Chapter 17 #2
Nyssa nods, her expression growing serious.
I reach into my satchel and retrieve a slim vial of dim blue liquid.
“Shadow-blur,” I explain, uncorking it and taking a small sip. “It makes you harder for the eye to hold onto.”
It tastes like ice and ash, coating my tongue with numbness before spreading through my limbs. My vision shimmers for a moment as the magic takes hold. When I look down at my hands, my fingers are blurred, as though I’m standing slightly out of phase with the light.
“I won’t take it,” Nyssa says. “It doesn’t matter too much if the odd guard or servant sees me. There needs to be an explanation for your darkblood scent… I could say your people forced me to drink darkblood blood, or something.”
“Yeah, I could take a suppressant, but I’d rather not dampen my magic.”
She glances toward a narrow path winding up through the rocks. “The entrance is this way. There will be guards.”
I nod, drawing a deep breath, before we make our way up the mountainside.
The entrance to Iron Peak is a simple archway carved into the stone, guarded by two dragons in human form. They're tall, bronze-skinned warriors with eyes that gleam in the torchlight. The guards' armor is simple but effective, with overlapping plates of burnished metal that catch the moonlight.
Unlike the grandeur of Draethys, this entrance is utilitarian, almost spartan. This whole place is clearly an ancient, discreet military stronghold, from the old times when dragons still roamed the surface—abandoned and forgotten, until now.
I expect Nyssa to approach the entrance, but instead she tenses beside me. “Wait. Someone is coming.”
I strain my eyes and ears, but it's another moment before I detect what her superior senses already have—footsteps approaching from within the mountain.
“Quick,” she hisses, pulling me deeper into the shadows of a boulder.
The entrance archway illuminates with torchlight as a small procession emerges.
My breath catches in my throat. At the front walks a man who can only be Dayn’s brother, King Anees.
Even in human form, he radiates power and authority.
His expression is sharp, cruel, framed by obsidian-dark hair.
Behind him follows a younger man with similar features but a less severe expression—Arrynth, perhaps. Several guards flank them.
“The northern flight arrives tomorrow,” Anees is saying, his voice tight with controlled anger. “We will not appear weak.”
“Brother, we should reconsider this approach,” Arrynth replies, his tone strained. “The loss at Darkbirch was... too much.”
Anees stops walking abruptly, turning to face his brother. The torchlight catches his profile, highlighting the tension in his jaw.
“Half our strike force turned to ash,” Arrynth continues. “The clans are talking, Anees. They're questioning—”
“Let them question!” Anees snarls, his composure slipping. “Let them whisper behind their hands like cowards. I am still king. I will restore our glory.”
“And how many more will die in the process?” Arrynth asks. “The Ides—”
“Are an abomination we should have stamped out centuries ago,” Anees finishes. “We underestimated their magic once. It will not happen again. You already know our approach this time will be different.”
Different this time? A shiver runs through me at his words. They haven’t given up. What could they possibly try next?
They begin walking again, moving away from the entrance, and I’m thankful for the strong wind—hopefully blowing my scent in the opposite direction. My heart hammers. Beside me, Nyssa has gone utterly still, barely breathing.
“But there's another matter,” Arrynth presses, and I strain to hear across the distance. “Dayn's accusation.”
Anees’ back stiffens. “What of it?”
“The rumor has spread among the younger warriors. That you framed him for our father's death.”
A tense silence follows, broken only by the wind threading through the rocks.
“And do you believe this... slander?” Anees asks, his voice dangerously soft.
Arrynth hesitates, and in that hesitation, I see the truth. He does believe it, or at least suspects it.
“I believe you would do whatever you thought necessary for our people,” he finally says, diplomatically.
Anees studies his brother for a long moment. “Then we understand each other.” He turns, continuing up the path.
They disappear around a bend in the path, their guards following silently.
“Now,” Nyssa whispers once they're gone.
We slip from our hiding place, hugging the shadows as we approach the entrance, and I try to push aside the conversation.
I need to focus now, not worry. The guards stand straighter, still at attention following the king's exit.
Nyssa gestures for me to wait, then steps forward, letting her form shift slightly, revealing scales on her arms and neck—not a full transformation, but enough to make her seem more imposing in the darkness.
“Nyssa?” one of them calls.
“Check the eastern ridge,” she calls back, her voice carrying the distinctive firmness of a higher-ranking dragon. “I just saw what looked like a hoard of vampires land in that direction.”
The guards exchange glances, hesitating.
“Now!” she urges, and something in her tone jolts them into action.
They hurry off in the direction Anees and Arrynth went. I'm impressed—and slightly terrified—by how easily she mimicked that tone of absolute authority. Guess she spent enough time around royals to perfect it.
“Quick,” she says, grabbing my arm.
We run through the entrance, finding ourselves in a deep corridor carved into the mountain.
“The cells will be below,” Nyssa murmurs. “Follow me.”
