Chapter 21 Esme
ESME
Without a word, Dayn pulls on his shirt, the fabric doing little to hide the powerful lines of his back, and rolls over to one side of the vast bed, facing away from me.
I lie still on my side, my body humming with a residual energy that feels both foreign and deeply familiar.
The silence in the room is like a living thing, thick with the echoes of what we just did—what the magic made us do.
Or what it revealed. I’m not sure which is worse.
The door rattles with a sharp knock, and a guard's voice filters through: “Celebratory feast from the royal kitchen, my lord and lady.” Neither of us invite him in. The platters remain unclaimed in the hallway, the guard's footsteps eventually fading into silence.
I listen to the rhythm of Dayn’s breathing, the way each inhale seems to drag against the silent space.
I lie on my back, staring at the carved stone ceiling, counting his breaths and mine, their patterns never quite synchronizing.
He doesn’t move. I don’t move. Hushed fireworks echo their last booms through the distant windows, each muffled burst a reminder of the role I’ve just played, and the audience that watched and believed.
His scent—clean sweat, ozone, something draconic and utterly unfamiliar—hangs in the air, seeping into my lungs until I half expect to cough smoke.
My own dark magic coils inward, trying in vain to recede from the charged imprint of his touch.
I flex my hands on the sheets, needing the grounding, but every movement makes the silk whisper and reminds me of the heat still smoldering beneath my skin.
I close my eyes, willing myself toward sleep, but my mind replays the ritual in crystalline fragments: the press of his body, the arch of his neck when I bit his lip, the way his eyes flashed gold and black when the spell peaked.
It was supposed to be transactional, a piece of theater for the masses.
But the afterimage refuses to fade, and I’m…
left wondering what was real and what was not.
He doesn’t speak. The silence stretches and twists, pulling taut around my ribs.
The gold ring on my finger feels like it’s slowly tightening, a tourniquet binding me to this moment, to this man I barely understand and can’t seem to ignore.
I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing—about the magic, about the performance, about the fact that for a few brief, blinding seconds, it didn’t feel like a performance at all.
I wait for his breathing to slow, for his body to release the tension coiled in every muscle. I wait for a sign that he’s asleep, or at least detached enough that I can claim a piece of the night for myself.
After what feels like forever, his chest finally rises and falls in that slow, predictable pattern of someone who's at least pretending to sleep.
Good enough. I slide from the bed with assassin-quiet precision and snag a silk robe from a chair that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe back home.
The fabric whispers against my skin as I move toward the door.
“Going somewhere?” His voice cuts through the darkness, low and rough-edged.
I stall, hand already on the doorknob.
Of course I wouldn’t be able to slip out without him noticing.
“Nowhere controversial,” I mutter. “Need some air.” Some space.
His response is silence. No words needed to warn me not to do anything stupid again.
I step outside and softly close the door behind me, exhaling. Drawing my shadows around me like a cloak, I slip down the stairs.
The dining hall is half empty. Most guests have departed, but nobles from several houses cluster around the king’s table, deep in conversation and nursing goblets.
Servants hover nearby, topping off goblets and bringing plates of sweet pies and honey-aged dried fruits stored in oak barrels. I love the scent, I admit.
Hidden within my cloak’s shadow, I can’t help but edge a little closer.
King Bemmar smiles as he sips his drink.
“I hope your son knows what he’s doing,” Colonel Rogon murmurs. “Our houses’ support is dwindling.”
“We still have Meraxis and Rogon on our side, don’t we?” Bemmar replies.
The colonel glances at the king’s sons, Anees and Byzu. “Always, your grace. And when the time comes, Arrynth will wed my niece Ariella, as we agreed.”
“Good. At least that’s settled,” Bemmar mutters. “Dayn has changed since he spent time aboveground, that’s obvious.”
“He’s always had a soft spot for humans,” Anees reminds them. “Let’s not forget his friendship with the Salems.”
“But this is Draethys,” Byzu counters, crossing his arms. “His people come first. They should always come first.”
Bemmar exhales sharply. “I understand why he left. We were lost, huddled down here, ashamed of our defeat. And Dayn always believed we could reclaim the surface, but not by blood and fire.”
“And he ended up shackled by the clearbloods,” Rogon says, shaking his head. “Clearly, humans cannot be reasoned with.”
“The darkblood he brought back kind of proves you wrong,” Anees shoots back with a wry smile.
The colonel scoffs. “Esme Salem cannot be trusted. She’ll keep testing us, mark my words.”
He’s not wrong.
Byzu rises suddenly from his chair, his eyes darting toward the doorway.
Following his gaze, I catch sight of a servant lingering at the threshold, his fingers tapping twice against the doorframe.
Something electric passes between them—the kind of silent communication that raises the hair on my neck.
“Forgive me,” Byzu announces, pressing his palm against his stomach. “The wine has gotten the better of me tonight.”
Anees laughs. “And here I thought you'd outlast us all.”
“Only Arrynth,” Byzu counters with a smirk, clapping his father's shoulder as he withdraws. “Until breakfast, then. I'm particularly eager to see how our newlyweds fare after their... ceremonial evening.”
Bemmar's exasperated eye-roll mirrors my own internal response. Rather than enduring more of the colonel's suspicions about my loyalty, I slip into the shadows and trail Byzu through the corridors.
