Chapter 14 Chad
CHAD
We spend the next hour attempting to patch up Darkbirch's defenses. It won’t be enough to hold back a clearblood invasion, should they decide to come at us with everything they’ve got. But they won’t. That isn’t their endgame. Not yet.
“I'm trying to understand what they were thinking,” Brynn says.
She's perched on the edge of the road, looking like hell warmed over. Behind her, the forest stands like a wall of shadows. Any clearblood still in there is beast chow by now. The on-duty Warden unleashed every nightmare creature we keep on retainer into those woods tonight—Darkbirch’s idea of home security.
“They were feeling us out,” Corvin says, arms crossed. “Testing our defenses once they suspected we're not keeping the dragon in Darkbirch.”
“It still seems reckless,” she says.
“Or desperate,” I cut in, already mapping out our next move.
More darkbloods come out to assist with the injured guards, managing their transport to the infirmary one gurney at a time, while I take a closer look at the six clearblood bodies we recovered.
Lieutenants Asher, Rennington, Gordon, and Ezra didn’t survive. Lieutenant Phillips got lucky, along with what was left of their armored dragon-infused freaks.
We’ve got two suits of armor to study, though, from the two armored guys that Corvin and I did manage to kill. All in all, this could’ve been much worse.
Brynn arches an eyebrow. “Desperate?”
“They want their dragon back,” Corvin says, nodding at my assessment. “But they're flying blind. No idea where he is or whose side he's on now. The clearbloods are scrambling, probably got every coven they can spare hunting for the beast.”
“Buys us a little time to get our own bearings,” I say, mentally calculating how to leverage this advantage.
Brynn's laugh is bitter. She jabs a finger toward our dead, laid out under black sheets. “So that's tonight's silver lining? We get 'breathing room' while they get body bags?”
I shrug. “My sources didn't flag this mission.” Simple fact. No excuses.
She leans in, close enough I can smell blood and sweat on her. “Then your sources are shit.”
“Brynn.” Corvin's voice drops an octave, that commander tone that usually makes rookies piss themselves. “You're dismissed. Go sleep it off.”
“I've got research, reports to file about the—”
“That's an order.” He cuts through her protest like it's made of tissue paper. “Quarters. Now.”
She hesitates, but I can tell she doesn’t have much of a fight left in her. I rattled her cage plenty during that training session, and that second Gaudian Pulse was a bitch. Plus summoning three ancestors? That'd knock even Esme on her ass.
“Fine...” she mutters.
Corvin and I watch her zombie-shuffle past the gates and up the cobblestones. Poor bookworm looks like roadkill.
“They'll try again,” Corvin grumbles, rubbing his stubbled jaw. “Maybe with different tactics. Warden should've unleashed the monsters sooner.”
“I doubt it would’ve made much of a difference tonight,” I reply, then point to one of the runes on a clearblood’s armor. “These are concealment spells. No monster would’ve sniffed them out before they revealed themselves.”
“At least we sent them a clear message tonight,” he says. “Even with our shields not fully operational, we can still put up a fight.”
I've seen this dance my whole life. Clearbloods, darkbloods—we're like two drunk assholes at a bar who can't remember why they started fighting.
Peace shows up for a coffee break, then someone gets stabbed, someone retaliates, and we're back to our regularly scheduled bloodbath.
It's almost comical, if you're into gallows humor. Which, unfortunately, I am.
“Don’t you think we should consider another avenue, going forward?
” I ask Corvin as we escort the coven’s administrative staff into the basement morgue, where we’re taking the recovered clearblood bodies.
“We’ve been racing toward the finish line, but the clearbloods have an upper hand with that dragon juice.
It’s only a matter of time before they figure out another way to stay ahead of the game. ”
“You have little faith in us,” Corvin mutters.
The basement reeks of formaldehyde and old blood. Colder than I remember, but maybe that's just the adrenaline crash hitting me like a freight train. Every nerve ending in my body's screaming, and I can't shake the image of Brynn Salem almost becoming another body bag on my watch. Shit.
“Numbers don't lie,” I press. “We're outnumbered, outgunned, and they've still got dragon fire weapons while we've got, what exactly? Wake up. They stumbled tonight, but tomorrow? They'll be back with a vengeance and a battle plan.”
The sharp click-click-click of heels on concrete shuts us both up. Warden Blythe materializes in the doorway of the examination room, her face carved from granite and twice as cold.
“Mr. Valgrave is right. We are behind,” she says.
