Chapter 4
ESME
Dayn points me down a narrow corridor that opens into a small bathing chamber.
Stone basins with tarnished copper fixtures line one wall, and folded on a bench I find a linen towel.
Under surprisingly warm water, I briskly wash away the grime of the past…
I’m not sure how many hours… then navigate the winding corridor until the scent of cooking leads me to what passes for a kitchen in this strange lair.
All the while, I can’t stop thinking about Dayn’s words.
Part of me still desperately hopes that he’s wrong.
What a clean solution it would be: unleash ancient power, end the war, everyone goes home.
But that's exactly why alarm bells ring in my head.
Twenty-three years of disappointments have taught me that when a solution looks too clean, too easy, there's usually a catch lurking beneath the surface.
I've wished for simplicity enough times to know.
But for now, I push the thought away. One crisis at a time—my brain can only handle so much existential dread before breakfast.
The kitchen is a small, domed space carved into the heart of the rock, glowing with the orange flicker of a stone hearth.
Rayala is nowhere to be seen, but the wooden table is laden with a crusty loaf of bread, a bowl of dark, honeyed fruit, and a pitcher of something that smells like crushed berries.
Dayn is already there, leaning against the far wall with a cup in his hand.
He’s shed the heavy, brooding tension for a moment, looking almost domestic if not for the way his presence still seems to swallow the room.
I tear a piece of bread, my hands still feeling a trace of that ghostly, leaden heaviness from the Ide power.
He gestures to a steaming pot. “It's good.”
I cast him a look. “Didn't take you for a coffee fan. What's next, a book club where we discuss our feelings?”
“I'm not,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “It's tea. My feelings require a stronger beverage.”
I watch him over the rising steam as I pour myself a cup. “You have feelings? That’s surprising. I had you pegged as the emotionally… minimalist type.” I pause. “To be polite.”
Dayn lowers his cup. For a moment he simply studies me, expression controlled, almost too careful.
“Minimalism,” he says finally, “is sometimes strategic. You know that as well as I.”
His answer is simple. Somehow it doesn’t feel simple at all.
“You mean you conserve them,” I mutter. “For special occasions.”
He nods. “Or necessary ones.”
Something in the way he says it—quiet, precise—makes my stomach tighten.
I take a sip, and the tea meets my tongue: bitter herbs with a thread of smoke beneath it, like charred honey. I set the cup down, trying to shake the subtle yet uncomfortable shift in conversation.
“Well… speaking of minimalism,” I say, “care to explain the plan? Some detail would be appreciated.”
My anxiety is already there, steady and insistent. Darkbirch feels impossibly far away, yet the need to return pulls at me. I want to know what’s happening back home. That my family is truly okay. That the rest of the world hasn’t somehow unraveled while I’ve been gone...
“I don't have all the details yet,” he replies. “Flattered as I am about your estimation of my mind, I haven't memorized every arcane text written since the First Age. Shocking, I know.”
“Oh.” I hold my cup tighter. “So we have to—”
“Visit a library,” he says. “Like normal people.”
I frown. “What library?”
He circles the table until he’s opposite me, and sets his cup down. “My private, personal collection,” he says, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “A crown jewel of my hoard.”
I blink. “Your… hoard? You have your own library?”
He nods. “Almost a thousand years of forbidden knowledge.” A beat. “I’ve alphabetized none of it.”
“Where?”
His gaze pins mine. “Finish your tea. I’ll be waiting outside.”
He turns and exits the room, leaving me staring after him, cup cooling in my hands.
This dragon always finds a way to surprise me.
I choke down the rest of the honeyed fruit and the crusty bread, the sweetness of the berries clashing with the bitter herb tea in my gut.
My hands are still shaking slightly, but it’s no longer just from the Ide’s residue; it’s the sheer, reckless velocity of the life I’m living now.
I grab a linen shawl from the bench, wrapping it around my shoulders, and head toward the light filtering through the grotto’s main tunnel.
I expect to see him leaning against a rock, perhaps checking a map of some kind.
What I find instead makes the air vanish from my lungs, even though it’s not the first time I’ve seen the sight.
Standing in the center of a wide, natural stone clearing just outside the scryer’s lair is the obsidian dragon.
The dark, massive beast, who dwarfs the surrounding pines, his scales shimmering like polished volcanic glass in the moonlight.
His wings, folded tightly against his powerful flanks, look like black sails shot with threads of gold, and his long, whip-light tail twitches against the dirt.
Seeing him like this, in what is perhaps his truer form, is like staring at something scorching. It’s breathtaking, terrifying, yet also strangely, achingly intimate. This is the truth of him. The man I’ve been arguing with for weeks and months feels more like a veil in this moment.
This is the beast with the power to level cities, with a fire that forged the Blood Wars.
His head, long and elegant with subtle ridges of horns that look like a dark crown, swivels toward me. His eyes are no longer amber; they are vast, molten pools of liquid gold that seem to burn right through my skin.
Well, are you ready? His voice vibrates inside my skull, a resonant, deep hum that seems to echo in the very marrow of my bones.
I swallow, my boots crunching on the gravel as I take a tentative step forward, then nod. Guess so.
Pick up the bag, Esme.
I look down. At the edge of the clearing, near a cluster of ferns, lies a simple cloth bag. I walk over and retrieve it. It’s heavy—his clothes, I realize. Necessary, unless I plan on letting him roam around naked… a thought I do not linger on.
I sling the strap over my shoulder, the fabric still holding a trace of his heat, and exhale. The air feels so intense, and I’m not even touching him yet.
“So, how do we do this?” I murmur, realizing this is the first time I’m actually willingly about to approach him in this form.
Dayn shifts, the movement almost like a tectonic plate sliding into place.