I maintain my distance, scrutinizing each figure we pass: dragons in their human forms, servants with downcast eyes, nobles swaying with intoxication.
When Byzu veers abruptly down a service stairwell, I hesitate at the top, allowing my vision to adjust to the darkness below. A misstep now would be catastrophic. At the bottom, he pauses, glancing in both directions before veering left.
The “servant” from earlier materializes from an alcove. Byzu seizes his arm. “Coming here tonight—have you lost your mind?” he hisses.
“Settle down,” the man retorts, wrenching free. “I wasn't followed. The Braynor contingent believes I'm elsewhere.”
“That's hardly the point, Sema. You could have been recognized. Especially after what transpired at the council meet—”
Sema… wearing a disguise?
Sema's voice cuts through the darkness. “Your brother has my brother's blood on his hands.”
“And I told you not to send Jeron to that meeting,” Byzu counters. “The boy was a powder keg with a lit fuse.”
I freeze on the bottom step, pressing myself against the cold stone wall. The service tunnel stretches before me, moisture beading on rough-hewn walls, torch flames dancing in drafts from unseen passages. My breath fogs in the chill—Draethys's deepest levels always carry this bone-deep cold.
Sema. The name clicks into place. Dayn's street confrontation. Jeron, the younger brother who ignited at the council meeting, forcing Dayn's hand. The whispers Nyssa caught—self-defense, too many witnesses for House Braynor to contest.
So why is the king's other son meeting him in secret?
“If I'd been there instead—” Sema's voice breaks.
“None of us foresaw what happened,” Byzu cuts him off. “Jeron crossed a line no one expected. Now tell me why you risked coming tonight.”
“Johel Meraxis is with us now. Brutus's youngest.” Pride creeps into Sema's tone. “We have allies in every noble house.”
Byzu glances nervously down the corridor. “Ariella Rogon as well. Arrynth suspects nothing. This could have waited until morning.”
“Arrynth needs convincing,” Sema leans closer. “Time grows short. Soon we reclaim what's ours. The sky. The world. By blood and fire—as was always our destiny.”
The world. My pulse thunders in my ears as visions of fire and wings flood my mind. I clutch my shadow cloak tighter, suppressing a shiver.
“I'll bring him around,” Byzu assures. “Our older brother's marriage to a human has already shifted his thinking.”
Sema's laugh holds no humor. “No betrayal cuts deeper.”
Byzu's voice drops to a harsh whisper. “The numbers aren't there yet. Even with Ariella supporting us.”
Sema's jaw tightens. “Leander dotes on his daughter. After what he witnessed at the council—” His fingers curl into fists. “Your brother has Jeron's blood on his hands.”
“Leander himself acknowledged it was self-defense,” Byzu counters. “Father demanded truthful testimony from everyone present.”
“My family's crypt holds one more son now.” Sema's lips peel back from his teeth. “That debt can only be settled in blood.”
Byzu lunges forward, fists knotting in Sema's collar. “Remember your place, Braynor. You serve the new order. You act on our command, not before.”
“You can't keep us leashed forever. And if your father refuses to join us—”
“Out!” Byzu hurls him against the tunnel wall with a dull thud. “Return to your house. Tell the others to wait. Everything happens when we say it happens. We get one chance at this.”
Sema straightens, rubbing his shoulder. “We will rise again, Byzu.”
“We will. Just not tonight. Now go.”
I watch Sema’s hulking shadow recede down the tunnel until darkness swallows it whole. The gravity of what I've witnessed settles over me like stone.
Byzu turns suddenly, making his way back toward my end.
I swiftly retreat, putting plenty of distance between myself and the stairs as he climbs up. Only when his footsteps fade completely do I finally exhale, a shudder rippling through me.
I slip back into our matrimonial chamber, yanking off my shadow cloak as the door shuts behind me. My hands won't stop shaking.
Dayn bolts upright in bed. He wasn't sleeping.
“Your brother's planning an invasion,” I hiss, my voice barely above a whisper. “The secret you've been keeping.”
He blinks twice, squinting. “What?”
“I followed Byzu. Caught him in the service tunnels with Sema Braynor.”
Dayn's jaw clenches. His eyes flicker between suspicion at my nighttime wanderings and unease. “Jeron's brother.”
“The very same. Still quite bitter about you killing his little brother, by the way.”
“Hardly unexpected.” His expression darkens. He leaves the bed and reaches for the rest of his clothes. “What exactly did you hear?”
I pace the length of the room, recounting every whispered threat, every mention of allies in noble houses, the repeated phrase “by blood and fire.” With each detail, Dayn's face grows more still, more resigned.
When I finish, he turns away, fully dressed. “I've been aware of these undercurrents for some time,” he murmurs, shoulders tensing. “And I've been working to prevent exactly this scenario.”
“Well, your prevention is failing. They're recruiting Arrynth now. If dragons attack the surface, both our kinds will tear each other apart.”
Dayn faces me, exhaustion carving lines around his eyes. “Do you imagine I don't understand what's at stake?”
I step toward him. “What's your plan? What's our plan?”
“Act normal,” he murmurs, already moving toward the door. “We're newlyweds. The ritual is evidence enough. If anyone asks—”
“Wait. Where are you going?”
“To handle this. Trust me, Esme, ignorance is your only protection right now.”
Before I can protest, the door whispers shut behind him.