a mirror shine.
Every ornate chair is filled—except for one, pulled out and waiting, directly next to Dayn. A seat of honor, or a target.