Chapter 15 #2
“Do,” he replies. Then, more quietly: “And Brynn? I understand your resistance to your Ide. But consider this: embracing it does not diminish you. It magnifies what is already there.”
“I'll keep that in mind,” I lie.
For a moment he simply watches me, as if weighing something unseen. Then he lifts a hand.
The air between us tightens.
Light gathers at his fingertips: a slow coalescence of symbols I don’t recognize and somehow almost do, lines folding into themselves with impossible precision. The room seems to dim around it, attention narrowing to the small yet potent act of creation.
“This is the seal,” he says softly. “A derivative of an older constraint, refined for draconic physiology.” His gaze flicks to mine. “It will not harm her. It will simply make violence against our kind inaccessible.”
The construct settles into a compact knot of shadow-laced sigils, suspended in the air between us, pulsing faintly, like a restrained heartbeat.
I hesitate.
He notices. Of course he does.
“You need only carry it,” he says. “When she consents, place it over her heart and release your will into it. My binding will do the rest.”
Cautiously, I reach out.
The moment it touches my palm, a sharp coldness stings my skin. Not exactly pain—something… older. Structured. I feel the edges of his mind in it: vast, ordered, utterly certain. It takes effort not to recoil.
However, I recognize the nature of a spell when I see one.
Beneath Dominic’s presence, the spell itself is detectable.
I close my fingers slightly and the sigil responds, lines tightening, their pull resolving along a single axis.
Not inward. Not into me. The pressure anchors outward, like a vector drawn away from the body rather than into it.
Constraint geometry. Directional. It doesn’t press inward toward identity or thought, only outward, toward action.
A prohibition. Violence against darkbloods: forbidden.
“Can you manage that?” he asks quietly, dark eyes focused on me.
“Yes,” I mutter.
“Good.” His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “I suspected you could.”
I close my fingers around the seal. It contracts slightly, responding to the pressure, then stills, waiting.
“One more thing, Brynn.”
I look up.
“Your brother has been quite impressive in training today,” he says. “You might consider attending tomorrow.” A fractional pause. “It could ease your… transition.”
There’s no overt pressure in the words. Which somehow makes them harder to outright refuse.
“I'll consider it,” I say.
His gaze lingers a moment longer, then he inclines his head, releasing me as cleanly as he summoned me.
I turn and leave the chamber, the seal closed in my fist. It simply sits there—dense, patient, unmistakably alive with Darkbirch’s god of shadows’ will.
The guard outside Nyssa's room looks surprised when I return, but after calling the council chamber to check my authority, he doesn't argue. He presses his palm against the runes, which glow briefly before fading. The door unlocks with a soft click.
I push past him. The room inside is comfortable enough.
A bed, a desk, a small bookshelf with a few volumes, and a window that offers a view of the forest but is clearly warded against escape.
Nyssa sits cross-legged on the floor, her silver hair cascading over her shoulders, her eyes closed in what appears to be meditation.
A dragon might escape regular darkblood security, but Ide-infused security is another matter.
I shuffle closer to her, awkward, unsure whether to break her peace or… whatever it is she’s doing.
I stand there for a long beat, watching the way the air seems to subtly warp around her in a kind of rhythmic, low-frequency thrum.
I remember a fragment of a scroll I’d found in the restricted stacks of our library, one of the few that detailed the internal disciplines of the Dragon Houses.
Most people assume dragons are just raw, prehistoric power and awful tempers, but the Vael-Khyr—the ancient energy monks of the draconic peaks—suggested otherwise.
They taught that a dragon is essentially a living sun trapped in a cage of bone and scale.
Without learning the art of internal containment, a hatchling would simply burn itself out from the inside before its first century.
I suspect Nyssa is performing a high-level version of that containment now, her breath slow and ultra controlled.
She’s folding her fire into herself, layer by layer, until the heat becomes a calm, still lake…
“You’re loud for someone trying to be quiet, Brynn,” Nyssa says, her voice drifting through the room.
I jump slightly, the seal in my hand pulsing in response to my startle. “Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt your... soul-folding.”
She opens her eyes. The amethyst is so bright it’s almost blinding, swirling with the remnants of the energy she was just manipulating.
She exhales deeply and uncrosses her legs, then rises to her full height.
Even in simple borrowed clothes, she has a regal bearing that makes me feel small and rumpled in comparison.
“It’s necessary,” she says, her gaze dropping to my clenched fist. “The grief of my kin is a fire that does not wish to be contained. If I don’t anchor it, I might burn this room to ash, and your guards with it.”
“Is that a threat?” I ask, only half-joking.
“A warning,” she corrects gently. She looks at the window, at the strong, shimmering dome that now covers the sky, and I see it then—the wet shine gathering along her lower lashes.
Just hours ago, I was the one with an active vendetta against her, for almost killing my uncle.
Now that anger feels thin and misplaced, almost shameful, with the ash coating our grounds made from the remains of her people.
“Your people have invited a cold into the world that my fire cannot touch,” she says quietly, her voice thick. “I must stay centered, or I may lose myself to the freeze.”
I take a breath. The Ide in the back of my head scratches at the door of my mental library, sensing her power and wanting to taste it. I shove the sensation down, focusing on the cold weight in my palm.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m truly sorry.”
