Chapter 17 Esme
ESME
Ifind myself back at the Bellatorium at dawn, construction noises outside are a reminder of yesterday's destruction. Workers patch the gaping hole in the wall—the one my body created when Rogon hurled me through it. Fantastic.
The arena falls silent as I enter. Twenty dragon-shifters turn as one, their gleaming eyes tracking me like the predators they are. No sign of Nyssa—Rogon made sure of that.
Colonel Rogon stands at the center, arms crossed over his massive chest. We lock eyes. One minute passes. Then two.
“If you're waiting for an apology, you'll grow a few more golden hairs.” I break the silence.
“Position, darkblood,” he replies, voice deceptively soft. “Now.”
I scan the faces surrounding us—all wearing identical smirks that promise pain. The hatred radiating off them is almost tangible. Not that I can exactly blame them.
“Position?” I raise an eyebrow. “For what exactly?”
“Combat training.” His lips curve upward, revealing the purple-yellow bruise blooming on his cheekbone. At least I'd landed one good hit.
“Perhaps I should observe first, sir,” I suggest sweetly. “Being just a fragile human and all.”
A female student barks a laugh. “Nothing's saving your ass today.”
“Worth trying,” I shoot back with a cold smile. Then I stride to the center of the arena. “As you wish, Colonel.”
The students form a circle around us, hungry for blood—preferably mine.
Rogon's voice booms across the arena. “Today's lesson concerns natural hierarchy.” His eyes sweep over his students before settling on me. “The surface world has been infested with humans for generations.”
I roll my eyes. “Nothing like starting with propaganda.”
“Something amusing you, darkblood?” The vein in his temple throbs.
“Just remembering how we 'infested' the surface through resilience and innovation,” I say, my smile sharp as glass.
He snorts. “Dumb luck.”
“The history books call it adaptation.”
Rogon's nostrils flare. “Humans developed magic because they needed it—fragile creatures compensating for weakness.” His gaze rakes over me. “While dragons commanded the elements through birthright. Our fire, strength, and wings ruled when your ancestors were still cowering in caves.”
“Ironic,” I gesture at the stone ceiling, “considering your current accommodations.”
“Mind your tongue,” he snarls, armor plates shifting as he leans closer. “You're only alive by our tolerance.”
I give him a curt nod, curiosity momentarily outweighing defiance.
“The blood exchange between you and Lord Daynthazar,” he continues, “represents a perversion of natural order.”
“Revolting,” mutters Rhode Meraxis from the circle.
Rogon acknowledges this with a tilt of his chin. “Indeed. Yet it happened, and your... transformation presents an opportunity for study.”
“To what end?” I ask.
“To determine your limitations.”
“I haven't really tested them myself.”
“Perfect.” His smile doesn't reach his eyes. “Summon your shadow energy.”
I cross my arms. “I'll comply under one condition.”
His golden armor chimes as he draws himself up. “You mistake this for a negotiation.”
“Call it what you want. My condition stands.”
Rogon pinches the bridge of his nose, the veins in his temple pulsing. “Fine,” he grates out. “What is it?”
I savor the moment. “Stop using 'darkblood' like a slur. It's my heritage, not a curse.”
He exhales. “Well then, Miss Salem… Summon your shadow energy.”
The unexpected victory emboldens me. I extend my palm upward, reaching deep within myself.
The familiar yet still foreign spark ignites, then spreads through my veins like ink in water.
I imagine putting on a show, and a heartbeat later, darkness blooms above my hand—midnight-black flames with edges that shimmer gold…
Gasps ripple through the watching dragons.
I find myself gasping softly. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but I’m feeling a deeper symbiosis with this power than just days ago.
“How big can you make it?” Rogon leans forward, scientific curiosity temporarily overriding his hatred.
“I-I've never tested.”
“Feed it,” he instructs. “For dragons, power comes from within—our inner—”
“Fire,” I finish. “Yes. I carry a fragment of that now.”
“Call to it. It always answers.”
I close my eyes, and suddenly Dayn’s words come back to me.
“Do you feel it? The balance. Your shadow, my fire. They don’t fight each other, Esme. They feed each other.”
And in the darkness behind my lids, a tiny ember pulses, dragon-bright against the void.
I reach for it mentally, coaxing rather than commanding.
