Chapter 7 Esme
ESME
The Bellatorium towers before me, its spires scraping the cavern ceiling.
My neck cranes back, vision swimming at the sheer scale of it all.
Flight arenas large enough for dragons to spread their wings stretch across the eastern wing, while training yards and barracks sprawl westward.
Each obsidian block seems to whisper of ancient battles and fallen warriors.
Nyssa halts beside me at the entrance archway, where runes pulse with faint blue light along the black stone.
“Protective magic,” she says, following my gaze. “It dampens the effect of spells cast within these walls.”
“I suppose it’s meant to stop students from accidentally killing each other,” I reply.
“Or intentionally.” Her lips quirk upward briefly.
The military uniform transforms her—silver buttons gleaming against a black tunic, leather pants tucked into polished boots. Gone is the graceful sprite I've come to know, replaced by this rigid soldier.
My identical uniform hugs my body with unexpected comfort. I expected it to be as strict and as suffocating as their doctrine.
“You’re nervous.” Nyssa makes another observation.
I make one of my own as I admire her hair pulled up into a tight bun at the top of her head, sparkling silver and sleek, not a strand out of place. “And you look like a ballpoint pen.”
“I don’t know what that is,” she replies, blinking with confusion.
“Never mind.” I exhale slowly. “Of course I'm nervous. I'm surrounded by enemies and forced to attend their war college.”
Why does that sound familiar?
“This invitation is an unprecedented—”
“Honor no human has received before,” I finish, eyes rolling. “Spare me the recruitment speech.”
Nyssa bumps my shoulder with hers. “You'll survive this, Esme.”
“Right. I’ll fit right in.”
Nyssa's voice drops to a whisper. “While your presence here is unexpected and unorthodox, and while there are plenty of mixed feelings about it, I know you’ll do what you were meant to do.”
I give her a curious look. “Meant to do? What was I meant to… do?”
“I have no idea,” she replies with a casual shrug. “But fate brought you here for a reason, right?”
“No, your precious Lord Daynthazar brought me here. And your beloved king, Lord Bummer, won’t let me go.”
Nyssa gasps, her eyes wide with horror upon hearing my massacre of her ruler’s name. I almost feel bad for a hot second, until I remember where I am and why I’m here.
“Stick to my side,” she says, glancing ahead. “I’m your resident student advisor, and I am responsible for you.”
“Will do.”
Not.
“And for the love of all that is good and bright in this world, do not get me in trouble,” Nyssa feels the need to reiterate.
I can’t blame her. I absolutely plan to do something that will inevitably get her in trouble. In my defense, she’ll fall in the category of collateral damage, though I know I will do my best to not get her in too much trouble.
Dragons walk past us as Nyssa gives me the introductory tour of the institute. I catch their scowls, I hear their whispers. I certainly hear the hurled insults at my address, but when I turn my head to identify the source, they stick to their routes, not eager to get into a fracas—yet.
Black leather and silver tresses. Dark hair. A range of burning eyes. The occasional head of blonde or ruby-red hair. The same arrogance of youth everywhere. Youth who have never even seen the sky.
“And over here is the mess hall,” Nyssa says, “where we have our meals.”
One of the dragons breaks from the crowd, positioning himself directly in our path. His glossy brown curls fall precisely to his collar, not one strand out of place. The black leather uniform stretches across shoulders too broad for academic life, silver buttons gleaming under the torchlight.
“So this is what a darkblood looks like up close,” he says.
Nyssa's spine straightens. “Lord Jeron of House Braynor,” she murmurs, her voice pitched lower than usual. “Miss Salem is still adjusting to Draethys customs.”
I meet his gaze. “Translation: I haven't learned when to shut up yet.” I tilt my head. “Problem with that?”
His lip curls. “The problem is your presence contaminating these halls. Our king's... curiosity... doesn't obligate the rest of us to pretend you belong here.”
My fingers twitch at my sides. “Careful. Last group that tried to chase me out with torches and pitchforks didn't fare so well.”
The air between us crackles with something dangerous. My blood hums with it—that familiar, delicious tension before violence erupts. I am a Salem after all. We don't bow; we break.
“My lord, please excuse us.” Nyssa's fingers dig into my arm as she pulls me away from Jeron and the growing circle of onlookers.
“I know, I know,” I mutter as she drags me through the corridor, past the smell of fresh bread and into an empty classroom. “Engaging was stupid.”
She releases me with a hiss. “He's a bastard with powerful connections. I specifically asked you not to make trouble.”
