Chapter 6 Esme
ESME
It’s taken me two full days of playing along to map every corridor, stairway, chamber, and salon in the palace—most crucially, Draethys’s archives locked away in the Black Room deep in the basement.
I still haven't glimpsed more than fragments of the palace’s dark basalt exterior through windows; from what little I've seen, the construction might be circular, or perhaps a pentagon with towers at each point. But that doesn’t matter right now.
Those same two days have taught me Nyssa’s routine and the guards’ patrols, so I choose a moment just after lunch to slip from my quarters.
On the ground floor, a gold-plated commander addresses the four guards posted at the base of the grand staircase. “Lord Bemmar wants more details before the council meeting. You two, with me.”
One of the remaining pair asks, “What about us, captain?”
I press back against a thick obsidian column, breath caught and fingers itching for magic. But I have no idea what wards Bemmar installed after Dayn brought me here, and I can’t risk exposure.
“Hold your positions until you’re relieved. Your shift change is imminent,” the commander replies.
Three pairs of boots recede down the hall, and relief washes over me. I’ve already noticed faint runes carved around my door—barely visible etchings in the stone. Lord Bemmar isn’t a fool.
Sneaking the old-fashioned way isn’t the worst outcome. My stealth skills are sharpening, at least. Still, I’d rather cloak myself with blood magic and slip unseen through Heathborne, which now feels like child’s play.
I remain hidden as palace staff drift past: maids polishing banisters, guards marching their rounds, each moving with Nyssa’s trademark precision. It’s a stark reminder that Draethys runs like a military state under strict protocols.
“Took you forever,” one guard at the stair’s foot grumbles at the newcomers.
“We had a skirmish in the south alley. Braynor kids demanding an audience with the king,” the other man says. “Something about Lord Daynthazar assaulting their cousin.”
My ears prick at Dayn’s name.
“Braynors and no brains,” the first guard snorts.
He’s no saint, either, I think, peering around the carved banister.
Time is slipping away. While they swap gossip, I study the pillar I’ve been hiding behind. Its ornate relief runs from floor to ceiling, as if holding up the entire hall. Those ridges could serve as handholds, and my leather sandals are thin enough to grip the stone.
What I need is cloaking magic—and my new shadow work, born of dragon essence, might be fresh enough to slip past their wards. It’s a gamble worth taking. I draw a deep breath.
From this vantage, they won’t see me vaulting the banister, though they’ll hear me hit the floor below.
I summon a swirl of shadow energy, my fingers tingling as I stretch it into a cloak and drape it over my shoulders.
Footsteps echo in the hallway. I freeze beside a column, nestled in its shadow while the brazier above floods the corridor with light.
A dragon guard strides past, and I remain motionless.
Worst case, I’m a lost guest who wandered from her room, wide-eyed until Dayn arrives.
He never does. The guard never even notices me.
So the cloak works, amplifying darkness and hiding me completely. It’s cold against my skin but oddly comforting, like a midnight breeze back at Darkbirch’s cemetery.
“Sema of House Braynor got a cracked rib,” one guard murmurs. “He should count himself lucky.”
“Lord Daynthazar could’ve killed him,” the other snaps.
“Forget Dayn, wait till Lord Bemmar hears. He’ll want Sema’s head on a platter.”
I feel a sudden urge to find Sema and help him finish whatever he had planned against Dayn. But with my shadow cloak still holding and time running out, I leap over the banister and catch the carved edge of the column.
Slowly, carefully, I climb down, fingers digging into sculpted dragons. My foot slips into a dragon’s open mouth—its fangs tickling my sole—but I steady my breath and continue, sliding down the pillar’s dark side.
Finally, I reach the ground floor.
“I don’t like that darkblood bitch,” the first guard mutters. “I don’t trust her.”
“Who does?” the other replies, as replacement guards double-check their shields and weapons. I’m barely twenty feet away, catching every hateful word.
“I don’t know why they don’t just get rid of her.”
“She’s bound to Lord Daynthazar,” one newcomer says. “They don’t know if the bond can be broken, or what it’d cost.”
“And I hear she’s got some mad new skills, now that she’s got all that dragon blood,” the first guard sneers.
Mad new skills, I think, allowing myself a dark, private smile before moving on.
The ground floor sprawls around me: polished black stone veined with gold, walls crackling with gilded lines.
Amber light flickers from braziers and chandeliers, chasing shadows in a perpetual waltz—light advancing, shadow reclaiming.
