Chapter 21 Chad
CHAD
“Get Her Laid by a Dragon King?” I mutter.
“It’s got flair,” Brynn whispers the words from behind the dubious cover of a weeping angel statue, her breath fogging in the cold air, “and it could work. I mean, she already clearly has a thing for him. Something. I saw the way she practically melted into him back in Draethys.”
I keep my voice to a low murmur. “The plan has too many emotional variables to be tactically sound. And, in all likelihood, we have no time to make anything like this work before she completes the trials.”
“But what do we have to lose by trying?” Brynn breathes. “Nothing. Plus, there’s no harm having a… backup option. We could at least get the ball rolling.”
I clench my jaw. “Insanely enough, I agree.”
Even more insanely—if that old spirit knew anything about what she was talking about—I think it might be our only sane option.
Ice forms in my gut. All my life, I've walked the tightrope between two worlds—never darkblood enough, never clearblood enough—trying to maintain a precarious balance.
Now watching the darkbloods reach for the Ides feels like witnessing someone light a match in a room drenched in gasoline.
I should have seen it coming. Each year, each skirmish between the factions has wound the spring tighter, pushed the pendulum further.
This was inevitable—the moment when desperation finally outweighs caution.
I just never expected dragons to be the match that finally ignites the powder keg. Them entering the equation feels like some kind of… cosmic mockery.
And Brynn Salem is now the self-appointed director of this farce. A farce I am now bound to by a silver ring in her pocket and the faint, desperate hope that her madness might actually somehow save us all. In her favor, she got us into Draethys.
“Okay,” she whispers, peeking around the angel’s wing again. “Phase One: Proximity. We need to get them alone. Somewhere… romantic? Or at least not actively hostile. Ideas?”
My mind cycles through schematics of the academy.
Weak points. Blind spots. Places for an ambush, or an assignation.
The two are not so different. “The western battlement is isolated after the evening patrol shift change,” I say, my voice a low monotone.
“It offers a clear view of the forest. The wind would muffle any conversation.”
She glances at me, a flicker of a smile in her eyes. “See? This is why you’re my tactical betrayal expert. You think of everything.”
The words are a casual barb, but they land more like a physical blow. I don’t let it show. For the time being, I’m her tool. Nothing more… Albeit a willing tool.
“The problem isn’t the location,” I continue, forcing my focus back to the mission. “It’s the target. Every time Dayn so much as breathes in her direction, she looks ready to go full—”
As if summoned, Esme appears at the far end of the courtyard. She moves with a cold grace, a solitary shadow against the gray stone, heading for the training grounds. The fragility I saw in her earlier has faded; each footfall now seems to land with renewed strength, conviction.
“Right,” Brynn mutters, chewing on her lower lip. “She’s not exactly receptive to grand romantic gestures. Or, you know, basic human interaction.”
I watch Esme disappear into the armory, possibly on her way to the most brutal of the combat simulators, for… whatever the second trial will hold. She’s obviously been briefed already.
“You’re approaching this as a social problem,” I say, keeping my voice low. “It is a tactical one. We don’t need her to be receptive. We need her to be dependent.”
Brynn turns to me, her brow furrowed. “Dependent on Dayn? Good luck with that. She’d rather set herself—”
“Not on him,” I clarify, the plan forming with a cold, clean logic in my mind.
“On their combined power. The bond between them is supposed to be a weapon, one she’s refusing to fully hone.
” I meet her gaze, letting the weight of the idea settle.
“Because she thinks she can save the coven without it, that she doesn’t truly need it.
We need to create a situation where that weapon is the only thing that can protect something she values more than her own pride. ”
Her eyes widen as the implication lands. “Family,” she breathes.
“A controlled crisis,” I say. “A threat that is too significant for her to handle alone, but not so great it can’t be contained.
You will be the target. Dayn will be the only available reinforcement.
She will be forced to work with him—to use the bond, to trust it—or risk watching you immediately fall. ”
Brynn's eyes widen. “And maybe that’ll trigger a change of mind…
or a change of heart? Or something better than now, at least. And holy crap, that's diabolical.” She punches my arm, hard enough that I actually feel it.
“Make her save me to save herself? That's some next-level emotional manipulation. Darkbirch Psych 505 stuff. And here I thought you were just eye candy with a fancy sword.”
“My sword is also quite fancy,” I mutter, a strange warmth spreading from the point of impact on my arm. “And effective. A useful combination.” I rub the spot she struck, not because it hurts, but to anchor the sensation. It’s been a while since someone touched me without the intent to harm.
