Chapter 11
brYNN
“Every darkblood here has been claimed,” Dominic continues. “The Ides needed anchors, and you provided them. Perfect symbiosis. But we are not limited to this sanctuary.”
“You mean—” my mother starts.
“Yes,” he replies. “When the Ide veil was pierced, the Ides flowed outward like a tide. The Ides are many, and they have spread their reach far beyond these walls. They seek darkblood signatures across the continent—across the world. By now, most have found their vessels. Most darkbloods in the fallen covens are now protected.”
My stomach churns with an inexplicable nausea that has nothing to do with the subtle Ide presence in my own mind.
I imagine the Ides reaching out beyond the borders of Darkbirch, to all the other darkblood covens, small and large, fallen and not yet fallen: Bloodbane, Stonegate, Mirefolk…
and still further. It seems they’re going to rebuild our people with their spectral hands, scooping up every darkblood that they can in the process.
I take a step back and try to take a breath, return to my usual analytical self. At a glance, it’s a masterpiece of tactical survival. We were a dying breed, a cornered animal waiting for the final blow. Now, we’re an army shielded by domes that turn dragons into dust.
Looking at the sheer efficiency of it, at the way the wounded are standing and the fearful are now focused, it’s impossible to logically argue that we made the wrong choice. We unleashed the Ides, and in return, the Ides have turned us into something the world can no longer bully.
I inhale, trying to calm my nerves. This is all so new.
Maybe it's all a blessing. I try to convince myself that this is the only way we could have survived the full might of the dragon assault.
I try to imagine Jax waking up to a world where we're finally not running or hiding.
I try to picture what it would be like to just live normal lives, without constant military drills and suicidal emergency missions.
I try to focus on the benefits. We're safe now. Protected. Stronger than we've ever been. The dragons are gone. The clearbloods can't touch us.
I can't ignore the cold spot in my mind, the weight of something else's presence there, something that I have a feeling will get stronger. I try to tell myself that’s just like having a roommate. A very old, very powerful, very invasive roommate…
Dominic stops in front of Isola who is cursing and rubbing at her temples as if trying to dig the intruder out.
“Calm, child,” Dominic says. He places a hand on her head, and the young woman stills instantly.
Her eyes darken, then settle into a shimmering gray.
“Do not fight the current. The Ide is like a river; if you swim against it, you will only exhaust your soul and drown. If you float—if you surrender to the tide—it will carry you to a strength you cannot imagine. It will go easier on your body. It will go easier on your heart.”
I watch as the darkbloods around me seem to take his advice. I see the tension leave my mother’s shoulders. I see Ridge’s hands unclench. They are letting go. Slowly, gradually. They’re inviting the passenger to take the wheel… because the road ahead is too terrifying to drive alone.
I, however, am still a stubborn librarian, with or without my library.
Deep in the stacks of my mind, I can’t help but build a cage.
A mental construct of high shelves and heavy, bound books…
the only place I’ve ever felt truly in control.
I force my eyes shut in concentration, take the cold, nagging presence that’s tracing my skull, and shove it into the restricted section.
I slam the metaphorical door and turn the key.
There. I swear I feel the thing inside hiss—a sound that’s almost like dry parchment tearing—and scratch at the wood of my thoughts, but…
it stays there. I feel the pressure, the chilling weight of it, but I keep my barrier up. I have a handle on mine. For now.
Dominic’s gaze sweeps the courtyard again, but I notice that his calm mask slips for a heartbeat when his eyes find Esther.
He gives her a look—a cold flicker of disappointment that catches me off guard.
I frown as Esther’s spectral form flickers back, her expression seeming to tighten as she avoids his eyes.
Before my brain can fully process that, Nyssa’s voice drags my attention to the periphery.
She’s being held by two of our darkblood soldiers like a prisoner.
They still see her as a remnant of the force that tried to burn us.
But as Dominic’s attention turns toward her, he doesn't look at her with the hatred I expect.
“The dragoness,” Dominic says, gesturing toward her. “She will be treated gently. She is to be housed in the guest block, not the dungeons. We have much to discuss regarding her future—and the future of those like her who may yet see reason.”
Nyssa looks at Edwin as the guards loosen their grip. Her face is a mask of genuine remorse.
“I am so sorry,” she says, voice unsteady.
“I never… I didn’t mean for anything to turn out like this.
” I see the trauma in her eyes from all the bloodshed of the past twenty-four hours—most of which was inflicted on her own people, some of which she took direct part in.
I doubt she’ll forget Ariella and Raelle Rogon’s deaths for the rest of her life.
Edwin, who now stands beside Aunt Maelis, looks at Nyssa. The black shadows in his and my aunt’s pupils flicker, but then he nods, a stiff, formal gesture. “You were doing a job,” he says. “Just like we were.”
With that, the guards lead Nyssa away. I want to reach out. I want to say something, to ask where Chad went, to ask if she saw which way Dayn took my sister. But my throat is tight, and I feel a sudden, crushing wave of isolation.
Chad is gone—turned into a feral, heart-ripping nightmare. Esme is gone—snatched by a dragon king. Again. And I am standing in a courtyard full of possessed relatives and a resurrected warlock, and I have never felt more alone or more helpless.
I need time. I need to crawl into a corner of the ruins and think until my brain stops screaming. I need to understand what we’ve become.
