Chapter 29 Brynn
brYNN
Iwait a few minutes before asking, “How do you feel?” Like maybe his righteous anger has an expiration date or something.
“Like a billion dollars,” Chad snaps, voice dripping acid.
Okay, we're not there yet. I get it. I totally get it.
But the glowing runes of ancient dragon magic are still doing their shimmer-thing under the salt, and we're one step closer to finding my sister. Sorry not sorry, but my guilty conscience needs to take a backseat right now.
“I lost a piece of my soul back there,” Chad grumbles. “Will I ever get it back?”
I shake my head. “No. But for what it's worth—”
“Again with the 'for what it's worth' like it's supposed to make any of this better!”
Deep breath, Brynn. You deliberately screwed the pooch here, and he's entitled to his anger. Means to an end and all, though. Chad will have to get over it eventually.
“For what it's worth,” I say, all reassuring calm, “it was a very small piece. And honestly, given your demonic nature, you might not even miss it.”
“How so?”
“Well, a demon's soul is... stronger. Bigger, in a sense. Like, way more energy to work with. It explains why your spell-work has such brutal power. That Gaudian Pulse of yours hit different.” I remember feeling something off about it, but I was too busy getting beat to notice. “Be honest, Chad, how do you feel?”
“Weak.”
I tilt my head. “I did drain a lot of your blood, too. But do you feel... I don't know, colder? Meaner? Less inclined to care about whoever you cared about most?”
Chad's brow furrows. “I'm not sure.”
“See? You're fine.”
“How am I fine?”
“You're wondering about it. You still have a conscience. We're good. We're golden,” I say with my best fake-confident smile. “What do we do now, though?”
Chad runs his fingers through his dusty-blond hair, biting his tongue before pointing at my jacket. “Pretty sure you have your notes to check for the next part.”
“Right.”
Hedder's notes are useless. Just a bunch of “tried this, blew up in my face” crap. Super helpful, Hedder. Thanks a ton.
I follow the glowing pattern across the salt, squinting. Wait a sec.
“Hold on, I know that symbol,” I whisper, pointing at three swirls locked in a square. “That's earth magic. Like, primitive-as-hell earth magic.”
My brain clicks into gear. It's like seeing sheet music when you already know the song—suddenly the notes make sense. This isn't some random ancient chicken scratch. It's magic. Our magic, just... older. Way older.
Something in my blood recognizes it. Like muscle memory, but for my Salem witchy-ness.
And then—okay, this is weird—I hear voices. Not the “I'm losing my mind” kind, but like, ancestor voices. Ezekiel. Helena. Angus. The OG Salems. They're practically screaming the answer in my ear.
I drop to my knees in front of one of the symbols.
“Stone to stone,” I say, my voice not entirely my own. “Water to water. Fire to fire. And air to air.”
“Brynn, what's going on?” Chad sounds freaked. Fair enough.
The ground rumbles like we're standing on a giant's stomach.
“It's a riddle,” I say, touching one of the symbols. When I move my hand, the symbol follows like it's magnetized to my fingers. “This whole thing is basically a magical touchscreen. Earth to earth...”
I start matching symbols across the salt flat like the world's deadliest game of concentration. Two by two.
The voices in my head are practically high-fiving each other as I drag fire to fire for the final match.
“Brynn!” Chad yells.
Too late. The ground splits open like a giant mouth, and we're falling, salt and golden light swallowing us whole. No handholds, no way back up.
Just... falling.
My eyes blink open to darkness that's somehow blacker than the inside of my eyelids. Chad's groaning nearby like he just got hit by a magical freight train.
“You alive over there?” I ask, pushing myself up on my elbows. My hands press against something smooth and weirdly warm. Like, body-temperature warm. Obsidian. Perfect, polished obsidian that practically hums with old magic.
“If you ask me that one more time, I will literally claw your face off,” Chad snarls, dragging himself upright. He squints around. “What fresh hell is this?”
I haul myself to my feet and join him at the edge of our giant obsidian landing pad. Behind us is the tunnel we fell through, with those same salt flat runes flickering around it like dying Christmas lights.
“They made a freaking puzzle box,” I say, unable to stop the laugh bubbling up.
“Like, 'congrats on solving our magical Rubik's cube, please proceed to the secret dragon lair.
' Gotta respect the dramatics.” I tap the fading runes.
“Not to brag, but this is exactly why my Salem pattern-recognition thing isn't lame. Corvin can suck it.”
“brYNN!”
Chad’s sudden whisper yanks me out of my daze, and I’m left breathless staring at the world laid out beneath us.
A city the size of a kingdom sprawls under a massive glassy dome—its obsidian and black-stone spires puncturing the ceiling.
Palaces and villas cascade across the landscape, rooftop terraces and slender towers stacked like a deck of cards.
Cobblestone streets zigzag between them, braziers flaming fiercely and almost dwarfing a typical darkblood home.
Everything here is colossal, oversized, glowing gold in the firelight.
“This is Draethys,” I murmur, voice thick with awe. “We actually found Draethys, Chad.”
At the center of this dragon metropolis stands a grand palace, encircled by elaborate stone gardens and gargantuan dragon statues—each carved from marble or gilded gold, tails curling, wings unfurled, guardians to the pure of heart. At least, that’s the aura I’m getting.
