Chapter 18 Dayn
DAYN
Idrum my fingers against the council table, waiting for the other houses to arrive. My mind drifts to Esme for the third time this hour. I catch myself mid-thought and force my attention back to the documents before me.
“You're scowling again,” Anees says, settling into the chair beside mine.
I straighten the papers unnecessarily. “House Draxion needs both of us here today. Father's courthouse duties keep him occupied, which works in our favor. The elders speak more freely without him looming over the proceedings.”
“You're changing the subject,” Anees leans closer. “She deserves to know what's happening.”
“Who?” I ask, though the feigned ignorance sounds hollow even to my ears.
“Esme,” he says, refusing to let it drop.
I watch the elders of House Meraxis enter, their ceremonial robes sweeping the marble floor. “Her training takes priority. Shadow energy is volatile. She needs to focus on control.”
Beyond the terrace to our left, turrets glow against the darkness of the cavern ceiling. The distant sounds of celebration drift upward: street festivals that have continued since our engagement announcement, despite the controversy it sparked.
“And the wedding?” Anees whispers. “Last week you were determined to find a loophole.”
“She should be grateful I found a way to keep her alive,” I snap. “I brought you here to discuss the uprising, not my personal affairs.”
He sighs, his eyes reflecting the torchlight. “The whispers grow louder each day.”
“Draethys cannot rise,” I say. “Not like this. Not now.” I grip the edge of the table. “We'd only repeat the bloodshed of our ancestors.”
“We need a better approach,” Anees agrees.
The massive doors creak open as House Braynor enters. Jeron stalks in beside his uncle, scowling when he spots me. His upper lip curls back, revealing teeth sharp enough to tear through steel. Typical Braynor, no doubt still fuming about my fracas with his family earlier.
“Always one talon away from violence,” I mutter as the council members arrange themselves around the obsidian table.
Anees leans closer. “Your engagement to a darkblood hasn't exactly bolstered your standing either, brother.” His voice drops lower. “Though you remain the right dragon to lead this council.”
“Someone's orchestrating this surface-world obsession,” I say. “These aren't just tavern whispers anymore.”
“I'll help you find the source,” Anees promises.
I stand, acknowledging the Houses with a measured bow. “Thank you for answering our summons. Several matters require your collective wisdom while my father attends to judicial concerns.”
“I pray we aren't discussing your ill-conceived nuptials,” Lord Brutus Meraxis calls out, his ancient voice crackling like dry parchment.
“The wedding proceeds as planned, Lord Brutus. Your presence would honor us.” I maintain my diplomatic tone. “In fact, we expect it.”
“Is attendance compulsory?” He tilts forward, triggering appreciative snickers from his fellow elders.
I study him silently: the papery skin stretched across his skull, sparse golden hairs clinging stubbornly to his scalp. The old dragon was ancient when I completed my first molt. His continued existence defies draconic biology; he should have returned to the flame a century past.
“It’s hardly obligatory, yet House Draxion will be sorely disappointed if you and your esteemed kin decline our celebration,” I remark, curling one corner of my mouth. “Though we might save a barrel or two of mead if you skip it.”
He shoots me a tremulous glare. “What have you convened us for, Lord Daynthazar?”
Good, he’s taken umbrage. Hardly my fault I can scent mead on his breath well before midday. Anees clears his throat, cue enough to proceed.
“Milords, I’ll address the most troubling matter at once,” I announce, lifting my voice. “Since my return, I’ve observed a troubling swell of extremist rhetoric among our people. Deluded calls to launch a Draethys assault on the surface world.”
“Reclaim our true dominion by force, you mean,” Brutus interjects.
“Whether true or not, it’s no longer ours to seize, certainly not by force,” I reply. “We’d only repeat past failures, as you’ve witnessed across our kingdom’s peaks and valleys.”
He inclines his head. “I concur. It’s reckless folly.”
“Precisely. The humans have ruled the surface far too long,” I continue. “Though we have grown since our descent into Draethys, they still outnumber us and wield greater magical resources.”
Colonel Rogon’s brother, Lord Leander, arches an eyebrow. “Nothing surpasses dragonfire. We once dominated the skies by blood and flame.”
“True, Lord Leander, yet every dragon born here bears the same handicap: wings neither strong nor nimble enough to reclaim the heavens. Even then, the magical folk learned to defeat us, and now they harness our own power against us.”
Jeron chuckles low. “Isn’t that your handiwork, Lord Daynthazar?”
