Chapter 4 Esme #2
“My essence makes you a curiosity,” Dayn says, his tone too casual. “Nyssa saw your shadow spell. Word travels fast. Rumors are already circling that you’re… special.”
Great. Because that’s what I wanted the most. Draethys’s attention.
Dayn guides me across the ballroom, and the hum of conversation falters, then dies.
A hundred gazes fasten on me. Whispers uncoil like smoke as I scan the crowd: burgundy silks, dark leathers, gold chains and jeweled pins, medals glittering on lapels and shoulder tresses.
Perfumes thick enough to choke, hair piled in elaborate crowns. Some wear elaborate masks.
Curiosity burns in a few gazes, but there’s contempt in most. I stay close to Dayn. Stray too far, and it feels like they’ll take a shot at ripping me apart.
“There he is, the man of the hour!”
A tall man clad in immaculate white strides toward us. His gold hair gleams under the chandelier’s light, pulled back into a tight bun. A beard of white and gold, oiled and sculpted, frames his mouth like a hedge trimmed to perfection, while battle scars cut harsh lines down his cheek.
“Colonel Rogon,” Dayn greets, clasping his hand in a firm shake.
“It’s good to have you back, Lord Daynthazar,” Rogon replies, his voice gravelly. “Draethys has been… less without you.”
“You give me too much credit, Colonel.”
“And this must be the darkblood you dragged back with you, for reasons beyond me.” His attention slides to me.
One glance at him tells me he could physically snap me in two with a careless backhand. The thought of his dragon form flashes unwanted through my mind, but I push the shiver down.
“Colonel,” I say evenly. “An… honor to meet you.”
Rogon's lip curls. “A Salem, no less.” He leans in, inhaling deeply, nostrils flaring like a predator catching scent. His eyes widen. “By the ancient fires. Your father mentioned—”
“Tonight is hardly the occasion, Colonel,” Dayn interrupts, his voice carrying the quiet authority of a blade unsheathed. “My return warrants celebration, not interrogation.”
Rogon's massive shoulders drop as he exhales. “The clearbloods forced your hand. I understand survival.”
“And Esme's unique abilities make her value obvious,” Dayn adds smoothly. “We'll discuss her potential after tonight's festivities. The crowd grows restless.”
The sharp click-click of approaching heels cuts through my questions.
I turn to find a statuesque blonde—an apparent rarity in Draethys—advancing toward us.
Her red silk dress strains against curves as she moves.
Light catches the diamonds adorning her throat and wrists, throwing fractured rainbows across her pale skin.
Rogon chuckles, warmth softening his stern features. “Ah, Raelle, my precious daughter.”
Dayn stiffens beside me, his frame tightening as he keeps me close. Raelle all but shoves me aside to wrap her long arms around him.
“Daynthazar, darling,” she exclaims, her voice syrupy, dramatic. “You took forever to come back to us.”
The look she gives me could strip paint. It reminds me of the time I tricked Jax into eating grave dirt to commune with an ancestor. He was six, and I was still smarting from the junior hex he’d planted on me.
Jax. I wonder how he’s recovering, maybe still wrapped in spirits, still buried, still recovering from Mazrov’s dragon-energy-infused blow…
“A darkblood,” Raelle exhales. “Never did I imagine—”
“That a mangy darkblood would set foot in your precious palace, yes, I’ve heard it all before,” I reply with a roll of my eyes. “Just get it out of your system so I can make it to the bar.”
She gasps, looking downright insulted, while Colonel Rogon gives me the kind of glare that makes execution a more favorable conclusion than what he’d probably do to me.
“My apologies, Colonel.” I reluctantly mend this particular fence under Dayn’s watchful eye.
“It’s just that… I didn’t choose to come here.
It was never my intention to come here. And frankly, I’d very much like to leave, but until that becomes possible, I’d rather be a quiet guest without being insulted wherever I go. ”
Rogon draws a deep breath.
But Dayn takes the lead. “Tonight is my celebration, Colonel.”
“Oh, but it is!” Raelle crows. “Come join us on the terrace—the Second Squadron and I were just revisiting memories of our training days. Remember it? Our old academy above ground?”
The dragons had a world of their own before they were driven below.
I’d almost forgotten. With caves and cities and universities of their own.
Places to gather and learn, to worship and grow.
Much like us. They’re not that different from us, at the end of the day.
Powerful, misunderstood—perhaps, willing to cross the hardest lines in order to achieve their prime objectives. It’s what makes them so dangerous.
They were supposed to be completely extinct.
Now, there’s at least a couple hundred thousand. The tables may turn.
“I remember,” Dayn says after a pause, “but I’ll escort my guest tonight. We’ll revisit those stories later.”
Raelle scowls as I lean into Dayn—purely to rattle her, though I’d rather vanish.
Rogon clears his throat. “Your father has called a council meeting at dawn. Will you attend, Daynthazar?”
“Yes. We’ll speak then,” Dayn says, and then Rogon adds, “Your return—even under these circumstances—has lifted the court’s spirits.” Rogon casts me another side-glance.
