Chapter 10 Esme
ESME
That wasn’t just a belt buckle and Dayn knows it.
I didn’t tell him I know what it is either. I hope he doesn’t suspect that I do, given my little performance.
“There will be more rumors about you in the days to come,” Nyssa warns as we walk back to the royal palace. “What happened in the combat arena had the students talking. I mean, even before Lord Daynthazar arrived. Thank the gods he dismissed everyone for… whatever it was the two of you did.”
“Dayn is the one who wanted to send me there,” I reply with a shrug. “Not my fault.”
My fingers twitch at my side as the Salem disc flashes through my mind again. The serpent's three heads, the dried blood texture.
“Something's troubling you,” Nyssa says softly. Her eyes track my face as we slip through shadow-drenched alleyways toward the palace's service entrance. We’ve agreed to keep out of the public eye as much as possible, given my notoriety.
I force my lips into a half-smile. “In Draethys? Pick a reason.”
I don’t enjoy being dishonest with Nyssa, but it’s necessary.
The Arturius Salem disc is something far more important and it could very well be my way out of here—provided I find a way back into the Repository to grab it.
I’ve seen its kind before, in the forbidden sections of Darkbirch’s library, locked behind wards even I wasn’t permitted to pass.
They aren’t decorations. They are keys. Portal matrices, capable of navigating the ley lines that crisscross the world.
High-grade magic. The kind of thing my grandmother told me I would never need.
She told me my skills were for the battlefield, not the arcane workshop.
Brynn would probably know better how to use it. She’s read enough books. All I have is a pretty good idea of how it works and my darkblood instincts to guide me. Given the circumstances, it will have to do.
We push through the service door and make our way up the spiraling staircase that leads to the upper floors, guided by torches on the stone walls.
The amber lights cast long shadows, but I find them welcoming.
Familiar. Eerily kind to my soul. After the searing chaos in the arena, the cool, quiet dark feels like coming home.
It reminds me that even here, in the heart of the dragon’s den, there are still places where I can hide.
Upon reaching my room, Nyssa glances left and right along the corridor, then briefly leans in. “Whatever you’re thinking about doing, don’t,” she mutters.
I frown at her. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
Nyssa doesn’t immediately respond, though I see the doubt in her eyes. The concern. But she lets a heavy sigh out and takes a couple of steps back.
“I’ll come for you when it’s time for dinner. Lord Daynthazar has reserved one of the private dining rooms on the ground floor for us,” she says.
“How kind,” I reply.
Nyssa rolls her eyes, then walks away. I watch her for a moment, then slide back into my room and go over every memory of Draethys’s military institute.
Every access point I saw, every corridor and staircase, every dampening rune and protection spell carved on the walls.
I memorized the institute’s blueprint as well.
Among those details is my way in and out of the Repository.
After dinner and closer to midnight, content with the silence around me, I sneak out of my room and keep to the shadows. Barefoot and light with each step, I wrap myself in shadow energy and move along the walls.
Nyssa must be sound asleep by now. I overhear Dayn’s brothers talking in one of the dining salons. Their voices echo through the palace even now, louder and rowdier—Arrynth’s, in particular. His low tolerance to spiced wine has been duly noted.
As for Dayn... I push away the image of him sprawled across his expansive bed, those silk crimson sheets tangled around his waist. Hopefully he’s just… asleep.
I make my way down the service staircase again and stop before the service doors.
They’re locked.
Naturally. I drop my shadow cloak, redirecting the energy into a makeshift key that materializes between my fingers.
Once it’s unlocked, I slip outside, immediately wrapping darkness around me once more.
Here, I slip my shoes back on and sprint through the streets.
Only once do I falter, pressing myself against a wall as a bleary-eyed Draethian stumbles past. Then I'm running again, the military institute's silhouette growing larger with each breath.
I freeze at the base of the military institute, its stone facade looming against the sprawling darkness that is Draethys’s sky.
Lungs burning, I count heartbeats while crouched in my shadow-cloak, watching the night guards sweep across the cobblestones.
When they finally round the western corner, I exhale.
Thankfully, the academic district sleeps deeply at this hour.
I sprint up the steps, hugging the wall until I reach the service entrance. Another shadow-key later, and I’m inside, easing the door shut behind me with barely a whisper.