She looks at me then—really looks—and the grief in her eyes lands like a blow. She reaches for my hand and closes her fingers around it, squeezing. “I know,” she says softly. “You did not choose this.”
She inhales again, deeper this time, composure gathering back around her. “So…” A small, careful pause. “Any news of Dayn? Or your sister?”
I shake my head. “Unfortunately, no. But I have a proposal for you. I've been talking with Dominic.” I open my hand to reveal the pulsing seal. “He's offered you a... conditional freedom.”
Nyssa stares at the magical construct in my palm. Her eyes narrow. “What manner of binding is this?”
“It's a seal,” I explain, watching her face carefully. “If you accept it, you won't be confined to this room anymore. You can move freely through Darkbirch, access our resources, work with me.”
“And the condition?” Her tone is flat, knowing there's always a price.
I sigh. “The seal prevents you from harming any darkblood. Physically, magically. Any violent intent would be redirected.”
“So I’m basically muzzled like a dangerous pet.”
“I know it's not ideal,” I admit. “But it's the only offer on the table. Think of it this way: locked in here, you can do nothing. Free, even with this constraint, you might be able to make a difference.”
She looks at me. “Make a difference how?”
“By helping prevent more bloodshed,” I say, taking a step toward her.
“King Anees is still out there. Dragons who weren't here during the attack still live.
They might be planning some kind of retaliation even now.
You could help us find a path forward that doesn't end with more of your people turned to dust.”
“Or help you hunt them down?” Her words hold a note of suspicion.
“No,” I say firmly. “That's not what I want. Look, these Ides... they're powerful, ancient, and they have no love for dragons. But they're not all of us. Some of us still believe there has to be another way.”
Nyssa's gaze drifts to the window again, to the shimmering dome that marks the boundary of our new world.
“Actually,” I continue, “I was hoping we could help each other.”
Her attention snaps back to me, interest kindling in her eyes. “How so?”
“Byzu’s still missing, and so is Chad. Nobody here seems to care about either of them. If we don’t try to find and help them, who knows what will end up happening to them. We’ve no idea what Dayn and Esme are off doing—it could be totally unrelated to Byzu.”
“Do you have a plan?” Nyssa frowns. “Last I knew, Prince Byzu was being held a prisoner by King Anees.”
“Yeah, that complicates things… But Byzu is an older, more experienced dragon, right? If we can somehow get him, we’d probably increase our chances of tracking Chad.” I take a deep breath. “We help each other. Find Byzu, find Chad. And maybe we can help other prisoners of Anees too.”
Nyssa studies me for a long moment. I can see the calculations behind her eyes, the weighing of options, the consideration of trust.
“Your sister’s absence,” she says finally, “does this not concern you more?”
“Of course it concerns me,” I reply, feeling a pang in my chest. “But Esme is with Dayn. Whatever else he might be, he seems protective of her. Chad has no one. And Byzu is being held by a psycho dragon king who's probably still torturing him.”
She flinches at that, and I know I've hit a nerve. I press on: “We can do this. Together. But first, you need to be able to leave this room.”
Nyssa closes the distance between us, looking down at the seal still pulsing in my palm. “This magic... it is old. Older than your Dominic Merlin, I think. He has merely adapted something that existed long before him.”
“How can you tell?”
“Dragons have extensive archives,” she says simply. “And this... this has the feel of the Blood Wars about it. Before we were driven underground.”
Great. So I'm offering her a magical artifact with a traumatic historical context. But what choice do we have?
“If I accept this,” Nyssa says carefully, “you will help find Byzu? Truly?”
“I swear it,” I reply, meeting her gaze directly.
She takes a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling with control. “Very well. I accept your terms.”
I exhale, not realizing I'd been holding my breath. “Okay. I need to place it over your heart and then... release my will into it.”
Nyssa straightens her spine and pulls aside the collar of her borrowed shirt, exposing the skin above her heart. “Do it quickly,” she says, her jaw tight. “Before I reconsider.”
I step closer, the seal growing warmer in my palm as it senses its intended target. I press it gently against her skin, feeling the steady thrum of her heartbeat beneath my fingers.
“Release your will,” she prompts when I hesitate.
I close my eyes, focusing on the magic. I imagine my grip on the spell loosening, allowing it to flow from me into Nyssa.
The seal responds immediately, the sigils unwinding from my palm like liquid shadow, spreading across her skin in an intricate pattern.
The lines pulse once, twice, then sink beneath the surface, disappearing from view but leaving a faint, shimmering mark—like an iridescent tattoo just below the skin.
Nyssa gasps, her hand flying to her chest. For a moment, her eyes flash with a brilliant light, and I feel the air around us compress. Then it passes, and she steadies herself against the wall.
“It is done,” she says, her voice slightly strained.
“Are you okay?” I ask, suddenly worried that the spell might have hurt her.
“I’m intact,” she replies. “It feels like a cold stone lodged beneath my ribs. Not painful, but present.”
I nod, remembering the sensation of Dominic's magic—that absolute certainty, that unwavering structure. “I'm sorry it had to be this way.”
“Necessity rarely concerns itself with apology,” she says, straightening again. “Now, we have work to do.”