Her cheeks flush a faint, satisfying pink. “I’ll take your word for it,” she says, pushing her glasses up her nose.
“The sword,” I clarify, a ghost of a smirk touching my lips, “is an extension of its wielder. Its effectiveness is a matter of personal pride.”
Her flush deepens. “Right. Well. Pride isn’t going to save my sister, Valgrave, so let’s focus.”
“Focus,” I echo, my voice flat. “Right.” My mind is already moving, sorting through layouts, patrol schedules, magical signatures.
“The lower archives. You go there now for a solo rotation… recalibrating the containment wards on the pre-purge artifacts. It’s isolated.
The ambient spiritual energy will mask my interference. ”
“Interference?” Her eyes narrow behind her glasses, a spark of wariness mixing with the thrill of conspiracy.
“A controlled breach,” I explain. “For starters… there’s the Weeping Locket containing that aggressive wraith.
I’ll create a momentary flaw in its containment field.
It will manifest. It will target you. The alert will register as a level-two spiritual incursion—enough to draw Esme’s immediate attention. ”
She swallows, the vulnerability of the plan finally hitting her. She isn’t a willing field agent. This isn’t her language. “And you’ll be there? To make sure whatever we do stays… minor?”
I shrug. “Yeah, I'll be there.”
She shoves me in the shoulder.
“I won’t let it harm you,” I say, my voice harder, the words a vow I didn’t intend to make aloud. “I’ll… be your shadow.”
She searches my face for a moment, studying me.
Her gaze isn't accusatory, not like Corvin’s, or fearful, like the other students’.
It’s… analytical. Like she’s trying to solve a particularly difficult equation.
My own reflection is probably a grim, scarred mask, but she seems to look past it, to… me. Underneath.
For a heartbeat, the calculation in her gaze falters.
The storm gray of her eyes softens at the edges, revealing something I can't quite name beneath the surface.
Our eyes lock across the narrow space between us, and I realize I'm holding my breath.
Part of me waits for her to slice through this strange tension, to rebuild the wall between now-captor and conspirator.
“You know,” she says, her voice quiet, almost lost in the courtyard’s chill, “I could just order you to keep me safe. Command you not to let anything happen.”
“You could,” I agree, my voice rougher than I intend. “It would be… a logical precaution.”
She doesn’t look away. Her gaze is steady, searching. “But I’m not going to,” she says, and the quiet finality of it hits me harder than any of her previous insults.
Her hand comes up, slowly, hesitantly. Her fingers brush the collar of my fatigues, smoothing a crease that isn’t there.
The touch is feather-light, barely there, but it sends a jolt through my system, a low-voltage shock that makes the demon in my blood go utterly still…
then lock on, scenting meaning, reading intent, bracing for something it recognizes far too easily.
A touch like that is territorial. It’s the kind of casual, possessive gesture one makes for someone they… care about. Someone who belongs to them. It means a claim.
Means mine.
I know that’s demon-instinct twisting things, but my body—and the demon—don’t care. He awakens with a hunger that has nothing to do with violence.
Her scent fills my lungs: faint traces of ink and something uniquely her that makes my mouth go dry. My pulse hammers in my throat. A touch like that is territorial. Possessive. It means mine, my demon echoes the thoughts.
My hand curls into a fist at my side, nails biting into my palm.
The muscles in my thighs tense, ready to either retreat or close the distance between us.
One part of me screams to retreat, to break the contact before instinct makes a liar of me.
Another part—older, darker, more honest—wants to lean in, wants to bare its throat and let her keep touching me.
To feel her fingers trail lower, taste the salt on her skin, press her against the nearest wall and discover if she makes the same soft sound when I touch her back.
The conflict tears through me like a blade between my ribs: exquisite, unavoidable, consuming.
She drops her hand, her cheeks coloring slightly as if she’s just realized what she’s done. But no. She hasn’t. She has no idea what she’s just done. Gods, Brynn.
“Just… be my shadow, Chad,” she says, her voice softer now. “Don’t let me get eaten by a locket-ghost.”
“I won’t,” I somehow manage. The words come out sounding like a promise torn from somewhere deep inside me.
She gives me a small, crooked smile that does dangerous things to my resolve. “Good. Now, let’s go recalibrate some wards before I lose my nerve.” She turns and heads for the archives, her steps quick and determined.
I follow, falling into place behind her, the phantom heat of her touch still burning on my collarbone. A shadow. A shield. Whatever she godsdamned needs me to be.