There’s always a balance, a rhythm I can feel in my pulse.
Cloaked and unseen, I slip along the wall toward the southern wing of the palace.
Leaving the gossip behind, I chase thoughts of Dayn away while retracing my steps from the tour that Nyssa gave me. The Black Archives are somewhere below, and there was a service staircase I remember, somewhere around…
Here. I spot the door.
It’s narrow and painted black, with gold streaks mimicking the wall’s design. It’s supposed to be unnoticeable, discrete enough for the common eye to miss, while those on staff would know precisely what it serves.
Of course, it’s locked.
I pause before I try to think of a way to open it without using blood magic. The whole Heathborne incident knocked the wind out of me, and as much as it pains me to admit it, I’m not sure I’ve got all of my mojo back. The shadow energy comes naturally, as though it was always a part of me.
Besides, blood magic is more likely to be detected.
Other palace staff walk past me, but I’m safe in the shade. The darkness is my ally. The darkness…
My fingers move, already connected to a subtle thought in the back of my head. I feel the cloak pull away and concentrate into a pulse in the palm of my hand. I’m not hidden from sight anymore, but the shadow wisp that forms under my gaze takes the shape of a key.
A skeleton key. I stare, marveling at the synergy between my thoughts and my new ability. The way it obeys me like a limb.
It’s still rough and limited, however. I gave up the shadow cloaking for this key.
But it looks solid enough to use, so I slip it into the lock.
It works. After a minute, I’m in. I close the door behind me, then make my way down the spiraling staircase, curious as to how deep I can get.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched, though. As if a shadow not of my making lingers over my shoulder. I stop and look back, but there’s nothing. Only the sense of something heavy, something dangerous waiting for me to slip up.
The underground is a dark place, but just as clean and polished as the upper floors.
The walls are dressed in obsidian, and statues of ancient dragons hold up flickering torches to guide the visitors.
Again, I cling to the shadowy parts and move toward the end of the hallway, where a large set of double doors awaits.
The Black Archives.
Of course, guards are stationed there. I’ll need a diversion and another shadow-forged key to slip past them…
“Darkblood.” Lord Bemmar’s calm fury echoes at my back.
I spin around. What?
A shimmering pulse slams into me. It doesn’t hurt but sends a cold tremor down my spine as I stagger.
“Just because you’re learning to play with dragon-infused magic doesn’t mean you can elude us,” Lord Bemmar says.
To my surprise, he’s not exactly seething. If I were to wager, I’d say he’s pissed off but also impressed. Like father, like son, it seems. Time to play the meek, lost explorer, then.
“My apologies, your grace. I was lost—”
“You knew exactly what you were doing and where you were going,” he cuts me off again, his massive shoulders squared against his gold-plated tresses.
The tunic hugs his broad figure snugly, gold-thread embroidered dragons clashing across the leather.
“This area is off-limits to everyone. Why did you think you belonged here?”
“I was just curious, your grace.”
“You could’ve asked Nyssa for a tour. She would’ve said no, of course.”
“Then what would have been the point?” I flash a grin that doesn't reach my eyes. “Like I said, I was just curious.”
His nostrils flare slightly. The air between us seems to vibrate with tension, and something cold slithers around my throat.
“If your intentions were genuine, you wouldn’t have used your shadow work to sneak around.”
“I’m pretty sure you’ve got wards all over the place to warn you if I’m using blood magic. Maybe even a couple of blood magic blockers.”
“Of course. We do not yet have the runes necessary to block whatever this shadow work of yours is, however,” Lord Bemmar concedes. “And you were smart enough to figure it out. I should convey my appreciation for your cunning at this time.”
“So we're good? Water under the bridge?” I attempt my most disarming smile.
It doesn’t work. Lord Bemmar is an unyielding bastard. The ruler of dragons. And there isn’t a single cute enough bone in my body for me to get away with any of this. My sister Brynn might’ve pulled it off. I’m not Brynn.
“You may be a darkblood, but you don’t strike me as dense,” he says.
“Thank you. I guess?”
“Despite my personal desire to eliminate you, my son's protection stays my hand.”
“Again, thank you?” I’m playing with fire here, but he seems to be taking it alright. Surely, there is a limit to the dragon king’s patience. This isn’t the time or place to test it. “Forgive me, your grace. My curiosity is a terrible burden.”
“What business do you have with the Black Archives?”