Chapter 38 Chad
CHAD
Isquint across the endless white expanse of the Bonneville Salt Flats, expecting relief but finding only emptiness.
My chest tightens as the last of my adrenaline fades, replaced by a gnawing guilt that claws at my insides.
Every time Brynn looked at me down there, my chest tensed.
Like, I'm the worst kind of asshole. Walking through Draethys beside her, watching her back like some loyal friend while carrying Rothmere's orders in my pocket?
Classic Chad move. But what was I going to say?
“Hey, by the way, I'm actually here to betray you and your sister”? Yeah, that would've gone over well.
“What the...” The words escape me as I scan the cracked white plain. No bodies. No blood. Not even scuff marks where we'd fought the clearblood soldiers. That can't be right.
“Surprised?”
I whirl around at the sound of Chancellor Rothmere's voice.
There he stands, barely ten feet away, his white suit pristine against the salt-crusted landscape, blue tie perfectly knotted at his throat, matching suede shoes somehow spotless. Bile rises in my throat as I look at him.
“That's one word,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “What brings you to the Salt Flats, Chancellor?”
My eyes dart left, right, cataloging possible escape routes while my face remains carefully neutral. Empty-handed. I've returned empty-handed. And Rothmere has never been known for his forgiveness of failure.
“I needed to make sure I'd be here to welcome the dragon back,” he says, his smile spreading like an oil slick across water. His eyes search the space behind me, his brow furrowing slightly. “Where is he, by the way? And the Salem girl?”
“You never warned me your dragon might have recognized me,” I say, the accusation sharp on my tongue. I clench my jaw, feeling heat rise beneath my skin. “Your negligence nearly got me killed.”
My irises flare crimson. Rothmere's expression shifts—a microflicker of fear—as he takes a measured step backward. The sapphire on his ring pulses in response, sensing the demon stirring beneath my human facade.
“Elaborate,” he says, voice steady despite the tension in his shoulders.
“Brynn and I found Draethys.”
“Draethys?” His eyebrow arches.
“The hidden dragon realm. Where the beasts have been hiding since the Blood Wars.”
A smile spreads across Rothmere's face as he absorbs this. The salt-laden breeze brushes my face, carrying the taste of ancient minerals. I swallow hard, calculating my odds. This man could end me with a gesture, and my survival instinct has always trumped my dignity.
“So it exists,” he murmurs. “The legends were true. Think of it—a wellspring of untapped draconic energy just waiting for proper utilization.”
I can't help the bitter laugh that escapes me. “You're forgetting something crucial. It's filled with dragons. Actual dragons. They won't welcome you.”
His expression sours. “And Dayn? Where is he?”
“We nearly had him. But since you neglected to consider he might have spotted me slipping into your office, he recognized me! I couldn't even summon my demon. He would have incinerated me on the spot, and the Salem witches would have fought for the privilege of finishing whatever was left!”
He exhales. “Yet here you stand… Did you locate Esme Salem as well?”
“Are you even listening to what I'm saying?”
The Chancellor gives a dismissive nod, unmoved by my predicament. “Every word. So to summarize: both Salem sisters and my dragon remain in Draethys. Is that correct?”
I can only stare at him, speechless.
Rothmere's lips curl into a thin smile that doesn't reach his eyes. His manicured fingernails tap against his thigh—the only sign of his irritation.
“Clearbloods attacked us here,” I say, the salt crunching under my boots as I shift my weight. “Your doing?”
“No. Rogue extremists, monitoring Darkbirch. Believe it or not, I don’t control every moving piece in existence.”
Thank the hells for that.
Still, my stomach twists. The wind carries the scent of minerals across the flats, and I taste bile at the back of my throat.
Brynn's face flashes in my mind—the betrayal in her eyes when she discovered my lies.
I'd convinced myself I was playing both sides cleverly. Now I feel I've just been played.
Dayn could have incinerated me. Either Salem witch could have slit my throat. And Rothmere would have simply noted my termination in a file somewhere.
