Chapter 17 Chad
CHAD
The sound of a key turning in the lock of my cell door slices through the pre-dawn gloom. I look up from the stone cot, my muscles stiff from a sleepless night spent cataloging every mistake I’ve ever made.
The list is long.
Corvin stands in the doorway, his face etched with exhaustion. But to my surprise, he doesn’t look at me with the contempt of a jailer.
“On your feet, Valgrave,” he says wearily.
I rise without a word. He tosses a bundle of dark clothing onto the cot, standard Darkbirch fatigues. “Get changed. You’re being reassigned.”
I pull on the clothes, the familiar fabric a weird comfort. “Reassigned where?” I ask, my voice rough from disuse.
“Brynn Salem’s detail,” he says. “She’s… spoken for you. In a manner of speaking.”
I swallow, trying to restore some of the moisture to my mouth. Brynn did that… already?
“You managed to escort her into Draethys after all,” Corvin adds, his gaze sharpening. “And our sources have confirmed Rothmere sustained a grievous injury. He’s gone to ground. Whereabouts… unknown.”
A cold snake uncoils in my gut at that last piece of information. Rothmere isn’t a man who accepts defeat; he simply tries to refine his methods. He’ll be plotting something new. Still, I now have time of my own. He isn’t the only one who can fight dirty.
“I’ll take that into consideration,” I say, my voice flat.
Corvin gives a curt nod. “Follow me. You're being reassigned as Brynn's shadow—mentor, bodyguard—and whatever other capacity the coven may require in the coming days. Should you prove yourself worthy.”
I nod stiffly and we walk through the academy’s corridors.
The place reeks of fear—sweat-slick palms gripping weapons too tightly, whispered strategies cut short when I pass.
Familiar faces turn unfamiliar. That’s the part that hurts most. Even Markus—with whom I shared a dorm room for two years—flinches when our eyes meet.
His hands subconsciously ball. I feel a hollow ache beneath my ribs.
All these people were mine once. Now I'm just another threat to neutralize.
But I keep my face blank, jaw tight, eyes forward. Let them think what they want. It's easier than explaining I never wanted to betray them. The road to hell is paved with good intentions…
Corvin leads me to the oldest wing, that part of the academy I rarely see, where the air is thick with the dust of centuries and the potent, cloying scent of dormant magic. We stop before a heavy, now-familiar door.
“Brynn is in there,” Corvin says. “Don’t screw up again.” It’s both a threat and a command. He turns and leaves me there without another word.
Inhaling, I push the door open and step inside.
In the center of the cold, shrine-like study sits what they call Merlin's tombstone—a hunk of ancient granite that radiates a quiet, immense power… a sleeping god in the heart of the school. Or Darkbirch’s equivalent of a nuclear warhead. Only time will tell which it’ll become.
My eyes find Brynn first. She stands slightly apart, near a table laden with ritual components: silver bowls, bundles of herbs, carafes of blood. She wears simple, dark robes. The ring is gone from her finger, but I feel its weight in her pocket as if it were still a brand on my soul.
She looks up as I enter, and though her lips press together, the corner of her mouth twitches upward for a fraction of a second: a ghost of our old rapport. She gives a single nod that seems to say, “Well, if I'm stuck with a bodyguard, at least it's you, idiot.” Something I’ll take, for now.
Esme stands poised by the altar… like a weapon being calibrated for use.
She’s focused, her energy coiled and sharp.
Dayn’s like a storm cloud brooding in the corner, his golden eyes fixed intensely on Esme.
I sense it’s not by her choice that he’s here.
His brother, Byzu, leans against a pillar, watching the proceedings with a guarded expression.
Warden Blythe clears her throat, her voice cutting through the heavy silence.
“The preliminary attunement is complete. Now, we should limit the ambient spiritual signatures in the room.” Her gaze sweeps over us.
“Only those essential to the ritual may remain. Esme, obviously. Brynn, you can be useful. And…” She hesitates, her eyes flicking to Dayn.
“Your… connection… makes your presence a factor we cannot dismiss, just yet.”
Dayn doesn’t so much as blink. Byzu pushes off the pillar with an exhale. “So the rest of us are relegated to the hallway?” he mutters.
He saunters out, and I follow, my gut twisting as I cast one last look at Brynn.
Her shoulders are set with a familiar, stubborn tension—the same posture she adopts before every bad decision.
The heavy door closes with a quiet, definitive thud that feels more like a death knell.
We're left in the corridor, the silence punctuated only by the low hum of the wards and the racing of my inner demon’s pulse.
