Chapter 5 Dayn
DAYN
We follow him through a maze of thick trees, the ground soft and silent underfoot. He leads us to a collapsed stone circle, the ruins of some ancient darkblood ritual site. Moss clings to the fallen menhirs like a shroud. It’s secluded enough. For now.
The moment we stop, Byzu glares at Chad. “So, talk. Why are you here? What games are you playing?”
My gaze bores into the half-demon. “As I mentioned, I remember you, Valgrave. A shadow in Rothmere’s halls. The Chancellor’s pet project. So tell me, what does he want with my wife? What does he want with me?”
Chad exhales, a harsh sound, as he leans slightly against a tree.
Then, unevenly, a story spills out of him: a history of coercion, of a mother’s murder held as leverage, of being molded into the perfect mole for a master who saw him as nothing more than an expendable tool.
He tells us of Rothmere’s obsession with my blood, with my powers and now with Esme’s, with finding the location of Draethys.
He tells us of the confrontation at the Salt Flats, of choosing a side, of taking the first step toward his freedom.
“Words are cheap,” I say, unmoved. “Especially from a spy.”
“Then how about this?” Chad reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bejeweled silver ring. He tosses it onto the mossy ground between us.
I feel its magic instantly. It’s ancient, draconic in origin, but… perverted. Twisted with clearblood runes and binding spells I’ve only read about in the most forbidden texts. A control ward. A leash for the soul. Another relic evidencing Rothmere’s obsession with the magic of my kind.
I kneel, my own fingers hovering over the ring, not quite touching it.
I trace the flow of power, searching for a weakness, a seam in the spellwork.
There is no obvious one. It is a masterpiece of magical cruelty, woven so tightly into the gemstone that to break the spell would possibly be to shatter the soul it’s keyed to.
“Rothmere’s,” Chad says quietly. “He used it to control me. To suppress… the other part of me.”
“And you haven’t been able to break this,” I say. “It’s been modified, layered with spells that counteract each other… A paradox of power.”
“I know,” Chad mutters, aggravation coloring his tone. “But as long as it’s off his finger, he has no direct control over me. I’m free.”
“And of course,” I say, thoughtful, “whoever puts it on… they get the leash, if they wish to assert it.”
Chad nods stiffly.
At least about the Rothmere part of the story, he was possibly telling the truth.
He retrieves the ring, and as Byzu and I continue to study his face, it feels as if a fragile understanding begins to settle between us, slowly. A truce born of a shared enemy rather than trust.
I know what it is to live under Rothmere’s chains.
The snap of a twig disrupts the quiet.
From the shadows, they emerge. Isander is at the forefront, his fangs once again bared, but he is not alone.
Behind him, the forest comes alive. Werewolves, their forms hulking beasts in the night, their eyes glowing with hunger.
Dark fae with luminescent skin and deceptively sharp teeth, their expressions cruel and capricious.
A group of incubi stand unnaturally still, their perfect faces belied by the predatory gleam in their eyes.
And other, smaller demons—imps and bogarts that scuttle at the edges of the crowd, their skin slick with ichor, drawn by the scent of conflict.
They form a circle around us, cutting off all escape.
“Consorting with dragons,” Isander hisses, his voice carrying through the clearing. “You’re a traitor.”
Chad steps forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Isander, listen to me. There’s no time for this. A war is coming. An invasion.”
One of the dark fae, a lithe female with eyes like chips of black stone, laughs a sound like shattering glass. “An invasion? From whom? The clearbloods are predictable. We are prepared for them.”
“Not the clearbloods,” Chad insists, his voice rising with urgency. “Dragons. From a hidden kingdom beneath the earth. An army of them is preparing to march.”
The fae tilts her head, her eyes narrowing. “And how would you know of such things?”
The question hangs in the cold air. The circle of monsters tightens, their hostility a palpable force.
A meeting of monsters, I think grimly. Someone should’ve brought snacks.
I step forward, moving to stand beside Chad.
Byzu mirrors me on his other side. I let my human form fade, not completely, but enough.
My eyes ignite, shifting from amber to the molten gold of my true form, and I let dark scales ripple on my neck and arms. The air around me superheats, the moss at my feet smoking and turning to ash.
Beside me, Byzu does the same, and the sheer pressure of our combined presence makes the air tremble.
The creatures recoil at our show of threat—an involuntary reaction, their taunts dying in their throats.
We are all monsters, but some more ancient than others.
“He knows because we told him,” I say, my voice a low rumble that is more felt than heard. I meet the gaze of the dark fae, of Isander, of every monster in the circle. “We are Daynthazar and Byzu of House Draxion, and we are here to talk. Because the clock is ticking for every single one of us.”
I let the weight of that sink in, watching their predatory confidence crumble into still silence.