“What happens now?” My eyes track his every movement, muscles tensing for whatever comes next.
“The Council won't be pleased.” His tone suggests mild inconvenience rather than the life-or-death situation I'm facing. “I've vouched for you repeatedly. Expected better returns on that investment.”
“Finding a hidden dragon realm counts for nothing?”
“Without access? Hardly.” His eyes narrow. “Can you provide entry?”
The calculation in his gaze tells me everything. The moment I reveal the puzzle runes beneath the salt, I'm expendable. A spy whose cover is blown has limited value. My eyes scan the cracked white expanse—no sign of Brynn emerging. Not through this portal.
Which means...
The realization hits me. “I still have a chance,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone. Hope flares dangerously in my chest.
Rothmere misinterprets my words. “Indeed you do,” he says smoothly. “Simply show me the way into Draethys.”
My demon stirs beneath my skin as I study him. The sapphire ring glints on his finger—his insurance policy against my rage. But there are other ways to hurt a man like him.
“Chancellor,” I say, keeping my voice steady while my skin crawls with the effort of containing my claws, “was I ever going to learn who killed my mother?”
His smile doesn't falter. “In due time.”
I don’t believe him.
“You know his name?”
“Naturally.”
The lie hangs between us, crystalline in its perfection. Everything clarifies in that moment—I've never been more than his expendable tool, discarded now that I've returned from Draethys with empty hands.
I need to find Brynn. Reach Darkbirch before she does, or intercept her journey. Make her understand. Everything can't end here among salt and betrayal. She has to listen to me. Just once.
“I must respectfully decline sharing Draethys's location, Chancellor,” I say, my smile never reaching my eyes.
The blade in my palm draws blood behind my back, each precise cut forming symbols older than Rothmere's lineage. My other self murmurs ancient syllables within me—a technique absent from Heathborne's intelligence reports. The incantation requires no voice when blood speaks.
A warmth spreads through my veins as the magic takes hold.
Rothmere's brow furrows. “What exactly is your objection, Chad? Fear of your own expendability?”
“A reasonable concern, wouldn't you agree?”
“An accurate one,” he confirms with clinical detachment. “Though I should clarify, your death is inevitable regardless. Withholding information merely prolongs the inevitable.”
“So you never intended for me to survive this mission.”
“A creature of mixed blood has limited utility,” he says, contempt finally breaking through his polished veneer. The sapphire on his ring pulses as he raises his hand, channeling power.
My inner darkness may be bound, but I am not.
In one fluid motion, I release the spell, my arm cutting through air that suddenly parts like water. The Blade of Ghosts materializes just long enough, a silver-blue arc of light. Then Rothmere's hand is separated from his arm, the clean cut cauterized instantly.
His howl echoes across the salt flats as he watches his severed appendage twitch among the crystals.
“You treacherous—”
“I'll be keeping this,” I interrupt, plucking the ring from his twitching finger before driving my boot into his sternum.
He collapses backward, his pristine suit now stained with blood and salt. As he writhes, something dark within me drinks in his suffering like an elixir. I cannot end him completely, but I've cut the strings that made me his puppet.
The ring slides into my pocket with a satisfying weight. Distance is all that matters now. Keeping this sapphire far from his remaining hand buys me freedom, however temporary. I'll decode his binding spell eventually. For now, this small victory creates space to breathe, to choose.
I'm done being the man Rothmere crafted: a creature of calculated betrayals and convenient loyalties. The path forward isn't clear, but it's mine to walk. Perhaps I can become someone the darkbloods might respect. Someone Brynn might someday forgive.
Rothmere's howls fade behind me as I stride across the salt flats, his pain a symphony I've waited years to hear. His vengeance will come, inevitable as sunrise.
Let it.
Brynn Salem awaits, somewhere beyond these crystalline wastes. And if the dragons move forward with their invasion, I also have a world to protect. If anything in existence is destined to burn it all down, it won’t be the dragons. It’ll be the demons. Just like our legends have said.