Chapter 10 Esme #2
As he lunges again, I grab the disc and sprint down the aisle toward the main exit—but guards suddenly flood through the doorway. Around me, torches ignite along the walls in synchronized bursts of light—some ancient security measure.
Rogon unleashes hell behind me. Fireballs streak through the air in rapid succession—even from the direction of the guards.
I wrap my shadows around me for protection, but one fireball catches me in the shoulder.
My shadow cloak absorbs the heat, but the agony still tears a scream from my throat as the impact hurls me forward.
I crash into the wall. Dazed, I struggle to my feet, mentally cataloging my injuries through waves of pain. Nothing broken—yet.
Rogon's not finished. His hands trace a rapid, elegant pattern through the air, conjuring a shimmering pulse that ripples toward me. The casual mastery of the gesture catches me off guard. I barely comprehend what's happening before it strikes.
“Clearblood magic,” he laughs as the invisible force slams into me, catapulting me backward through the wall.
My body crashes into the street with a sickening thud, lungs emptying on impact.
Where the Repository wall once stood, a gaping wound now bleeds rubble across the cobblestones.
I lie motionless, each breath a knife between my ribs.
Dark energy pulses beneath my skin—it moved without command, cocooning me at the moment of impact…
The only explanation for why I'm still breathing.
Rogon emerges through the dust cloud, flanked by guards with drawn weapons. “Consider this your education in dragon respect,” he snarls, snatching a sword from the nearest soldier.
I try to push myself up, but my vision swims. A jagged chunk of masonry pins my right leg to the ground. Blood trickles warm down my shoulder blade.
“Clearblood magic?” I wheeze as dust coats my throat. “Even for you, that's beneath contempt.”
“For snakes like you, Salem, I'll use whatever means necessary.” Rogon looms over me, sword raised high—its double-edged blade catching moonlight along its lethal edge.
“Treason. Espionage. Breaking and entering.
Theft. The sentence for any one offense is death for your kind. You've earned it four times over.”
I raise my palm toward him but the energy inside me suddenly isn't responding—it's preoccupied elsewhere, sending strange ripples beneath my skin. A tingling warmth spreads across my ribcage, air rushing back into my lungs without my conscious effort.
“WAIT!” I gasp as his blade arcs downward. “Lord Daynthazar's blood—I drank some of it, and it's doing something inside me!” When all else fails, go for shock tactics.
Rogon freezes mid-swing, his face contorting between murderous intent, surprise, and reluctant curiosity.
“Palace guards approaching, sir,” one of his men calls out.
Another shifts nervously. “Perhaps we should detain her instead?”
“Silence!” Rogon barks without taking his eyes off me. “Explain yourself. Now.”
I gesture at the scorched ground around us. “You witnessed it yourself. The shadow shield. The way it redirected your flames. That's not standard darkblood ability. The dragon essence is changing me. Right now. You can't just execute me.”
“She’s right.”
The sword jerks sideways as if yanked by invisible hands. It clatters against cobblestones ten feet away.
Time suspends in the silence that follows. My vision sharpens enough to see the angry red welts blooming across Rogon's palms, the way his massive frame has gone rigid with shock. Rogon's jaw slackens, his eyes widening as they fill with rage and—unexpectedly—a flash of primal fear.
Behind me, the temperature seems to increase several degrees as the familiar voice slices through the night air. “That is enough.”
I catch Dayn's expression in my peripheral vision—those amber eyes narrowed, his mouth a hard line that screams: I'm running out of patience for these rescue missions, Salem.
Relief floods through me for one heartbeat before reality crashes back. This isn't salvation—it's complications multiplied. One dragon I might handle; now I face the judgment of an entire city that's been waiting for an excuse to execute me.
“Lord Daynthazar!” Rogon's voice cracks like thin ice. “You—You attacked me!”
“When you presumed to pass sentence without authority, you left me no alternative,” Dayn snaps back.
I twist further in his direction and immediately wish I hadn't. He stands flanked by Lord Bemmar himself, the dragon king's mouth compressed into an expression of fury as he surveys me. Beside them, Anees observes in calculating silence, missing nothing.
Spectators spill into the street, drawn by Rogon's destruction and the promise of public drama. Their whispers slither through the crowd: “Salem,” “darkblood,” “thief?”
Rogon straightens his uniform, playing to his audience.
“This darkblood infiltrated the Repository to steal sacred artifacts,” he says, voice pitched to carry. “My guards witnessed everything.”
A guard with a fresh bruise blooming on his jaw steps forward. “Confirmed, my lord. Colonel Rogon personally apprehended her.”
“Regardless,” Anees cuts in with diplomatic precision, “execution requires proper judicial proceedings.” His eyes narrow as they find mine. “What exactly were you after?”
“The Salem disc,” Dayn answers before I can speak.
Of course he'd deduce that. I struggle to rise, to defend myself, but my muscles still struggle. Damn it. Quite the takedown, colonel.
Dayn steps between us, his voice cutting through the tension. “Colonel Rogon, no one lays a hand on Esme Salem.”
Lord Bemmar's lips curl into a satisfied smile. “Indeed. She'll be properly imprisoned before her execution following trial.”
My ribs throb with each labored breath. “I deserve to defend myself—”
“There will be no trial,” Dayn interrupts, his amber eyes locked on mine. “Because we are to be mated.”
The words hit me like a bucket of ice water.
The proclamation hangs in the air. No one moves. The guards exchange bewildered glances while Colonel Rogon's mouth falls open.
Lord Bemmar's face drains of color. “You are WHAT?”
“To be mated.” Dayn advances toward me, each deliberate step punctuating his words. “By ancient law, my future consort is to be granted clemency for non-violent offenses. Consider the Salem buckle a wedding present.”
“No. Wait. You—” I sputter, my pain-fogged brain short-circuiting.
His eyes flash me a glare that could freeze hellfire: You asked for this, you fool.