Chapter 7 Esme #3
Meraxis shrieks, his neck elongating so he can clamp down on Harding in return. Penn is already unbuttoning his tunic, ready to leap in, as the younger dragons turn what was supposed to be light sparring into a dangerous brawl.
Some students cheer. Others gasp in shock.
I stare, watching as the dragons become entangled. They roll on the ground, over and over until they reach a dangerous speed, and they’re both hurtling toward my side of the arena.
“Esme, hold the shield!” I hear Nyssa scream.
But I lost track of that. I’m frozen as the incredible beasts hurtle. I catch a glimpse of the shield cracking open between us. The shimmers fade.
“Esme!”
“Darkblood!” Penn growls. “Focus!”
It’s too late. The thought is a cold, sharp point in my mind.
My focus is gone, scattered by the overwhelming spectacle of tooth and claw.
The dragons are a blur of crimson and brown, a tumbling mass of fury and pain, and they’re coming right for me.
My hand is still in the pillar, but the energy is gone, the connection severed.
Then heat slams into my back. A solid presence, caging me against the pillar. A large, warm hand covers mine inside the stone opening, engulfing it completely. The scent of ozone and ancient fire fills my senses. Dayn.
Power surges through me, a raw, blistering torrent that isn't mine. It floods the pillar, and the shield before us erupts in a blinding sheet of golden light just as two tons of dragon flesh slams into it. The impact shudders through the stone, through Dayn’s body, into mine. The shield holds.
“I told you to be careful,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear, his voice a low vibration that resonates in my bones. “Seems you're still not very good at listening.”
On the other side of the now-flickering shield, Harding lies in a heap of crimson scales, a ragged gash in his shoulder weeping dark, sluggish blood onto the floor.
Meraxis, his own brown hide scored with claw and fang marks, stumbles back, shifting into human form with a shuddering gasp.
He’s naked, shaking, and staring at the blood on his hands as if he can’t comprehend what he’s done.
Around the arena, the other students yank their hands from the pillars as if burned. The shield dissolves into nothing.
“You!” Commander Penn’s roar cuts through the stunned silence. He storms across the arena floor, his face a thundercloud of fury, his accusing finger leveled directly at me. “This is your doing, darkblood! Your weakness compromised the field! You endangered everyone!”
Before he can take another step, Dayn moves, placing himself between me and the commander, a wall of black leather and silent authority. His heat is a furnace in front of me, his presence an absolute.
“Her doing, Commander?” Dayn’s voice is deceptively soft, yet it commands the attention of the entire hall.
“Or was it yours? You pitted a scholar against a brute. A Meraxis against a Harding.” His gaze sweeps the room, cold and sharp.
“Did you truly believe centuries of bad blood between their houses would evaporate because you ordered a light spar?”
Penn’s jaw works, but no sound comes out.
Dayn’s attention shifts slightly, a subtle angling of his shoulders that makes it clear he is now discussing me.
“And then you involved her. A guest in Draethys, with no training in our arts, no understanding of how to channel her essence into these pillars. It never occurred to you that she should spend time with Master Luddo first? That an energy monk should teach her control before you threw her into a combat exercise?”
“Your grace,” Penn sputters, finding his voice. “Discipline requires testing one’s limits. She needed to learn—”
“She needed to be taught,” Dayn snaps, silencing him with a glare that could melt stone.
The prince’s authority settles over the room like a physical weight, crushing all argument.
“Your methods nearly cost two students their lives and directly threatened a guest under my protection. Your session is concluded, Commander.”
A collective gasp ripples through the assembled students.
Their eyes, wide with shock and a healthy dose of fear, dart between Dayn and the commander—making it clear that a prince, the heir to the throne, publicly intervening in a Tier Five training class was more than unprecedented, it was the stuff of legends.
Commander Penn’s face flushes a deep, mottled red, a battle of pride and duty warring in his eyes.
The fight lasts only a moment. He draws himself up, his posture rigid, and executes a stiff, formal bow.
“As you command, your grace.” He turns on his heel and stalks from the arena, his humiliation a palpable force trailing in his wake.
With the commander gone, Dayn takes a slow, deliberate breath, the tension in his shoulders easing.
He dismisses the gawking students with a flick of his wrist. “Medics for Harding and Meraxis. The rest of you, dismissed.” They scatter like leaves in a gale, leaving Nyssa, me, and the bleeding dragons behind.
Then, he turns to me. The raw anger he showed Penn is gone, replaced by something far more unsettling. His eyes hold that familiar, darkly assessing glint, the one that sees right through my defenses. His lips curve into a slow, deliberate smile that is all professor and no prince.
“Now, Ms. Salem,” he says, his voice low, calm, controlled—the exact instructional tone I remember from the depths of Heathborne. “Shall we begin again? Lesson one: Basic Energy Manipulation. This time, you’ll have a competent teacher.”