Dominic takes center stage again. He moves to a raised piece of masonry, the ash swirling around his feet like some kind of subservient mist.
“Darkbloods!” he calls out, and his voice carries to every corner of the ruins, seemingly amplified by the spiritual grid.
“Do not fear the changes within you. What you feel is not a loss of self, but an expansion of it. You are a gifted generation. You are the ones who will see the clearbloods kneel and the dragons flee. Stop resisting the Ides. They are your ancestors, your kin, your protectors. Let them in, and the pain will cease. Let them in, and you will never know weakness again.”
He looks like a true believer, like a man with the best intentions for the glory of our kind. Beside him, Esther stands tall. She is a true believer too. She spent decades trying to orchestrate something like this—strength and safety for her people—even sacrificing her own life in our war.
“And to show you that my intentions are true,” Dominic continues, his voice dropping to a slightly warmer, conspiratorial tone, “I have brought back more than just the Ides.”
He points in the direction of the graveyard, and my heart stops. Through what’s left of the trees, my brother is walking toward us. He’s pale and covered in dirt-stains—wearing the infirmary linens he was buried in—but he’s not the broken, dying man we put into the ground. He looks strong… healthy.
“Jax!” I gasp.
“Jax?!” The word escapes my mother’s lips in a sob.
We break into a run, stumbling through the ash. I reach him first and Jax catches me, swinging me around with a strength he never possessed before. He laughs and it’s a sound so normal, so joyful, that it almost feels like a sacrilege in this ashen graveyard.
“I’m okay, Mom,” he says, his voice steady. He kisses the tops of our heads as Mom wraps her arms around him too. “I’m… better, I think. I can… feel.”
Mom pulls back just enough to frame his face in her hands, her doctor’s brain overriding the mother’s relief.
I’m sure she’s looking for the edges of his aura, which Mazrov’s tech nearly obliterated.
That hybrid clearblood-dragon frequency had been like a slow-acting acid, eating away at Jax's spiritual core.
Whatever she detects, she looks satisfied.
“So,” Jax says, plucking at the threadbare cotton of his hospital-gown-turned-shroud. “Does this mean I’m excused from chores for the rest of eternity? Because honestly, my calves are killing me.”
“No,” I deadpan, adjusting my glasses which are currently far more bent than straight. “You weren’t out for that long. And you still owe me fifty bucks for that limited edition folklore volume you spilled coffee on.”
“Brynn, hon, let’s focus on the miracle of resurrection before we settle financial debts,” Mom says, though her lips twitch. She’s now fussing over his collar, her fingers tracing his skin.
“Wait. Did the Ides give you a jawline?” Nyv rushes over, followed by the rest of our family.
“Fuck you, I always had one.”
“It’s the lack of breathing,” Ridge quips, shooting him the needling look he reserves exclusively for Jax.
“At least he’s perfected the ‘pale and mysterious’ look.” Isola smirks.
“More like Victorian orphan who escaped a laundry fire,” I mutter.
Mom and I step aside to allow my cousins their turn at suffocating Jax, before Edwin and Maelis catch up.
The cousins finally back off, leaving a gap for Edwin.
My uncle doesn’t say a word, just pulls Jax into a crushing hug that probably would have snapped my brother’s ribs a few days ago and that I worry will split open his own healing injury.
Jax doesn't joke this time. He just holds Edwin, burying his face in the crook of the man's neck, his fingers digging into the soot-stained fabric of Edwin's shirt.
“You're back,” Edwin finally rumbles. “Gods, Jax. You're actually back.”
“Can't get rid of me that easily,” Jax murmurs.
I feel the heat prickling behind my eyelids, a sudden, heavy pressure that breaks through any armor I have left. I let out a jagged breath, my glasses fogging as the tears finally track through the soot on my cheeks.
Jax steps away from Edwin and pulls me back in for a hug. He smells like dirt and something terribly ancient, but he squeezes me until my ribs—the ones Ariella tried to turn into kindling—groan in protest.
“Watch the merchandise, zombie boy,” I wheeze, shoving him back just enough to see his eyes. They’re clear, but the Ide-shadow is there, a subtle inkiness in the center of his pupils.
“Zombie boy?” He smirks, that familiar tilt of his mouth returning. “I spend a few weeks in a dirt nap and you lose your touch. I was hoping for something up to your usual standard. 'The Risen King,' maybe? Or ‘He Who Refused the Worms’?”
“How about 'The Hero Who Needs a Bath'?” I shoot back. “Or ‘The Unwashed Returned’? You're literally shedding on me.”
“Well, I missed you too... Starhead.”
More tears squeeze out at the reminder of the nickname my dad used to use for me, and I stay pressed against him for another minute. Finally he pulls back slightly, his gaze sweeping the space around us.
“Where’s Esme?” he asks.
I wipe my face with a sleeve, a dry, humorless laugh escaping me. “Ah, as usual, that’s the billion-dollar question.”
The warmth drains from his expression as he takes in the full apocalyptic ruin around us, his gaze settling on the imposing figure of Dominic Merlin standing twenty feet away, watching.
“What the hell happened?” Jax asks.
I look back at the resurrected warlock, my stomach dropping as the cold, spirit-choked reality crashes back in. “Yeah… that’s what we’re still figuring out,” I murmur.