Chad’s low growl pulls me back. “More dragons than we bargained for,” he says. “This is a problem, Brynn. A city teeming with them.”
I squint at the tiny forms below. “True, but where are they? All I see are…people.”
Chad leans out, peering down. “Remember Heathborne’s dragon? He masqueraded as a human. That’s how the academy kept him bound. They caught him in human form.”
I nod, eyebrows raised. “Makes sense they’d all stick to human shape down here. If they’d gone full dragon, Draethys would be wall-to-wall scaled beasts.”
A ragged stairwell carved into the rock leads us down from the tunnel’s mouth.
With Darkbirch insignias on our cloaks, we move carefully, hugging the shadowed archway until we spill into a narrow back alley.
It’s hotter here—almost suffocating—and the risk skyrockets the moment we’re spotted in our uniforms. Voices echo around us as figures emerge from doorways and hurry down the street, all shouting the same frantic warning.
“The prince is missing!”
“Lord Daynthazar is missing!”
Chad and I press against a low obsidian fence, trading puzzled glances. I shrug. A ragged voice cuts through the crowd’s panic: “The darkblood must’ve put a spell on him!”
And just like that, Draethys goes from awe-inspiring to downright perilous.
“Darkblood,” I whisper, teeth clenched, sliding the word toward Chad.
He tilts his head, pupils flickering in the torchlight. “Esme,” he breathes back.
My throat tightens. It has to be her.
“She’s alive,” I murmur, half-prayer, half-triumph.
But no sooner do I taste hope than a tide of them sweeps out from the palace—drawn by the gongs echoing through every alley and avenue.
The shockwaves shiver down my spine, and I find myself gaping.
They’re breathtaking…and lethal. They drift over the cobblestones, their footsteps soundless, each gesture a study in grace.
Their eyes glow molten gold beneath arched brows.
Pale silks swirl around lithe bodies, cinched with polished gold and hammered silver.
Gemstones wink from braided hair, and the men’s wrists jangle with chunky bracelets above sturdy leather sandals.
This—this hidden realm—has thrived beneath our noses, a secret sealed by time until a rampaging dragon shattered the lid. It’s insane. It’s a whole new chapter of our world, whether we’re ready or not.
“We can’t stay like this,” Chad’s lips ghost across my ear, jolting me back to myself. I nod, pulse slamming against my ribs. “We need to blend.”
He hesitates just a heartbeat, then vaults the low fence and vanishes into the nearest courtyard.
My heart shrinks to a fist as I freeze, waiting for screams or flame.
But the hush stretches. Minutes crawl by until Chad reemerges, cradling two black silk cloaks like precious gowns.
“They don’t lock their doors,” he says, draping one over my shoulders.
I stifle a breath. “Not surprised.”
Swallowed by the crowd, we drift on silent soles, our uniforms swallowed by velvet.
Heads bowed, we slip through narrow passages, ears straining for scraps of gossip.
Past a cluster of youths, I catch a fragment.
“I hear they’re planning to execute the darkling,” one murmurs to a flame-haired woman.
She tuts. “Didn’t she just wed the crown prince?”
I halt, vision blurring. Esme. Married. To dragon royalty. What the actual hell? The world tilts sideways for a second, and I'm picturing my sister in some blazing wedding dress, probably looking perfect even while marrying a lizard.
Chad grabs my arm before I can do something stupid. When the gossipy duo moves on, I yank him close, my voice coming out scratchy. “They say she married the crown prince.”
He breathes out against my hair. “Esme?”
“Yeah. Freaking Esme.” Of course she did.
Chad's eyes narrow. “We should get closer to the palace, then.”
“There are, like, a bazillion more dragons up there. We'll stick out like a pair of Darkbirch thumbs.” I peek around the corner at the crowd surging toward the central plaza. “They're completely losing it over Esme and this prince guy.”
Two dragon-people in gold tunics stop just feet from our hiding spot.
“They hated each other's guts,” the taller one says, voice dripping with gossip. “Heard it straight from Professor Kyleth at the institute. Cannot fathom why Lord Daynthazar married that creature.”
His friend snorts. “Trophy wife from the surface world, obviously.” He slaps his thigh with a laugh before they both join the stampede.
I yank Chad into a narrow alley that smells like dragon barbecue and sulfur.
“Well dragon balls, we just walked into, like, the supernatural soap opera of the century.
My sister—my perfectionist, overachieving sister—married dragon royalty?
And now he's missing? And they're blaming her? This is next-level Salem family drama, even for us.”
“Your powers of observation continue to astound,” he deadpans.
My hands shake as I grip his sleeve. “What's the plan? How do we find her? She's probably wherever that mob is headed.”
My brain spins with visions of Esme being roasted alive or whatever dragons do to their enemies, but Chad grabs my shoulders, squeezing tight enough to anchor me.
“Hey. Brynn. Look at me.”
“I need to get her out—”
Our eyes lock. That weird red glow flickers in his irises, and suddenly my panic dial turns from eleven to maybe a six. Meanwhile, Chad slumps against the wall looking like he might hurl.
“That's what I get for playing emotional support demon,” he mutters, pressing his fingers against his temple.
“Save your mojo,” I whisper.
He peeks back toward the street, grimacing. “Your sister is definitely in premium-grade trouble, Brynn.”
And we're the rescue squad. A half-dead demon and the Salem family disappointment. Fantastic.