He lowers one shoulder, his massive front limb bending to create a kind of step.
He doesn’t reach for me with his talons.
He doesn't scoop me up like a prize or a prisoner.
Instead, he waits. He guides me with a subtle inclination of his head, inviting me into his space.
I falter for a moment, hardly believing what I’m seeing, then slowly move toward him, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
As I get closer, the heat radiating from his scales becomes an almost physical force, a dry, baking warmth that smells of ancient earth and something dangerously wild.
I reach out cautiously, my palm flat against the obsidian plate of his shoulder.
It feels alive, vibrating with a low-level hum of power that zings up my arm—distinct from the pull of our bond.
Climb up. I have you.
His mental voice is calm and disarmingly close.
I scramble to find purchase on the ridges of his scales, my boots scraping against the hard, sharp surface.
He stays perfectly still, like a mountain, as I climb upward.
The angle of his wing joint adjusts, offering support exactly where I need it, and suddenly I’m there—straddling the base of his neck, just forward of the massive swell of his shoulders.
I’m riding Dayn.
I’m riding a dragon.
The thought hits hard enough to steal my breath. Not exactly awe. Something closer, tighter.
No darkblood has sat like this for a century. Not since before the wars taught us to hunt or be hunted, before closeness like this became a liability.
And Dayn is letting me.
A memory surfaces unbidden: his voice in the Repository of Draethys, explaining that dragon saddles were reserved for those a dragon deemed worthy. Trusted. Honored. The fact that I’m here without one, seated bare against him, feels wrong in a way that makes my pulse stutter.
Every instinct my coven drilled into me says this is the moment to search for a weakness. A seam. A place to strike. Instead, my hands are locked around the ridges of his neck, holding on because he told me to… and because I want to.
Because I trust him. Enough for this at least.
My thighs press into the heat of his scales, my body tipping forward along the strong curve of his neck. I can feel him breathe beneath me—slow, controlled—the powerful expansion of his lungs, the steady, bone-deep rhythm of his heart carrying me with it.
Hold tight, his voice slides through my mind.
I do.
The ground vanishes as he launches. His wings unfurl with a thunderous snap—leather and bone cutting the air hard enough to drive the breath from my lungs. The force pins me against him, and for a fleeting second I’m aware of nothing but the solid certainty of his body beneath mine.
We bank sharply and the world tilts—a forest rising vertical, mountains slicing sideways through the sky—and a startled sound tears from my throat, lost to the rush of wind. I press closer, my cheek sliding against the warm armor of his scales, my body molding to his movement.
Look, Esme.
Dayn’s presence—steady, sure—cuts cleanly through the chaos, and my nerves loosen their grip a fraction. I force my eyes open.
The world stretches wide and endless beneath us, the air rushing past, cool against my skin.
A low sun rests at the horizon, thin and bright, casting long light across a landscape that seems suddenly too vast to comprehend.
The earth below looks small and orderly from up here, stitched together by rivers and roads that fade into blue distance.
His flight smooths, powerful but precise, every shift of his body controlled. And I realize, distantly, that he’s adjusting for me—angling just enough to keep me steady, keeping his pace measured instead of truly wild.
The knowledge sinks low and slow. I’m not clinging anymore... I’m held.
I ease more into him, trusting the strength beneath me, the certainty of his rhythm. The fear melts into something heady and electric, my pulse syncing with his as the sky opens around us—and Dayn carries me forward like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The air bites at my cheeks, but the heat from his body keeps the chill at bay. I’ve traveled by vehicle, by vampire, by portal, but this… this feels like freedom. This is what it means to be a god.
Enjoying the view? Dayn asks.
I’ve seen better, I project back, unable to stop the grin splitting my face.
His amusement brushes against my mind, warm and unmistakable. Liar.
I prefer my horizons less… vertical, I reply.
Noted.
We glide through a bank of cool air, the mountains sliding past beneath us like sleeping giants. I feel him adjust again—just a fraction—keeping me balanced without making it obvious.
You’re quiet, he observes after a moment.
Trying not to fall off, I answer.
A low chuckle rumbles through him, vibrating up into my bones. You won’t.
Not sure if I should be comforted or alarmed by your confidence.
Choose comforted.
I bite back another smile. Bossy for a taxi service.
I prefer “elite transportation.”
With complimentary terror?
Character building, he replies.
The wind catches in my hair as he banks lazily, the horizon tipping in a way that makes my stomach flip—though perhaps not entirely from the movement.
So, I venture, is this how you impress all your passengers?
There’s a pause. Only the difficult ones.
I snort, leaning a little closer to the warmth of his neck. So I’m difficult?
Consistently.
And what are you?
He doesn’t answer immediately, letting the landscape roll beneath us in broad, lazy sweeps—rivers flashing silver, forests folding into shadowed valleys. The world feels impossibly far away in this moment. Small. Almost manageable.
Adaptable, he replies finally. Patient. You bring out my better qualities.
I roll my eyes. Another stretch of silence follows, but it’s comfortable in a way I don’t expect. As the wind hums past us, the steady rhythm of his wings becomes something almost soothing.
You’re calmer now, he notes.
Really?
Yes. But you’re still holding on too tightly.
I glance down at my still-white-knuckled grip on his scales. I’m literally riding a dragon.
You’re riding me, he replies.
The words land with far more weight than he probably intended—or maybe exactly the amount he intended. Either way, heat crawls up the back of my neck.
Mind your phrasing, I mutter.
A pause hangs between us.
I’m precise by nature.
That explains a great deal.
His amusement brushes my thoughts, light and fleeting.
You’re insufferable, I tell him.
So I’ve been informed.
Are we almost there?
A pause, and then to my surprise, he replies: Yes.