The ember flares, growing from spark to flame…
Heat rushes through me, yet simultaneously, a bone-deep chill spreads alongside it.
Where they meet, something new forms. Neither light nor shadow… but both.
When I open my eyes, the dragons have fallen silent. The shadow-flame hovering above my palm has doubled, then tripled in size, casting strange patterns across their stunned faces.
The shadow-flame towers over me now, massive yet weightless as it hovers.
“Can you shape it into a weapon?” Rogon asks, amber eyes glinting with undisguised interest. The same man who tried to execute me yesterday now leans forward like a scholar presented with a rare specimen.
I stretch my fingers through the darkness. “Worth a try.”
The energy responds to my will, condensing and elongating. A longsword materializes, broad-bladed and substantial as my hands find its hilt. Wisps of black smoke curl around my fingers while gold shimmers trace the edge. Heat radiates from the blade while the handle presses cold against my palm.
“Remarkable,” Rogon breathes.
“I've never concentrated it like this before,” I murmur, testing the sword's balance. “How is this possible?”
“It appears authentic, doesn't it?”
“It does.”
“Because it is.” Rogon's voice carries a note of resignation. “The legends speak truth after all. I never thought—”
“What legends?”
“The collision of opposing forces—shadow and flame—creates something... unprecedented. Try setting it down.”
My fingers refuse to release the hilt. “I can't.”
“It won't permit separation.”
“The weapon is you, extended,” he explains, drawing his own blade—shorter and slimmer but equally formidable. “Attack me.”
A smile splits my face. “Rematch from last night?”
“Hardly, Miss Salem. Attack.”
I need no further invitation. I launch forward, surprisingly light despite the weapon's heft, and bring the shadow-blade down in a vicious diagonal arc.
Someone shouts, “Colonel!”
“Silence!” Rogon snarls, steel ringing as he meets my strike.
The collision of our blades unleashes a shockwave that hurls us apart. Sweat streams down my temples, my lungs burning as I struggle for breath. Still, I lunge forward, swinging again.
Rogon parries, triggering another explosive pulse. This time I crash onto my backside, my shadow-sword dissolving into smoke that slithers back into my skin. The sensation—fire and ice intertwined—races up my arm and settles somewhere beneath my sternum.
“Well, that was unexpected,” I manage between gasps.
Rogon sheaths his weapon only after I've climbed to my feet. “Such raw potential,” he observes, “but finite. Unlike a dragon's reserves.”
“So I'm not quite the dragon-slayer material yet?” My disappointment isn't entirely feigned.
“I wouldn't conclude that.” His eyes narrow. “Your shadow energy carries a distinctive... cruelty. It reached into my marrow. That pulse we witnessed? Not merely clashing forces—it's the fusion happening inside you.”
Rhode Meraxis's hand shoots up. “Colonel, what implications does this have?”
“Could she harm our kind?” a snotty female student’s voice carries a note of anxiety. Perfect.
“Any darkblood poses potential danger, Leena,” Rogon reminds her coldly. “But Miss Salem represents something unprecedented. Far more concerning.”
“You'll make me blush with all this flattery,” I quip.
He leans close, voice dropping to a whisper. “You stand at the threshold of something… revolutionary… embodying both our greatest strengths and fatal flaws. See that Draethys doesn’t mark you as hostile.”
“I thought I already held enemy status.”
“As a mere darkblood? Hardly worth notice—a pest easily eliminated should you become too troublesome.” His lips curl. “Your abilities require careful monitoring, Miss Salem. We must establish your limitations while refining your control.”
I clear my throat. “Colonel, what exactly are you hoping to accomplish with all this?”
His eyes lock onto mine, unblinking.
“I'm determining if Draethys can weaponize you in our coming conflicts,” he says with clinical detachment. “If not, we certainly can't risk returning you to Darkbirch.”
My stomach drops, but I keep my expression neutral, my breathing steady. A muscle in my jaw twitches—the only betrayal of the storm inside me. I swallow the angry retort building in my throat.
The cold calculus is clearer than ever: I'm a resource to be exploited or eliminated.
But two can play this game. For now, I need what Draethys offers: training, knowledge, control over this new power surging through my veins…
while Dayn supposedly figures a safer way out for me.
If everything falls apart, I'd at least rather face these dragons with trained abilities than raw potential.