Under a shadow cloak, I make my way to my target.
The Repository welcomes me with darkness. No lights flicker to life at my intrusion, which is a small mercy. Cold air wraps around me despite the clutter of artifacts filling the space, some glowing with faint blue-green luminescence that guides my steps through the aisles.
I navigate the labyrinth of shelves until I spot it: the glass case housing Arturius Salem's disc. My fingers trace the metal edging and release the casing. I draw in a deep breath, momentarily relinquishing my shadow energy cloak. I’m not sure how this artifact will react to my touch, and I want to approach it with a blank slate.
My hand slowly closes around the Salem disc, and… nothing happens. It’s simply cool and heavy in my palm. I’m not complaining. Time to run.
I need somewhere quiet to figure out how to work this. The disc's runes are powerful—an enhancement charm that might be capable of blasting me straight out of this pit. All I need is a wall or passage near the surface. Not exactly a cakewalk but beats the alternative.
A flash of light catches my peripheral vision.
I whip around to see… a massive fireball hurtling toward my face. I drop to the floor as heat sears the air above me.
The fireball crashes into the wall, exploding into a sheet of flame.
I stare at the figure standing at the other end of the Repository.
“I knew you'd try something stupid sooner rather than later,” Colonel Rogon—the legendary dragon warrior whose kill count is probably a thousand times my age—hisses. Another fireball swells between his fingers.
Shit.
Heat sears my scalp as the second fireball whizzes past. Everything slows—my thoughts crystallize into a singular awareness: survive or die here among these ancient artifacts. Rogon's face contorts, veins bulging at his temples.
“Filth!” he bellows, charging forward with flames engulfing both fists. The orange glow illuminates his massive frame, casting monstrous shadows across the repository walls.
I pull darkness from the corners, weaving it into twin blades that materialize in my palms. My heart hammers against my ribs as I parry his first strike, then his second. Each collision sends vibrations up my arms—shadow meeting fire with an unholy hiss that echoes through the cavernous space.
Rogon's expression falters momentarily at the sound, but his assault intensifies. My muscles strain. He outweighs me by a hundred pounds, and I'm tiring too quickly. I was already weakened from earlier today.
Shamelessly, I hurl Dayn's name like a shield. “Lord Daynthazar's protégé stands before you!”
“And a dozen broken laws stand behind you!” Rogon's blade crashes against mine with enough force to rattle my teeth.
Flames lick up the nearby wall. My scalp prickles with heat, the stench of singed hair filling my nostrils as sweat stings my eyes. My arms tremble. Three more exchanges and I'll collapse. The Salem disc now gleams on the floor, just seven steps away.
“Listen, colonel.” I force a smile through ragged breaths, calculating the distance. “That artifact bears my family's mark. Arturius Salem's blood runs in my veins. By heritage alone—”
“By the hells with your darkblood heritage!”
A torrent of flame roars toward me. Something snaps inside—not my control, but my patience. I slam my shadow blades together, closing my eyes and letting the memory of the arena consume me.
Don’t fight it, Dayn’s voice whispers against the shell of my ear, a ghost of sensation that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. It’s part of you now. My blood knows the way. Let it guide you.
His heat against my back, his hand caging mine in the pillar, the raw, blistering torrent of our magic fusing into a vortex of black and gold.
I pull on that memory, on the echo of his essence still thrumming in my veins. The shadow in my hands answers, but it is no longer cold and empty. It drinks the phantom heat of Dayn’s magic, twisting, coiling, igniting from within.
My eyes snap open.
The blades are no longer pure darkness. They burn now, laced with flickering veins of molten gold. I drive the corrupted shadow blades directly into Rogon’s torrent of flame.
There is no explosion. Instead, the fire is devoured. My blades drink the heat, swallowing the inferno until nothing is left but a trail of dying embers. The gold in my weapons burns brighter, hotter.
Colonel Rogon stumbles back, his face a mask of disbelief and horror. “What sorcery is this?”
I don’t have an answer. I only know that the hunger inside me, the one that craves Dayn’s blood, is purring with satisfaction. I take a step forward, the tips of my fiery shadow blades scraping against the stone floor, leaving glowing gouges in their wake.
I edge toward the Salem disc, keeping my gaze locked on him. “Perhaps we could discuss this like civilized beings?”