Chapter 13 Brynn
brYNN
Ifollow Corvin and Chad out of the training hall, feeling like I'm walking a tightrope over a pit of hungry demons.
My skin's still buzzing from those spells.
Uncle Angus left me with the magical equivalent of a hangover, and the Gaudian Pulse drained me like a vampire.
I'd need to hibernate for ten hours minimum and demolish at least three loaded breakfasts to bounce back.
Yeah, like that's happening anytime soon.
“How many clearbloods?” I ask, trying not to sound as wiped as I feel.
Corvin tosses a look over his shoulder. “Five. All decked out in Heathborne's finest.”
“And waving the white flag, you said?”
“According to our intel, they're clueless about where the dragon flew off to,” Chad butts in, all know-it-all. “They're probably here to see if we've got him stashed somewhere.”
“Hence the peace sign,” I mutter. “How thoughtful.”
“It's why they haven't sicced their other covens on us while we're licking our wounds,” Chad adds.
Corvin nods. “They're playing it safe because they don't know what they'd be walking into. Still, five Heathborne goons with a grudge could wreak some havoc.”
“Let them try,” Chad mutters.
His cocky attitude is somewhat contagious.
The corridor opens into the reception hall where those creepy hooded statues loom—black marble nightmares casting shadows that seem to reach for your ankles.
Security guards in black uniforms swing open the doors.
Good thing we've got backup stationed outside, ready to rain hell if needed.
“No need to advertise that our wards are basically running on fumes,” Corvin murmurs.
From our military institute’s front steps, it's a short walk to the main gates, which are currently open. Chad and I fall in behind Corvin like good little soldiers, though I can practically feel the tension radiating off my coven-mates.
I do wonder where Chad’s getting his intel from. He has yet to reveal his sources.
I side-eye Chad. “So your mystery buddies at Heathborne have no clue where dragon-boy flew off to?” I whisper. “Or whose team he's playing for?”
Chad glances at me. “That's right.”
“And this intel is rock-solid because...?”
“Because it is.”
“Oh, well, when you put it that way—how about an actual source I can trust?”
Corvin's head whips around. “Chad's information has been gold so far. Drop it and focus, Salem.”
“Fine. But why am I even here? I'm basically deadweight in diplomat-speak.”
“Chad's the brains. You're the brawn.”
I snort. “Brawn?”
“After that training session?” Chad smirks. “Don't play modest. It doesn't suit you.”
“You were both here,” Corvin cuts in. “That's reason enough. These clearbloods don't need to know you're greener than spring grass.”
The gates loom ahead, and between them stand five Heathborne goons with sticks so far up their asses they could be mistaken for scarecrows. Their leader's all sharp angles and sharper eyes. “Master Corvin,” he says with a voice like expensive whiskey. “Lieutenant Archer. These are my colleagues—”
He rattles off names I immediately forget. The two mountains flanking him—Gordon and what's-his-face—look like they bench-press small cars for fun. But it's the quiet ones at the back that make my skin crawl, their eyes darting everywhere like they're memorizing our defenses for later.
They stand there like creepy mannequins, hands behind their backs—except Archer, who's waving that white flag like it's his prom date.
“What brings you here on this fine night?” Corvin asks, all fake politeness.
“We've come to talk,” Archer says. “About what happened at Heathborne.”
“What is there to talk about?”
Archer scoffs, his smile about as warm as a morgue freezer.
“Cut the nonsense, Corvin. We all know you had a hand in it.
You planted a spy in our midst. You put a Salem in Heathborne.
I'd congratulate you on the ballsy move if we weren't a dragon short now.
We need to find him before it's too late.”
“I don't think the dragon wants anything to do with you anymore,” Corvin fires back.
Chad catches my eye with a subtle nod that screams “stay cool.” Like that helps when we're flanking Corvin while five clearblood psychos stare us down.
Especially Archer with his weaselly face that practically screams “I kick puppies for fun.” His aura's so toxic I can practically taste it—like licking a battery wrapped in rotten eggs.
For all their “pure blood” superiority complex, these clearbloods are shadier than the underside of a bridge troll. My heart's doing the cha-cha in my chest, and every muscle in my body's coiled tighter than Chad’s jaw.
“The cat's out of the bag anyway,” Archer sighs like we're all just such a disappointment. “I figured honesty would get me further than lies. Yes, we had a dragon. We've kept him for half a century. But he was ours. Your Salem wonder-brat had no business taking what belongs to us.”
Corvin actually laughs. “If I remember correctly, the dragon took Esme. Not the other way around.”
