Chapter 6 Esme #2
Footsteps approach from behind. Guards with hands on weapons, expressions hard as granite.
“Return to your posts,” Lord Bemmar commands. “This matter is private.”
“As you wish, my king,” comes the immediate response.
Just as quickly as they rushed toward us, they return to their position by the archive’s doors, while I make a mental note to plan a different incursion the next time around. I’m so not done with this place. I’ll just need to make sure Bemmar doesn’t catch a whiff of me when I come back.
“Answer my question,” he says.
“Like I said, your grace,” I reply, lowering my gaze to appear submissive. “I was just curious. It’s in my nature to explore, to figure out, to understand.”
“There is nothing for you down here, Esme Salem,” he replies coolly. “Remember: you may be a guest in my home, but if you pull this stunt again, I’ll unleash the full force of the law, no matter how my son feels about it.”
His brow arches and then, to my surprise, he hands me a scroll. “This is for you. I was on my way to deliver it personally when I saw you sneaking out of your room. In case you were wondering how our paths came to cross.”
I stare at the scroll. It’s bound with black ribbon and sealed with the Draxion sigil in wax.
“What is it?” I murmur, hesitant to take it from his enormous hand.
One strike from him could probably knock me out for hours. Next to Lord Bemmar, Corvin seems a feeble runt. My mind drifts home: they must be desperately searching for me, and the Heathborne sentries are undoubtedly in shambles too—a dragon just tore through their walls.
I sense the world above will never be the same.
“It’s an invitation,” Lord Bemmar says. “Open it.”
I gingerly peel back the wax seal, untie the ribbon, and unfurl the parchment. The moment the inked words reveal themselves, I exhale sharply.
“An invitation to join the Bellatorium, Miss Salem. Draethys’s military institute. A rare and never-before-seen distinction, might I add,” Lord Bemmar interjects. “An honor, for the likes of you.”
“An honor,” I repeat, gesturing at my name, “since you’ve finally bothered to call me by my actual name? You want me enrolled in your military academy? Are you insane?”
The king shifts uneasily, hands clasped behind him. “Perhaps. But gifts like yours demand nurturing, and we can’t entrust that to your own people. No one knows what you might be capable of. We must evaluate you.”
“Evaluate me?”
“Yes, Miss Salem. We need to understand whether you’d be of any use to us or not. You are the first instance, that we know of, of dragon blood actually fusing with magical essence to the point of developing a new ability.”
“My so-called shadow energy.”
“Yes. We need to understand its extent and its limitations.”
I give him a hard look. “Because you want to use me.”
Why did I think this would go any differently?
They’re dragons. They spent most of their recorded history hating us and trying to kill us.
We did the same, when we weren’t too busy hating and trying to kill the clearbloods who were also hating and trying to kill us.
I see the vicious circle now, all too clearly.
It leads nowhere good.
“What makes you think I’d want to be a part of your military institute?” I ask.
Lord Bemmar gives me a cold smile. “Because like I said before, Miss Salem. You’re not dense. You do recognize the opportunity before you.”
“It’s a greater opportunity for you, since you’ll get to… study me.”
“And you’ll get to study us. You’ll gather your intel. Observe. Learn. Adapt. It’s in your nature.”
I could say no. But he’d find a way to make me.
Besides, he’s right. I need intel. And getting my spot in Draethys’s military institute sounds like the perfect way in.
Sure, they’ll reap benefits of their own, but so will I.
And if I play along, I might just get another chance to reach past those double doors of the Black Archives, soon enough.
“Does Lord Daynthazar know about this?” I ask the king.
“He’s the one who suggested it.”
Why doesn’t that surprise me? “Then he should’ve been the one to deliver this scroll, don’t you think, your grace?” I ask tartly.
“I wanted to learn more about you personally,” Lord Bemmar says. “At least now I know exactly who I’m dealing with.”
“Oh?”
Lord Bemmar's eyes narrow. “You're deceitful. Calculating. Lethal. A woman who pursues her desires at any cost.” His lip curls.
“Traits I might admire under different circumstances.
But when it comes to my son and Draethys, you represent a danger, Miss Salem.
Having you here is risky, yet you're safer with us than with your own kind. For your protection as much as ours.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Would your coven truly place your welfare above their ambitions?”
The word 'yes' forms on my tongue but dissolves before I speak it. My grandmother Esther's machinations. The reckless deployment of Darkbirch's elite to retrieve me from Heathborne. Dayn's warnings. Each piece clicks into a mosaic more disturbing than I'd imagined.
I'd rather perish than turn my abilities against my coven. Surely Bemmar realizes this. He likely believes he can bend me to his will—or perhaps exploit my connection to Dayn to manipulate me. We’ll see. For now, I'll accept his offer.
A question still bugs me though. Why does Dayn really want me there?