Her gaze slides over me like a knife, those bird-of-prey eyes missing nothing behind her silver-streaked hair. She's ancient and somewhat terrifying.
“There is confusion on both sides of this war. Weakness,” she says, circling the armored corpse like it's a disappointing science project. “We can either exploit it or sit around with our thumbs up our asses.”
“Warden, tonight was completely unexpected,” Corvin says.
“My intel's been solid until now,” I add. “I'll shake down my contacts, but if they didn't warn me, they were probably in the dark too.”
Or they played me. Wouldn't be the first time. Spy game's a bitch that way.
“It happened,” the Warden cuts through our excuses. “Any news of Esme and the dragon?”
Corvin shakes his head. “Negative. Trackers are inbound with nothing to show for it. We'll cast a wider net, but that drags us straight into clearblood turf.”
“You'll lead the search,” she tells him, not a request. “Those tracking skills of yours have gathered dust long enough, Commander.”
Corvin's jaw tightens. “With all due respect, Warden, we just got our asses handed to us. I can't exactly leave while our security's held together with duct tape.”
“Director Reinhardt and I managed Darkbirch before you were born,” she cuts him off. “We'll survive while you retrieve Esme and that overgrown lizard.”
“Great plan,” I mutter. “What's step two?”
Ask the fire-breathing death machine to pretty please join our team? Offer it a dental plan and paid holidays while the clearbloods have been imprisoning it for half a century?
“Step one is worth a shot,” she says, dead serious.
Corvin sighs. “Like Archer said, desperate times, desperate measures.”
BS. That's what this is. The clearbloods played with dragon fire, and now we're itching for our turn at the wheel.
Same old dance, just with bigger guns. Except these guns can incinerate a magical aura like it's tissue paper.
We're really sitting here plotting to weaponize the same nightmare that's been torching our people for decades.
Even I've got lines I don't cross, and this feels like one of them.
Blythe hobbles closer to the clearblood corpse, her bony vulture fingers tracing the dead golden runes etched into the armor. The smell of burnt flesh and metal makes my eyes water.
“We have at least one more like this, correct?” she asks, not bothering to look up.
Corvin gives a military nod. “Next room over. Four dead lieutenants are on ice down the hall.”
“Farrow examines them tomorrow,” she says, all business.
“When your trackers drag their sorry selves back, brief them and saddle up another team.
You leave at noon. Priority is finding Esme and that lizard.
Something happened at Heathborne, and Reinhardt's chomping at the bit to see what new party tricks our girl's picked up.”
I'd want to assess those too. But I'm keeping my mouth shut about Brynn's new tricks.
These Darkbirch vultures have a nasty habit of using Salem kids like disposable batteries—drain 'em dry, toss 'em out.
Look what happened to Jax. And Esme? That girl's probably getting dissected by dragon boy as we speak.
“So what's my assignment while you’re out?” I ask.
“Revisit your sources on the other side,” Corvin says. “Find out if another clearblood attack is coming.”
“My sources just shit the bed spectacularly.”
“Then offer them more,” he snaps. “And keep training Brynn Salem.”
“For the trials?” I arch an eyebrow. Girl nearly dies from a Gaudian Pulse. The trials would eat her alive.
“Not ideal,” Warden Blythe exhales like she's disappointed in the weather. “But we're desperate. Every Salem counts.”
“Brynn is a scholar,” I remind her.
“But a Salem nonetheless,” Corvin cuts in.
“She’s your principal task, Valgrave. She seemed to fare decently during tonight’s attack, so that training must be yielding some results.
Keep at it. She may not be as skilled as Esme, but she’ll have to do.
With her brother still under… she’ll have to do. ”
“Easier said than done,” I confess. “Brynn can be… hard-headed.”
Blythe allows herself a wry smile. “That’s the Salem bloodline. It comes with the package. But while we rebuild our defenses, while we heal our spiritual shields… we must use every weapon at our disposal. And there is hardly a weapon more effective than a Salem.”
A weapon.
That's all she is to them. Just another Salem-shaped gun to point at the enemy.
My jaw clenches hard. Doesn't matter that the girl's got a brain that could run circles around half our senior researchers.
Doesn't matter she can stitch up a spiritual wound that would leave most healers pissing themselves.
If she can't kill on command, they'll toss her aside like yesterday's trash.
But hey, the clearbloods did the same with Mazrov and every other poor bastard they sent our way. Used 'em up, watched 'em die. Rinse and repeat.
Some days I can't tell which side of this war is the bigger pile of garbage.
Today's definitely one of those days.