“Where is she? Is she in there?” one of Archer’s lieutenants butts in like an eager puppy.
Archer shoots him a death glare. “Ezra, I'll do the talking.”
The way they're eyeballing each other, standing like they've got broomsticks up their butts, barely moving except for some sketchy hand-shuffling behind their backs... This is giving me major creep vibes. It's like watching the world's worst high school play, not some legit peace talk.
“This situation has gotten a little out of hand,” Archer turns back to Corvin, all smooth-like. “We just need to talk to him.”
“Who?” I blurt out.
Corvin shoots me a death glare, but Archer's already smirking at me like I'm the village idiot. “The dragon, of course. It was no coincidence that he escaped just as your spy infiltrated Heathborne. Do not take us for idiots.” His eyes rake over me. “Who are you, again, Miss?”
“Let me get this straight,” Corvin cuts in with a dry laugh. “You came all the way out here with a peace delegation made up of not one, not two, but five lieutenants, to ask us where we put your dragon?”
“Desperate times, desperate measures,” Archer replies.
“Except he's not your dragon, is he?” The words tumble out of my mouth before my brain catches up.
Five sets of clearblood eyes lock onto me like heat-seeking missiles. Chad's giving me serious “shut-the-hell-up” vibes, and Corvin looks ready to strangle me. But there's something fishy about these guys that's making my internal alarm system go haywire.
Whatever. Might as well earn my keep since Corvin dragged me into this mess.
“Excuse me?” Archer's voice is like ice.
“Look, I'm just connecting the dots here. What kind of dragon hangs out in Heathborne for fifty years? And if he was so happy being your pet project, why'd he trash your place and grill half your staff on his way out? Sounds less like 'yours' and more like 'prisoner who finally broke his chains.'”
Archer shifts his weight like a cobra preparing to strike. Behind him, Ezra and Rennington are doing that creepy silent-communication thing, while Gordon and Phillips seem to be hulking up right before my eyes. Great.
“I have to ask again. Who. Are. You?” Each word drops from Archer's mouth like a stone.
Corvin throws up a hand to shut me up, but the movement makes Gordon and Phillips flinch like they're expecting an attack. Double great. This isn't a peace talk anymore—it's the awkward silence before someone gets stabbed.
“It's none of your business, Lieutenant Archer. The fact of the matter stands. You lost your dragon, and you came here to see if we'd just, what, cordially hand him over? You must take us for fools,” Corvin says.
Ezra's mouth is moving but no sound's coming out, and that smirk is shadier than a black market soul dealer.
“They're not here to talk. They're stalling,” I blurt.
“Stalling?” Chad mumbles, but I can see the lightbulb click on as his eyes dart between the five clearbloods.
Ezra's lips keep moving in that creepy ventriloquist way, and my stomach drops. “They're performing a spell,” I hiss.
The lieutenants' faces go ghost-white as Corvin throws his hands up like he's directing demonic traffic.
“Stop whatever it is you're casting,” he barks. “You came under a white flag, do not soil the last remnant of peace talks between our factions!”
“Argh, Lieutenant, I can't sense him in Darkbirch,” Ezra doubles over like someone's twisting his intestines. “Stop it!”
But it's not Archer playing puppet master—it's Chad, his hand stretched out like he's feeling for rain, lips moving in a silent counter-spell. “Let’s put an end to this farce,” he growls.
“Incoming!” One of our guards shouts, and my heart does a triple backflip.
Archer curses as the bushes start doing the monster mash. From the woods lining Darkbirch's main road, a dozen more clearbloods emerge like the world's worst surprise party. These guys aren't carrying peace flags—they're decked out in armor so shiny I could do my makeup in it.
They never should’ve been able to make it into our coven without our permission; unnoticed.
Our protective shield's supposed to be impenetrable.
No unauthorized clearblood should be able to breach-cast through without triggering every alarm we've got.
But with our guardian darkblood spirits running on fumes since the Heathborne incident, our magical perimeter's losing reliability.
Like my go-to excuse for missing combat drills.
“Dammit, I needed more time!” Archer snaps at his backups.
“It's an ambush,” Corvin snarls, and no freaking kidding.
Suddenly I'm in the middle of a nightmare math problem: seventeen clearbloods versus ten of us. Chad and Corvin charge ahead like they've got death wishes, our guards right behind them. Great. Guess I'll just throw myself into the meat grinder too.
“You didn't come here to talk peace terms,” Corvin spits. “You're as two-faced as always. Typical clearbloods!”