Chapter 33 Brynn
brYNN
Tomorrow morning. The words hit me like a brick to the sternum, echoing in the library's oppressive silence.
Every tick of that pretentious grandfather clock in the hall feels like a hammer blow, counting down the seconds.
My ink-stained fingers fly across the brittle pages of the Codex Draconis.
I'm searching for anything remotely useful.
A weakness. A forgotten ritual. Hell, even a footnote about dragon allergies.
Just one single, desperate silver bullet buried in this mountain of ancient, probably useless lore.
The air reeks of old paper, leather, and that electric ozone smell from the wards practically having panic attacks under the weight of everyone's fear.
Silver lining: our boundaries got juiced up from Esme's insane trials, even if she hasn't finished the whole set. Too late to talk her out of them now. They’re happening—whether I or dragon-guy like it or not—and we’re all going to have to deal with whatever cosmic horror show is waiting at the finish line.
The elders are practically salivating to find out what's there, like it's some magical pot of gold at the end of a seriously messed-up rainbow. “Game-changing,” they keep saying. Yeah, well, so was the atomic bomb. I just hope whatever we unleash won't make dragons look like pets in comparison.
I shove my glasses up for the millionth time, my eyes feeling like they've been scrubbed raw.
Esme's in her room, passed out and recuperating from the latest trial’s trauma.
She's the sword—swift and deadly purpose.
I'm supposed to be the shield, the brain that finds the one weak spot to aim for.
But dragon armor doesn't have a lot of weak spots, and my brain feels like a colander right now, every half-decent theory draining away into a puddle of “did you know dragons can smell fear from three miles away?” Fantastic.
We can’t rely on whatever intel Dayn might offer either. He’s still a dragon; any insight he offers is automatically compromised. No one volunteers the most efficient ways to kill their own kind.
A shadow drapes over my page. I don’t have to look up to know it’s him.
But I do anyway.
“You’re going to give yourself a headache,” Chad says.
Of course he’s here. Of course he’s looming over my table like the last person I need standing this close, smelling of night air and that metallic, not-quite-mortal heat I shouldn’t remember as vividly as I do.
“I already have one,” I say, closing the book halfway. “It’s manageable.”
His jaw flexes. He studies me like I’m a report he’s still obligated to file.
“Did you figure anything out?” he asks, voice even.
“So far, just that we’re rather screwed,” I say, finally leaning back and rubbing my eyes.
I look at him properly. He looks tired, the skin around his green eyes tight with a tension that’s unrelated to sleep. “What do you want, Chad?”
He shoves his hands in his pockets, a gesture that seems too casual for the gravity in his expression. “I’m leaving.”
My heart does a stupid little stutter-step. “Leaving? What? As in, defecting again? Because the timing would be truly impeccable.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up, a ghost of a smile.
“No. I want to go out there. To do something.” He gestures vaguely toward the window, toward the world that’s about to end.
“I can’t just sit here waiting for everyone to knock the door down.
I was a spy for Heathborne. I know some of the clearbloods’ old protocols, their fall-back positions.
With the dragons hitting them too, they’ll be disorganized.
I could at least help on that front. There might be an opportunity. ”
“An opportunity for what? To get yourself killed?” The idea is insane. A half-demon, ex-spy waltzing into the middle of a three-way war.
“To prove I’m on your side,” he says, his voice dropping, losing its casual edge.
A shimmer of that intensity is back, the thing that simmers just under his skin.
“For real this time.” He steps closer, and that quiet, dangerous side of his aura seems to slide into my space before he does.
“I’m telling you because I’m not running.
This isn’t a betrayal… You still have the ring, remember. ”
My throat tightens as I swallow. His eyes seem to track the movement. Yes. I haven’t forgotten.
“If I even think about turning...” His fingers brush mine as he takes my hand in order to turn it, palm up. “You can do whatever you want. Stun me. Paralyze me… Set me on fire.”
My skin prickles where he touches it and I find myself catching my breath.
A kill switch—the most profound gesture of trust a person could make. One I still feel extremely uncomfortable carrying.
His thumb absently traces a circle on my wrist, just above my pulse. I pull away, fumbling with the ring in my pocket.
His idea is insane. Reckless. But it's also the first plan I've heard all day that isn't just ‘brace for impact.’
I look from his face—those eyes, more demon-dark than I remember, that red gleam catching on me—to the text before me. I don’t have much time to analyze this.
My chair scrapes against the floor as I push it back.
“No,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
He frowns, confusion drawing his brows together. “No, you don't trust me?”
“No,” I repeat, meeting his gaze directly. “I'm not sitting here holding your leash.” I shrug on my coat, using the motion to put a few more inches between us. “I'm coming with you.”