Fortunately for him, I’m used to being looked down upon. The clearbloods do it often, too. Until they have to deal with the consequences.
Dayn inclines his head, then steers me away. We weave through the crowd of nobles—handshakes, false smiles, the same rehearsed questions about our bond. Each time Dayn offers a curt answer, my teeth grind as I wait for the scrutiny to end.
“The lady of the hour!” a familiar voice rings out.
Byzu suddenly pushes through the crowd, dark hair gleaming, leather outfit fitted snug to his toned frame. Relief crosses Dayn’s face as a House Meraxis noble releases him. I almost pity him.
“I hardly deserve the title,” I mutter to the second youngest Draxion brother, forcing a brittle smile.
“Oh, but you do,” Byzu replies, grin wicked. “Everyone’s buzzing about you.”
Dayn exhales. “Byzu, weren’t you meant to remain with Father until dinner?”
“I’d like a dance with your darkblood, first.”
“Excuse me?” I blurt out. “Why?”
“Because you’re the most dangerous-looking lady around. And I invoke my right to the First Dance,” Byzu shoots back, turning my frown into a glare.
“The First Dance? Really?” Dayn’s voice drips with disdain.
Byzu only shrugs. “Etiquette is etiquette. If a lady isn’t danced upon entering, her partner forfeits the right. Any other dragon may claim her for the first turn.”
“I know the rule, Shorttail,” Dayn snaps, his voice a low growl that cuts through the surrounding whispers. “It doesn’t mean I’ll allow it.”
“It’s Longtail, brother, and you have no choice.
” The grin Byzu flashes is pure, unadulterated victory.
Before I can voice a single protest, his hand closes around my wrist, a warm, firm grip that sends a jolt of alarm through me.
I’m swept from Dayn’s side and onto the polished dance floor in a single, fluid motion.
Byzu’s arm snakes around my waist, pulling me flush against his hard frame as the drums quicken their beat.
The crowd parts for us, a sea of silks and jewels receding to create an expectant circle, giving us a stage I never asked for.
Byzu moves with an unnerving, predatory grace, his hips rolling with the rhythm, that smirk of his downright devilish.
“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” I hiss, my cheeks blazing with a heat that has nothing to do with the room’s temperature. My eyes dart to the edge of the floor, finding Dayn instantly. He watches us, his posture rigid, his expression cold and unreadable.
“I’m doing exactly as I please,” Byzu replies, his voice a low murmur against my ear. “Perks of being a Draxion prince. And you, Esme Salem, are a formidable woman.” His lips hover closer, his breath warm on my skin. “I have a thing for those.”
I want to shove him off, to end this spectacle and vanish back into the shadows where I belong.
Instead, the room spins with me at its center—my dress flaring in a swirl of black and gold, too many pairs of golden eyes fixed on my every step, my every breath.
He leads, and I’m forced to follow, my body moving out of instinct rather than skill.
His hands slide lower, his fingers digging into the curve of my hips with possessive familiarity.
“I swear, if you don’t move those hands back where they belong, I’ll break every finger on them,” I growl, my fingers digging into his broad shoulders as he whirls us in a dizzying turn.
His laugh is a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest into mine. “Careful, little shadow,” he murmurs, his grip tightening instead of loosening. “Talk like that makes my blood run hot.”
His eyes drop to my mouth, then travel slowly back up to meet my gaze.
“You have no idea how long we’ve waited for something interesting to happen in this gilded cage.
And then my brother, the prodigal son, returns with a Salem witch who tastes of his power.
You’re the most exciting thing to happen to Draethys in decades. ”
His words are a calculated barb, meant to remind me of my bond with Dayn, of my status as a foreign object in their world.
I try to pull back, to put some distance between us, but he’s like a wall of muscle and leather.
His body moves against mine with a dancer’s grace and a warrior’s purpose.
Every step is a claim, every touch a challenge directed squarely at his brother.
The drums reach a frantic crescendo and Byzu dips me low, his face hovering inches from mine, his scent—ozone and scorched metal, somewhat different from Dayn’s—filling my senses.
“A word of advice,” he whispers, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush.
“Daynthazar hoards what is his. But in Draethys, even the greatest treasures can be… claimed by another. Remember that.”
Before I can process the insinuation, Dayn is suddenly there.
Silent, swift, slipping between us before I can blink.
His hand closes on my waist, his touch a brand of heat that sears through the fine fabric of my gown.
The contrast between the brothers is stark; where Byzu was more playful provocation, Dayn is unyielding force, a promise of violence held in check by the thinnest thread of civility.
“He’s finished,” Dayn announces, voice low and precise, extracting me firmly from Byzu’s hold. His thumb brushes over the bare skin of my back, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.
A bell tolls through the hall, deep and resonant.
Dayn straightens, amber eyes catching the light—dark rims glowing with molten fire as his gaze flicks from me to his brother. “Come. The feast begins.”