Whatever ancient power they're about to unleash in there, I can't shake the certainty that Brynn will put herself between it and her sister if things go wrong. I want to be ready to step in, but I’m also currently in no position to push my boundaries, given the circumstances…
Byzu breaks the silence, his voice a warm current in the cold hallway.
“The Salems are something else, aren't they?” He shifts his weight against the wall casually, the movement highlighting the lean muscle beneath his fitted shirt.
His golden eyes, so much like his brother's, catch mine with genuine curiosity.
“Your scholar friend, Brynn—is she seeing anyone?”
“She's not mine,” I say flatly. “And she makes her own decisions.”
A smile plays at the corner of his mouth.
“Fair enough.” He runs a hand through his dark hair, tousling it.
“Can't blame me for asking. My brother's connection with Esme has transformed him—added this incredible intensity to his magic.” He leans forward slightly, voice dropping.
“Between us? I wouldn't mind experiencing that kind of partnership myself.”
The casual way he talks about it—about Brynn, about the bond Esme was forced into—makes the demon in my blood stir with a low, visceral anger. I force it down.
Footsteps echo down the hall. Brynn’s twin cousins, Ridge and Nyv Salem, walk in lockstep, their dark combat gear a stark contrast to the ancient stone. Between them, trying and failing to keep pace, is their younger sister, Isola. And they’re arguing.
“…rejection rates are less than five percent with modern techniques,” Isola is saying, her voice a sharp disturbance to the hushed atmosphere. “It’s a calculated risk. The increase in muscle fiber density alone would—”
“The answer is no,” Ridge cuts her off, his voice a low growl. “You don’t get permanent body mods until you’re at least twenty-one. End of discussion.”
“It’s not a tattoo, Ridge, it’s a tactical upgrade!” she snaps back.
“It’s grafting foreign sinew to your own bones, Isola,” Nyv chimes in, her tone laced with a familiar, acidic impatience. “You mess up the attunement and you’ll be walking with back spasms and a limp for the rest of your life. If you can walk at all. So stop whining.”
Finally noticing Byzu and me, they come to a dead stop.
Three pairs of cool gray eyes lock onto us.
The family squabble evaporates in an instant, replaced by a unified, palpable hostility that prickles at my skin.
The shift is fascinating. From bickering siblings to a cohesive combat unit in the space of a heartbeat.
Ridge instinctively steps half in front of Isola, his hand resting on the hilt of the dagger strapped to his thigh.
Nyv’s posture doesn’t change, but her eyes narrow on me, and I know she’s just cataloged a dozen ways to kill me before I could draw a breath.
Even the younger one, Isola, loses her petulance, her expression hardening into a cold, assessing stare.
“Valgrave,” Ridge says, the name more like a curse. “What are you doing here?”
I stay silent for a long moment, letting their venom wash over me.
I can feel the weight of their hatred, a now-familiar pressure.
But beneath it, I see something else. That fierce, unbreakable loyalty.
They may tear each other apart in private, but to the outside world, they are a wall.
It’s a strength I’ve never known. A strength Rothmere could never replicate, no matter how many pawns he broke and reshaped.
“Didn’t get the memo?” I finally reply, sticking to the shadows of the wall. “Corvin let me out.” I don’t elaborate, thanks to the part of me that still feels I didn’t deserve it.
“We’re enjoying the architecture,” Byzu replies smoothly, pushing off the wall. He offers the twins a smile. “And waiting for my brother. You must be the rest of the litter.”
Nyv’s hand flexes. “Watch your tongue, dragon.”
Byzu’s gaze rests on Nyv, his interest instantly piqued. He straightens up, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his face. “Another formidable Salem. Your family never ceases to impress.”
“Reinhardt wants you, Byzu,” Ridge says, his voice clipped. “He has questions about Draethys’s command structure.”
Nyv doesn’t give the dragon more than a glance, her stormy gray eyes sharp and cautious. “And you’re just another lizard who thinks he’s a king,” she snaps, cold as frost. “We’re full of those, too. Let’s go.”
Byzu doesn’t flinch. Instead, he lets a short, smooth laugh escape. He follows, hands loose at his sides, stride confident, the weight of him impossible to ignore. Every step radiates curiosity, hunger, and the unspoken thrill of a challenge.
Not the reaction she was wanting.
I can’t help the smirk that touches my lips as they disappear around the corner. But the amusement fades as quickly as it came, leaving me alone in the silent, cold corridor.
I turn back to the door to Merlin’s chamber, my hand rising to touch it before I stop myself.
Behind that wood, they are preparing to wake a god or a monster.
They are gambling with Esme’s life, and Brynn is standing right in the blast radius.
And for the first time in a long, long time, I find myself praying to any entity that might be listening that they all walk out of that room alive.