Chapter 12 Brynn
brYNN
The aftermath is a controlled chaos of grim-faced darkbloods and two very large, very real dragons shifting back into… very naked human forms. As Corvin throws them robes, they’re still radiating enough heat to warp the air around them.
Ridge and Nyv have the two Heathborne operatives suspended in a nasty tangle of magic, their faces bloodied and masks of pure, fanatical hatred.
Director Reinhardt is already there, and doesn’t waste time on pleasantries. He gestures, and two senior trainers cut the heavy packs from the prisoners’ shoulders. They handle them like unexploded bombs, which, I suppose, is exactly what they are.
Inside each pack, nestled in high-tech foam, is another cobalt-blue projectile. Two more. My blood runs cold. Three shots. They weren’t planning on just one test.
“They weren’t counting on a draconic interception,” Reinhardt murmurs, his fingers tracing the casing of one of the projectiles without actually touching it.
He looks up, his dark gaze sweeping over the council members who have gathered, his eyes lingering on Dayn and Byzu.
“I’m guessing this wasn’t just an assassination attempt.
It was a weapons test. They’re probing our defenses, striking while our shield is still healing.
” His voice drops, carrying a weight that settles in my bones.
“Our time is running out. It’s only going to get worse. ”
Esme, who quickly joined the crowd, clenches her jaw. “We need to extract everything we can from the prisoners.” She turns, her eyes pinning me. “Coming?”
I nod. I don’t particularly want to, but I might be useful, and comfort really isn’t the priority right now.
We descend into the dungeon’s chill, the two prisoners having been dragged ahead of us and thrown into separate cells.
They’re already chanting something under their breaths, probably some clearblood air purification mantra.
Esme stands before the first cell, her arms crossed. “Who sent you?”
The man, his face a swollen mess, just spits a wad of bloody saliva that sizzles against the containment runes. “Your filth can’t hold me forever, witch.”
“I don’t need forever,” Esme replies, her voice dangerously soft. “I just need a name.”
The second operative laughs, a harsh, grating sound from the next cell over. “You’ll get nothing from us. We’d rather die than betray the cause. The world will be cleansed of your kind.”
Esme’s frustration feels almost palpable, a low hum of violence in the air. She’s used to things breaking when she applies pressure. But these men are like stones, polished smooth by their own fanaticism.
I watch them as a problem to be solved rather than a threat. A puzzle. Their chanting isn’t just a mantra; it’s a low-level warding spell, a mental reinforcement technique I’ve only read about in clearblood texts. It’s rudimentary, but effective against basic coercion.
I step forward. Esme looks at me, a flicker of warning in her eyes.
“Their chant,” I say, addressing my sister but looking at the first prisoner. “The cadence is wrong. They’re using the seventh intonation of the Clarion Call, but the resonance pattern is for the Ward of Unyielding Will. They’re magically incompatible.”
The man falters. His eyes widen almost imperceptibly. He’s shocked that I know their internal magical terminology, let alone that I can critique it.
I press on, the words flowing from some dusty corner of my memory.
“Mixing them creates a harmonic dissonance. It reinforces your will, yes, but it also creates a feedback loop. A spiritual echo.” I let that sink in.
“It leaves a signature. A very specific signature that can be traced back to the caster who taught you.”
This is a bluff. A partial one. The theory is sound, but tracing it would be nearly impossible without the right artifacts. But they don’t know that. The second operative has stopped chanting. He’s staring at me now, doubt warring with his ingrained discipline.
“So,” I say, pushing my glasses up my nose, my voice calm, almost academic. “Let's try this again. Who was your target?” I glance between the two cells. “What were your exact orders? Test the weapon and retreat? Or were you meant to take out a specific member of the council?”
The first operative glares, the fanaticism in his eyes barely diluted. The second one remains silent, his jaw clenched.
“No extraction plan, then?” I continue, my tone conversational. “Expendable assets. It makes sense. Why waste resources recovering soldiers whose magical training is so... flawed?”
Esme catches on, her lips curling. “She's right. Your seniors sent you here to die. To see what would happen.”
The first man's composure finally cracks. “We serve the true cause!” he hisses. “And we will never give you what you want.”
I exhale slowly. This is probably a waste of time. I can see the frustration tightening the muscles in Esme’s shoulders, preparing for more violent methods.
Then the temperature in the corridor increases by several degrees as Dayn and Byzu descend the stairs, their presence sucking the air from the narrow space.
The change in the prisoners is noticeable.
The defiant glares dissolve into wider eyes, more genuine concern.
They shift to the back of their cells, pressing themselves against the cold stone.
They’ve faced darkbloods before. They are clearly inexperienced with live dragons.
Byzu stops in front of the cells, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. “You were saying something about dying for your cause?” he asks, his voice a low rumble. “I can arrange that. Slowly.”
The man inhales sharply, a pathetic sound that’s a universe away from his earlier bravado.
Esme looks from the pale clearblood to Byzu, then back again. A flicker of something—pragmatism, resignation—crosses her face. She gives a single, sharp nod. “Do it.”
Dayn opens the cell door with a flick of his wrist. Byzu steps inside, the door clanging shut behind him. For a moment, there’s silence. Then the screaming starts.
I flinch, turning away. The screams echo off the stone, burrowing into my ears. I can’t listen to it. Never have been one to get off on this stuff.
My eyes drift down the corridor, past the empty cells, to the last one.
The one holding Chad.
With the sounds of torture as a backdrop, I walk toward him.
The anger still feels like a hot, solid weight in my chest. He betrayed not just me, but all of us.
He used my trust, my research, my friendship, as a weapon against my family.
For all I know, he could have been planning to help Heathborne pull off this very bombing.
He’s sitting on the stone cot, his head in his hands. He looks up as I approach, his expression weary.
He doesn’t offer excuses. He doesn’t try to defend himself.
“I’m sorry, Brynn,” he says, his voice quiet, almost lost beneath the sounds from the other end of the hall. “For everything.”
“Sorry is just a word,” I say lowly, my hands gripping the cold bars.
“I know.” He stands and walks to the front of the cell, stopping just out of arm’s reach.
“I know words are useless. So… I’ll offer something else.
” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silver ring, embedded with tiny rubies and a sapphire.
I frown as he slides it through the bars, offering it to me.
I just stare at it.
“I cut it from Rothmere’s finger,” he says. “It’s how he controlled me. It’s a binding ward, keyed to my… other half. As long as I have it, he can’t directly control me. But it’s more than that.” He pushes it closer. “Whoever wears it holds the leash. It gives you the control he had.”
My fingers close around the ring. It’s cold and heavy. A tool? A weapon? A chain? I swallow.
“This is the only way I know how to prove my loyalty is no longer with him,” Chad continues, his gaze steady and direct. “It’s yours. Trust me. Don’t trust me. But it’s the truth.” He pauses, and I can hear another wet, choked scream from down the hall. “And my offer to talk still stands.”
I look from his seemingly earnest, tired face to the ring in my palm. A key… a test? An apology, wrapped in silver and old magic. An admission of what he is: a spy, a half-demon, a man who communicates through leverage and secrets. But it also seems like a desperate act of trust.
I close my fist around the ring, the sharp edges of the setting digging into my palm.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, and turn my back on him before he can see the conflict warring on my face.