Chapter 36 Brynn
brYNN
Acold weight sinks through my chest like I've swallowed a chunk of ice.
I stare at Chad's retreating form until he disappears around the corner.
My fingernails dig crescents into my palms. How could I have been so blind?
The way he'd memorized Darkbirch's security rotations after just a few visits.
His convenient appearances when sensitive information was discussed.
That weird little hesitation before joining combat drills, like he was calculating whether to hold back.
Of course, hindsight is a bitch. I'd welcome her with a shot of tequila and my best smile if she'd just show up before everything goes to hell instead of after.
I force my attention to Esme and Dayn, though the tension crackling between them hardly improves my mood. She stands too close to him for someone who claims to hate her captor-turned-husband. And he—ancient dragon, kidnapper, whatever he is—watches her with something way beyond possession.
“Anees...” Dayn leans against the wall, hands raking through his disheveled hair. His voice breaks on the name. “No...”
Esme's fingers twitch toward him but stop short. “I'm sorry.”
The news about King Bemmar hits him visibly.
His shoulders curve inward, momentarily revealing something vulnerable beneath all that power.
I've read enough in those dusty archives to glean that despite their differences, both Dayn and his father had advocated for coexistence with the surface world.
“He's determined to do this, then,” Dayn mutters, eyes fixed on nothing. “No matter the cost.”
“But with what plan exactly?” Esme asks.
“Anees knows about the clearbloods' weapons, their wartime magic. What they harvested from me.” His jaw tightens. “He'll target strategically, the major covens on both sides.”
My blood turns to ice. “Starting with Darkbirch and Heathborne?”
“Then the structures next door,” Dayn replies. “Yes, the dragons will come back, but there’ll be no peace talks, no bargains. Only blood, fire, and ashes.”
“We’ll fight with everything we have,” I counter.
Esme shoots me a dark look. “What do we have? Our spiritual reservoir is barely recovering. We’ve got traitors among us—I’d bet Chad isn’t the only Heathborne mole. And two Salem witches are still trapped in Draethys as we speak.”
“I was trying to be optimistic,” I murmur and turn to Dayn. “At least one dragon is on our side… right?”
“One dragon,” he repeats. “Not nearly enough to take on my entire kingdom.”
“Then what do we do? Esme, they’re coming to kill us. How can we stop them?”
Dayn exhales sharply and steps away from the wall, determination setting his jaw. “You can’t stop them. But maybe I still can.”
“Wait, Dayn—no,” Esme grabs his wrists. “Anees just murdered the king—your father. Byzu is allied with him, and I’m sure Arrynth has joined too.
We saw Brutus Meraxis among them. Major figures from every noble House are involved.
You can’t just march into the palace and seize power. They won’t let you.”
“They were gearing up for the next stage of a coup,” I add. “A military assault on our world, and a plan to take Draethys now that the king is… gone.”
“I may not be able to stop Anees alone,” Dayn says, “but not everyone in Draethys supports this invasion. The people loved our king… He ruled the dragons fiercely and respectfully for over a thousand years. I can’t let this travesty stand.
Draethys deserves the truth: how Anees got this far, and then they can choose to back him or oppose him. ”
“Invading our world with a hundred dragons instead of thousands… that’s a different scale,” I mutter, as Esme clings to Dayn. “No pun intended.”
“I just freed you from your brother’s grip!” she snaps. “And now you want to go back to another? Haven’t you been imprisoned long enough—first at Heathborne, and now here, in your own home?!”
Dayn's chest rises with a slow, deliberate breath. The tunnel walls seem to tremble, barely perceptible, but I catch it. Something radiates from him in waves that make my skin prickle.
“If I don't try to stop this now, while there’s still a fighting chance… you’ll regret it. I assure you.”
His hands find Esme’s throat, thumbs tracing the line of her jaw, like she's made of porcelain instead of murder and magic. “I'll buy you both time to escape. But you need distance from me, Esme. As much as possible.”
“Wait—”
And there it is—the classic shut-up kiss. Because apparently when you're a thousand-year-old dragon, you never learned to just say “please be quiet.”
I should look away from this PDA nightmare, but it's like watching a nature documentary where the deadly viper suddenly starts purring. Esme “I'll-gut-you-with-my-shadow-blade” Salem is practically pudding in his hands. If my eyes could take photos, this would be prime blackmail material.
Then—poof—he's gone before I can even get a word in.
“Hold on—” I'm literally talking to dust motes now. Typical dragon. All dramatic exit, no practical details.
Esme stands frozen, fingertips hovering near her lips. I grab her shoulder and shake.
“Esme.”
“What?” Her eyes refocus slowly.
“Your dragon ghosted.”
“Typical,” she mutters, then straightens, something hardening in her expression. “We're following him.”
I open my mouth to protest. “But he just told us—”
“To hell with what he told us.” Esme's eyes flash dangerously, her fingers curling into claws at her sides. “I've followed him into blood bonds, addiction, abduction, near-execution, and a godsdamned wedding. I'm through taking orders.”
Before I can argue, darkness envelops us both as her shadow cloak materializes, and I brace myself for impact and regret.