Chapter 32 Dayn
DAYN
Iwatch her mother lead her from the chamber, Brynn fussing at her elbow.
Esme moves like a puppet whose strings have been cut, her exhaustion profound.
She doesn’t look back at me, and the absence of that glance is a wound deeper than any blade.
She is a slate wiped clean, and the last words written there were mine.
The fury in my chest feels like a contained supernova, but it is somehow also a quiet, patient thing.
The kind of rage that builds empires and ends them.
Esther Salem has made a fatal error. She thinks she has removed an obstacle.
Instead, she has given me a cause. Before, I wanted Esme as my queen, a powerful, strategic match to secure my future and hers.
Now, I want the woman from the grotto. The one who trembled in my arms and chose to burn with me. I will settle for nothing less.
I let the Salem women leave with her, granting them the illusion of safety, of privacy.
My battle is not with them. They are merely custodians of the prize.
I turn my attention to Warden Blythe, who is methodically extinguishing the ritual candles, her movements precise, betraying nothing.
But I feel the tension in her, the way the air crackles when my shadow falls near her.
“A fascinating trial, Warden,” I say, my voice a low murmur that carries in the sudden quiet of the chamber. “Its parameters seem… malleable.”
She doesn’t look up from her task. “The Infinite Challenge adapts to the subject. It seeks the core of their strength and the heart of their weakness.”
“And it allows for outside interference, from those not officially connected to the trial?” I let the question hang between us, sharp as glass.
Blythe finally straightens, turning to face me. Her face is a mask of placid control, but her eyes are wary. “The Sanctuary’s ancestral wards are absolute. No outside influence can breach a trial.”
“No living influence, perhaps,” I counter, taking a step closer. I see a flicker in her gaze. She knows. She felt the ghost’s intrusion, even if she didn’t see what happened. “But the dead are notoriously poor at respecting boundaries. Especially when they’ve had a hand in writing the rules.”
Her lips thin into a bloodless line. “Esther’s connection to the coven is unique. Her presence is a blessing, not an interference.”
I bite back the words burning in my throat.
Blessing? What Esther did was a violation—a surgical excision of something precious and private, even if it did happen within a construct.
But revealing that knowledge to Blythe would be tactically foolish.
Our bond, the ways our magic intertwines, the ways in which I am still learning to manipulate it—these are advantages I won’t reveal.
Not when the pieces on this chessboard keep shifting beneath my fingers.
“Whatever happened within the construct was between Esme and her ancestors,” Blythe continues, her voice hardening. “It is coven business.”
“The moment she put my ring on her finger, she became my business,” I say, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “The moment she took my blood, she became my future. You and your coven of witches and ghosts seem to be forgetting who and what I am.”
I turn from her, leaving her to ponder the weight of my threat. The rage has cooled now, forged into a singular, cold purpose. Esther wants a puppet, a weapon honed by duty and stripped of messy emotion. She wants the perfect Salem heir to fulfill a plan possibly centuries in the making.
But I don’t want a weapon. I want my witch.
I walk out of Merlin’s chamber and into the echoing corridors of Darkbirch.
The stone feels cold beneath my boots as I emerge into the main concourse.
The academy, which just recently was a bastion of quiet, disciplined tension, is now a hive of controlled chaos.
A young darkblood, his face smudged with soot and streaked with tears, stumbles through the main entrance, collapsing into the arms of a waiting healer.
His words are a choked torrent of panic.
“—gone. The perimeter couldn’t… hold their combined force. They came from the east, so many…”
Another report comes in, this one through a communication crystal that flares to life on a pedestal in the hall, its light pulsing an angry crimson. A woman’s voice, tinny and laced with static, crackles through the air. “Coven Blackwood has fallen. Repeat, Blackwood is ash. They’re moving south.”
I hear more reports from small covens. Coven Stonegate in the northern mountains.
The Mirefolk Coven in the southern swamps.
My kind are moving swiftly and tactfully, starting with the small, the vulnerable, those without substantial defenses.
Building up their strength, their practice. They’ve already moved on from probing.
Godsdamned Anees.
Then comes a report that makes even my skin chill. “Heathborne is under attack. The western wing of their institute is burning. They’re holding, but for how long…”
Heathborne already. That coven’s defenses were damaged by my breakout, and I doubt it’s fully recovered yet. But still, striking there already is daring. It means Anees could send recruits back here anytime, and more of them.
More darkbloods are arriving now: refugees.
The great doors of Darkbirch’s military institute have been thrown open, and they stream in—a ragged, terrified procession.
They carry the stench of burnt homes and scorched earth.
Some are wounded, leaning on others, their clothes shredded and stained with blood and soot.
Children weep in their mothers’ arms, their eyes wide with a terror no child should know.
This is what Draethys and Anees have unleashed already. A world on fire.
As I stand there, a silent, imposing figure amidst the chaos, I feel their eyes on me.
Every darkblood that passes turns to stare, their gazes a mixture of fear, hatred, and raw accusation.
I am the monster in their midst, the face of the enemy they have just fled.
I see Ridge and Nyv across the hall, their faces grim as they direct the flow of refugees.
Nyv’s eyes meet mine, and the look she gives me is cold enough to freeze blood.
Even Isola glares at me with undisguised venom.
I struggle to blame them. I would feel the same.
“He should be in the dungeons,” a harsh voice cuts through the din.
I turn. Esme’s uncle, Edwin Salem, stands before me, flanked by two of his colleagues. He is a hard-faced man, built like a battering ram, with none of Director Reinhardt’s calculated calm. His eyes are chips of steel. “For all we know, you’re a beacon, drawing them here.”
Director Reinhardt stalks over, his presence a shield of authority. “That’s enough, Edwin. Dayn fought beside us. He has proven himself an ally and can help with strategy.”
Edwin’s jaw tightens, but he falls silent, his glare promising that this conversation is not over. He turns and stalks away, barking orders to his children.
Corvin approaches, his expression one of grim efficiency. He looks from Reinhardt to me, his gaze lingering on me with a fresh weight of suspicion. “Byzu is still missing.”
The name hangs in the air, this stinging accusation resurfacing. My brother. The one I brought here, vouched for, allowed within these walls.
“We’ve swept every inch of the grounds, checked every ward,” Corvin continues, his voice flat. “He’s gone. Vanished without a trace just before that first attack.” He exhales sharply. “He came here for intelligence. To map our defenses, learn our numbers. He was a scout for the main invasion.”
The conclusion is logical. It is what I would have done.
Yet something still doesn't align for me—Byzu's betrayal still feels too abrupt…
too complete. The thought sits like ice in my stomach.
I've been consumed with Esme, with protecting what's ours, leaving little room for my brother's machinations.
If he has truly abandoned our blood bond so carelessly, our next meeting will end only one way.
But Byzu must wait. I still have more pressing issues.
“The boy we captured,” Reinhardt says, his focus shifting back to the immediate threat. “Hale Braynor. He was lying. Or he was misinformed.”
I turn to him, a cold premonition settling over me. “Meaning?”
“He said they were still days away,” Corvin says, jaw tight. “Bad report. The scryers confirmed it—a fleet, large enough to blot out the stars and moving fast. They’re not days away, Draxion.” He pauses, letting the weight of his next words fill the space. “We’re talking morning.”