“Not by my design.”
“Ah, yes. Your grand mission above, to parley with those sneering worms. You ended up captured, enslaved for fifty years, only to be freed by some darkblood—no doubt clueless about the chaos she’d unleash. Then you bring her here, expose her to our lore and vaults, all so you can wed her!”
“Lord Jeron!” Anees snaps. “This is a council chamber. Reserve your barbs.”
Jeron slams his fist on the table and surges to his feet. “To hell with protocol! You act shocked that we want to reclaim what's rightfully ours? Draethys was never meant to be our prison, Daynthazar!”
I rise slowly to meet his challenge. “Nor was it meant to be our grave. The surface world has changed. There are better paths than bloodshed.”
“Save your platitudes,” Jeron sneers.
“Tell me, have you ever felt rain on your scales?” I ask, measuring each word. The council chamber falls silent. “Or seen stars?”
His jaw tightens. “I'll see them soon enough.”
“How far have you flown in a single journey?”
Jeron's eyes flick toward his uncle before answering. “Northern Passageway. Ninety minutes sustained flight.”
“The atmosphere thins above. Your wings would falter before you cleared their defensive perimeter,” I explain. “Your warriors might excel in these caverns, but surface magic would incinerate them before they could escape to the clouds.”
“Who said anything about escaping?”
I exchange a weary glance with Anees. “They champion war against an enemy they cannot comprehend,” I murmur.
“We have your darkblood,” Jeron counters, and Brutus nods eagerly. “Under proper persuasion—”
“You will not touch her,” I cut in, my voice dropping dangerously low.
“Esme Salem is a spy by training; she survived Darkbirch's interrogation protocols. Your crude methods would yield nothing but my wrath.” A troubling realization settles over me as murmurs ripple through the chamber.
“This isn't just Braynor's fantasy, is it? How many Houses dream of conquest?”
Anees touches my arm. “Brother, perhaps a more diplomatic—”
“No,” I interrupt, my voice carrying across the chamber. “I want clarity. A formal accounting. After all these whispers and theoretical strategies, I'd like each House to declare their position openly.”
Brutus settles deeper into his chair, scales gleaming in the torchlight. “My record on peace speaks for itself.”
“So you oppose this folly?”
“Not entirely.” His ancient eyes narrow. “Our young cannot properly fly in these caverns. You've witnessed their stunted wings yourself. We deserve the open sky again, to reclaim what was stolen from us.”
“Through fire and slaughter?”
While Brutus hesitates, Jeron leans forward, nails scraping against obsidian.
“We need only one territory initially,” he says, mapping invisible boundaries with his fingertips. “A foothold. Our wings will strengthen in the open air. We'll learn their defenses while holding our position, then expand methodically.”
“Madness,” I hiss, heat building beneath my skin. “After centuries of bloodshed, you advocate more carnage? More lives—”
“But not innocent lives.” Jeron's voice drops to a dangerous register. “They're vermin beneath our claws! Your judgment is compromised by the darkblood warming your bed. You've tainted our lineage!”
Anees rises. “Lord Braynor! You overstep!”
“I've only begun!” Jeron roars, flinging his arms wide.
Golden light erupts across his palms, heat shimmering through the chamber. Council members scramble backward as the temperature spikes. They needn't retreat.
Jeron's rage is meant for me alone.
And as I gather my power, I feel no remorse for what comes next.
Anees steps between us, palms raised. “Lord Braynor, this is madness. You stand before the crown prince of Draethys.”
“Crown prince?” Jeron's mouth twists into a sneer. “Not for long.”
The air crackles as a sphere of concentrated flame materializes between his palms. He hurls it toward my chest. Heat ripples the air as I pivot sideways, feeling the scorching wind of its passage against my face.
It strikes the chamber wall with a thunderous crack, showering the council members with glowing embers.
They scatter, skin gleaming in the sudden light.
I vault across the polished table, closing the distance between us.
“Dayn, stop!” Anees shouts from somewhere behind me.
Too late. My fist connects with Jeron's ribcage, wreathed in white-hot fire. The impact sends a shockwave through the chamber as his flesh sizzles beneath my knuckles.
His roar of pain reverberates off the stone walls, then his counterattack comes. I weave between his blows, but one catches my cheek.
“There will be no invasion,” I growl, slicing my palm open with my small dagger as I circle him. Ancient symbols form in my blood.
Jeron pants heavily, tracking my movements. “You will never be my king,” he snarls and lunges again.