“I tried. He didn't.”
Nyssa leans against the door, inhaling. “These dragons will bait you until you snap. Until you cross a line not even Lord Daynthazar can help you back from!”
I meet her gaze. “So they want me to self-destruct.”
“Precisely. If they can't execute you outright, they'll manipulate you into giving them cause.” Nyssa grips my shoulders. “Give Draethys a fighting chance… I don’t know much about the political decisions regarding your enrollment, but I do know that House Draxion has decided to keep you alive. Don’t give them reasons to say otherwise, Esme. Survive. Play nice. Play along. And see what comes next.”
I frown at her. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve grown fond of me, Nyssa.”
She blushes and releases me. “Perhaps. I admire your fortitude, Esme. And I promised Lord Daynthazar to look after you whenever he’s away. I’d like to keep that promise.”
I need to find a balance between my urge to obliterate the enemy and my mission to…
leave here alive. Being addicted to a certain dragon’s blood and, at the same time, being cut off from my ancestors’ spirit power has me restless and not as clear-headed as I need to be.
To my surprise, Nyssa is a newfound voice of reason.
“Thank you, I guess,” I say with a deep sigh. “You’re right. There’s no point in getting myself killed for every dragon punk with entitlement syndrome in Draethys.”
“Now, let’s go. We’re starting off strong this morning.”
Nyssa takes my hand and pulls me out of the classroom—which gets one last fleeting glance.
The tables, the chairs, the matte blackboard wall.
Oddly enough, it reminds me of Darkbirch.
Education is essentially the same everywhere, I guess.
Young souls huddled in the same room as they’re taught to do better than their forefathers.
Yet they all end up doing the same.
Fighting. Killing.
Repeating history while struggling to survive.
“What do you mean we’re starting off strong?” I ask.
But I get my answer soon, just a few seconds later down the hall, as Nyssa takes us into one of the combat arenas. A massive, egg-shaped hall with black stone walls and thousands of torches illuminating the entire ceiling. I’m breathless, trying to take as much in at first sight as possible.
“This isn’t even our biggest combat training hall. This one’s for fifth tier students,” Nyssa says.
There are over three dozen dragons already gathered before a commander—I’m guessing he’s a commander based on his gray uniform and brass shoulder tresses, as well as the gold streaks in his hair. Apparently a sign of old age in dragons.
As soon as he sees me, however, his humor fades.
“Ah. The darkblood is here,” the commander says, his tone as flat as the surface of a frozen lake. And just as cold.
“Forgive us, Commander Penn,” Nyssa says. “We got sidetracked on the way in.”
“I don’t care. Keep that creature in check, Tier 4,” Penn bluntly replies.
That creature.
Heat spreads through my whole body, and it feels strange, different from any kind of anger I’ve felt before.
It’s as if fire itself courses through my veins—hot and bright and eager to turn everything around me to ashes.
I can’t help but wonder if this is yet another side effect of the dragon essence.
“Commander,” I mutter with a slight bow. “My apologies.”
“What is she even doing here?” one of the Tier Five students asks, waving me away like I’m nothing more than a bothersome fly.
Penn's nostrils flare slightly. “The darkblood has been classified as Tier Five, temporarily. We will tolerate her presence as required. I will instruct her as required.”
“Such an honor, Commander,” I say, the corners of my mouth lifting without warmth.
“Now that we’re all here, I’d like to know how familiar you all are with this hall’s energy shields and the runes used to keep them up,” Penn says, shifting his focus to the entire class.
My gaze wanders while my ears register every word coming out of his obnoxious mouth. Nyssa keeps one eye on the commander and one eye on me—a justified abundance of caution, if I’m honest.
“The runes are carved into the twenty pillars in this hall,” one student says. “The pillars are made for direct contact.”
“What is direct contact?” Penn asks.
I see the twenty pillars, each as tall as me. Thick and sturdy, with four sides and made of red limestone blocks. I also see the inscriptions and recognize the old dragon language. It’s not a language I can read yet, but the runes now look familiar.
“Each pillar requires the life force of a dragon to generate the force field required for a sparring session,” another student says.
“Sparring session?” I whisper.
Nyssa leans in. “The dampening runes you saw outside are meant to keep the spells from becoming deadly,” she mumbles.
“The force fields are a separate deal, and they’re meant to absorb the physical shock of dragon blows and dragon fire.
That way, we don’t tear the school down with every sparring session. ”