Chapter 8
ESME
Istare at the body—at the grotesque, jawless ruin of a man—and for the first time in a long time, I feel a genuine, nauseating tremor in my hands.
I’ve seen executions. I’ve seen the aftermath of magic that leaves nothing but withered husks.
But there was something so primal, so visceral about what Dayn just did.
It wasn’t a tactical kill. It was personal. And I think that’s what unsettles me most.
Dayn turns to me, his chest still heaving, his fingers stained crimson. The molten gold in his eyes hasn't fully cooled; it simmers behind his pupils, a dark, territorial fire.
“We should leave,” he says, voice still rough. “The chime from that rifle is likely a localized distress signal. More will be here within minutes.”
I still struggle to find my voice. I just nod, my fingers curling around the rough cedar bird in my pocket. The wood feels cold now, as if the brutality of the room has leached some of its innocence.
We leave the ruined remains of my parents' sanctuary, stepping over the threshold Dayn shattered, and move back into the frosty grass of the clearing outside.
Dayn reaches for me, and this time, I don't hesitate to take his hand.
My magic—the cold, fluid shadow—is already reaching out, seeking the anchor of his heat.
We don't need to speak. The synchronization comes faster now, smooth and instinctive, unnervingly so.
The gold and the black weave together, a shimmering shroud that cuts through the mountain air.
The world folds.
The transit feels like a blur of warmth and pressure, but when we emerge, the scent of ancient parchment hits me as a physical relief. We are back in the library, the amber luminescence of the stone walls casting long, peaceful shadows across the many shelves of books.
The adrenaline is receding, but I still feel the weight of the gore on my skin—a sticky, drying crust that smells of iron and salt.
I place my bird on the large wooden desk, exhaling. Dayn steps into my line of sight, his breathing finally leveling out. He glances at his hands, then at mine, where a spray of deep red has dried across my knuckles.
“We should clean up,” he says, his voice regaining its steadier tone, though the raw edge of the predator still lingers in the set of his jaw. “The iron in the air is distracting.”
Without waiting for an answer, he leads me away from the oak desk, past the terraces of ancient tomes, to a part of the lair I haven't seen. He presses a hand against a seemingly solid section of the rock wall, and with a low rumble, a passage slides open.
The air changes instantly as we step through—growing heavy, humid, and sweet with the scent of wet stone and ancient earth.
We emerge into a… hidden grotto. High above, the vaulted stone ceiling is covered in glowing moss, thick veins of luminescent turquoise and pale gold snaking across the rock like bioluminescent ley lines.
A perfect, small waterfall whispers down a sheet of black basalt, the sound a constant, soothing hush.
It feeds a pool so clear I can count the smooth, pale stones resting on the bottom, their surfaces gleaming under the water.
Steam rises in gentle curls from the surface, blurring the edges of the cave into something like a dreamscape.
I stop at the water's edge, the breath hitching in my throat.
I feel a faint, sudden prodding deep in my mind.
My heart does a slow, heavy roll. The way the light reflects off the ripples, the specific, enveloping warmth of the air…
it feels familiar. And yet I have certainly never been here before.
The sight leaves me breathless all the same, the quiet intimacy of the space wrapping around me.
“Something wrong?” Dayn asks quietly. He’s already moved to a natural stone basin in one corner, preparing two damp cloths. His eyes catch mine across the distance.
My pulse flutters at the base of my throat, but I shake my head.
“Maybe it's just the sight of you with a wet cloth that's unsettling,” I murmur. “And I… didn't realize dragons kept personal hot tubs in their libraries.”
Dayn's mouth quirks at one corner. “I contain multitudes, Esme. And the natural springs run beneath the mountain. I merely... encouraged them to surface where I needed them.”
“Of course you did.” I slowly approach him and the basin. What's the point of all that dragon magic if you can't reroute entire geological features for your bathing convenience?
I accept the cloth he offers, then focus on my knuckles, scrubbing hard, trying to erase the evidence of the slaughter we just left behind.
It’s a reminder that the clearbloods haven’t slowed down. That they won’t give up. They’ll keep fighting and pushing boundaries the same as we will, just in different ways. It won’t end while any of them are still alive.
Dayn doesn’t offer a counter-quip. He goes quiet. I hear only the brush of damp fabric on skin, the faint drip of water back into the basin. Then a silence thick enough to muffle even the waterfall.
The air in the grotto feels heavy, thick with mist, hard to swallow. I scrub at a stubborn smear of red on my thumb, my movements clumsy. My lungs seem to have forgotten how to expand properly.
Then I realize he’s stopped scrubbing his own hands.
“You missed a spot,” he says.
I look up at him. He’s standing close—close enough that the steam beads on his skin like sweat, his gaze locked on something on my right cheek.
The steam curls between us, turning his eyes into liquid gold.
He folds his cloth then lifts it to my skin.
The fabric is warm, almost hot, and his thumb brushes the corner of my mouth, catching a smear the cloth missed.
My breath stutters. His doesn’t. He wipes in small, precise strokes, each one erasing evidence of the kill he executed for me.
“Done?” I murmur.
“Almost.”
His hand shifts, thumb settling gently beneath my jaw, tilting my head back just enough.
I can't help but flinch, the visceral memory flashing through my mind of how those same fingers tore through a clearblood's throat less than an hour ago.
How they transformed into weapons of primal destruction the moment that man had threatened me.
The cloth glides down the slope of my neck and my skin prickles, hypersensitive, as he draws the cloth along the sensitive skin behind my ear—once, twice—erasing the last flecks of his violence. Violence he unleashed without hesitation, without mercy, the moment someone dared to disrespect me.
I glance at him, my brow furrowed. His gaze is focused on the task. What is going on in that head of his? I can’t tell; his face is unreadable, except for a simmering intensity in his eyes… the pulse flickering at his temple… the way his thumb refuses to leave my skin.
“You didn't have to do that,” I say, my voice low. It’s barely audible over the waterfall. “Not like that.”
His thumb stills on my jaw, then he shrugs, almost imperceptibly. “He called you whore-filth,” he says. “Whether you like it or not, you’re my wife. I can’t abide that. There was only one response.”
“So it was a kind of… dragon honor thing?” I ask.
He considers my question, his eyes still in the shifting steam. “Not exactly,” he replies. “More like instinct.”
I pause. “An instinct to... dismember people who insult your wife?”
“Among other things,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the hollow beneath my ear. He withdraws his hand then, but my skin keeps vibrating where he touched me, heat sinking bone-deep.
“We should continue,” he says, turning slowly. “There’s much left to do.”
I wait five heartbeats, then fall in behind him, the ghost of his touch lingering along my throat.