Days blur together in a haze of training sessions. I study morning and afternoon while Dayn remains conspicuously absent. The first week, I breathed easier without his intensity hovering nearby. Now I catch myself glancing toward doorways when footsteps approach.
Nyssa seems to have been instructed to keep her distance from me as well. I’m not entirely sure why.
At least the dragons of Draethys, when not fantasizing about my execution, prove surprisingly generous with their knowledge: combat techniques that make my shadow-flame dance like living darkness, histories that predate even the oldest Salem grimoires.
I've discovered rune sequences in their archives that explain the very foundations of both darkblood and clearblood magic.
Not that Dayn would know. He's never around to see my discoveries.
The only time I see him is in the mornings, across the breakfast table.
“Your plate's getting cold,” Byzu remarks, his toying voice cutting through my thoughts.
I blink, suddenly aware of the Draxion breakfast spread surrounding me—Lord Bemmar at the head, his sons arranged like chess pieces. Byzu still steals glances at me in ways I’d rather not notice.
My untouched plate holds fragrant bread and some weird fruit I can't identify. Across the polished wood, Dayn sits beside his father, deliberately positioned away from me, though somehow I still catch the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the table conversation.
“Not hungry,” I mutter, eyes flicking toward him instinctively.
Bemmar's deep voice fills the silence. “I hear your training progresses exceptionally well.”
Anees nods, adding, “Colonel Rogon himself admits she's becoming formidable. The combat arena has never seen a darkblood move like Esme does.”
Arrynth leans forward, a cool grin spreading across his face. “I heard you gave Leena Braynor quite the thrashing. Good. Those Braynors need humbling. All muscle and no mind.”
“Colonel Rogon stepped in before I could finish the job,” I reply, my lips curving slightly. “But she got the message. My abilities have... evolved since the blood exchange. Wouldn't you agree, Dayn?”
The scrape of his knife against the plate is his only response. He carves another slice of food, seemingly fascinated by the task. His family's eyes dart between us, the silence stretching uncomfortably.
“Lord Daynthazar?” I press, my voice sharper.
Nothing. The deliberate silence burns under my skin. Why does his indifference affect me so much? I'm not some silly schoolgirl desperate for validation.
“The wedding arrangements,” Bemmar interjects, “how do they progress?”
“On schedule,” Dayn finally speaks. “We marry in two weeks' time.”
The bread I'm lifting freezes halfway to my mouth, then tumbles back to my plate with a soft thud. Every eye at the table swivels toward me. “Excuse me?”
Dayn meets my gaze directly for the first time. “Everything proceeds exactly as planned.”
My mind races. This wasn't our plan—not the one I knew about. I force a neutral expression. “Perhaps we should discuss certain details privately?”
“Unnecessary,” he dismisses. “Nyssa oversees all bridal preparations.”
My fingers tighten around my fork, the metal bending slightly. I imagine the satisfaction of launching the entire plate at his arrogant face. Instead, I inhale slowly.
“My lord,” I say through clenched teeth, “there are matters requiring your personal attention.”
His expression remains impassive. “Speak with Nyssa.”
My fork warps between my fingers as I grip it tighter. Anees's knee nudges mine under the table, and when I glance at him, he gives a subtle shake of his head. The warning only makes my blood simmer hotter.
“Perhaps you'd like to see me spar today?” I flash Dayn a razor-edged smile. “Leena Braynor requested a rematch. It should be... educational.”
Arrynth leans forward. “Count me in. I'd pay good coin to watch another Braynor humiliation.”
“Then you go, brother.” Dayn rises abruptly, chair legs scraping against stone. “I have matters requiring my attention.”
As he strides toward the door, he casts a fleeting glance back—too quick to read, too deliberate to ignore. My chest tightens in a way that confuses me.
Bemmar clears his throat. “My son juggles many responsibilities beyond wedding preparations. Political matters demand his focus.”
“What Father means,” Anees murmurs beside me, “is don't take it personally. Dayn is... preoccupied.”
“We used to be preoccupied together,” I reply tersely. “When did I become excluded?”
“When your shadow energy became priority.” Anees's eyes flick to my still-bent fork. “He believes your abilities deserve undivided attention.”
I offer a single, curt nod.
The feeling settles like ice in my stomach. To Darkbirch, to Draethys, even to Dayn… I'm not Esme Salem. I'm just a darkblood weapon with convenient powers. And it seems nothing more.