The interior of Iron Peak is a marvel of draconic engineering. Tunnels branch in all directions, some wide enough for a full-sized dragon, others only just large enough for a human. Crystals embedded in the walls provide a soft, amber light that casts long shadows.
Nyssa leads me through a maze of corridors, each turn bringing us deeper into the mountain.
The air grows colder, damper. Twice I have to duck into alcoves as patrols pass, my heart threatening to burst from my chest each time.
The shadow-blur potion blends me nicely into this darkness, but it's not absolute invisibility. I need to avoid direct attention.
Each time, Nyssa steps forward before they can question the scent, offering some curt variation of, “Pay it no mind. I escaped, but they dosed me with darkblood.”
The guards are tense, distracted. No one lingers.
Finally, we reach a steep staircase leading down. The stone steps are worn smooth from centuries of use, and the walls here are rougher, less polished. The sounds of our footsteps echo despite our attempts at silence.
The air grows stale, tinged with the scent of sulfur and something else. Something metallic and unpleasant.
“Blood,” Nyssa whispers, her face grim. “We're close to the cells.”
The stair-passage leads into a circular chamber with rows of iron-barred doors set into the walls. The floor is stained dark in numerous places, and I try not to think about what caused those stains.
“Byzu?” Nyssa calls softly, moving from door to door.
A weak groan finally comes from a cell near the back, and we halt, peering through the bars. Inside, Byzu lies on a thin pallet, his body marked with unnatural-looking burns and cuts that haven't been allowed to properly heal.
“Nyssa?” His voice is hoarse, disbelieving. “What do you want?”
“For now, just keep quiet,” she whispers.
I examine the lock on the cell door. It's complex, not just metal but magic, inscribed with runes that pulse faintly with power.
“This is a bitch,” I mutter to Nyssa. “Can you help?”
“Who's there?” A new, gruff voice calls from another cell.
Nyssa and I exchange glances before approaching the neighboring cell. Inside stands a tall mountain of a man with gold-streaked hair and weathered features. He has the rigid posture of a lifelong soldier. Despite his imprisonment, he carries himself with dignity.
“Colonel Rogon,” Nyssa breathes.
The man steps closer to the bars, his eyes narrowing as he studies us. “Nyssa? What are you doing here? Why do you reek of darkblood?”
“Complicated,” she murmurs. “Just… keep quiet for a minute, okay?”
I pull a vial of mercury-obsidian suspension from my satchel, my fingers still humming with the residue of the shadow-blur potion.
“We need a focal point,” I whisper to Nyssa. “Not a blast. A needle.”
Nyssa doesn’t hesitate. She places her palm over the center of the plate of Byzu’s lock, her amethyst eyes flaring as she releases a concentrated, white-hot heat.
I pour the suspension into the keyhole, the liquid metal seeking out the gaps in the runic structure.
Then Nyssa guides the mercury to expand, cracking the internal wards with the surgical precision of a diamond-cutter.
The iron plate releases a slow, agonizing groan… and then the door clicks open.
I exhale. That could’ve been worse.
We rush to repeat the process for Rogon’s cell, the air thick with the scent of cooling metal.
Byzu stumbles out, leaning heavily against the wall, his muscular frame shaking with a fatigue that goes bone-deep.
He looks like a man who’s been dismantled and barely put back together.
Nothing like the cocky, arrogant dragon I saw at Darkbirch.
“Drink this,” I command, uncorking another vial from my satchel. The tonic inside is murky and smells like damp earth and old graves. “Mandrake and spirit-root. It will restart things you’d prefer not to restart. Try not to vomit; it was costly.”
He takes it without argument and downs it in one harsh swallow, throat working. For a moment he just stands there, swaying, eyes unfocused.
Then they clear.
The amber sharpens—predator returning behind the pupils. He drags the back of his hand across his mouth and squints directly at me through the dim corridor.
“Wait,” he rasps. “I know those eyes.” A slow, crooked grin pulls at one corner of his mouth.
“Brynn,” I say flatly, pushing my glasses higher on my nose. “And we are not doing this again.”
Recognition settles fully. His grin deepens, feral despite the pallor of his face.
“The scholar,” he murmurs. “You’re a long way from your library. You… came for me?”
“You’re a long way from coherent,” I reply. “Focus. Can you walk?”
He straightens a fraction, testing his weight. “For you? Certainly.”
“That wasn’t an invitation,” I say. “I have a demon-thing currently escaped somewhere and a resurrected warlock living in my head. So unless you want to be third in line for my next nervous breakdown, move your ass.”
Rogon stands behind him, his gold-streaked hair disheveled but his eyes already scanning the shadows. He looks at Nyssa, then at me, his expression tight. “I've no idea why you just did this,” he says, “but where do we go now?”
Nyssa doesn't even look back as she starts toward the stairs, her movements fluid and lethal. “Out of here.”
We move in a tight formation, Nyssa leading the way while Rogon and a noticeably peppier Byzu take the rear.
My shadow-blur is wearing thin; I can feel the edges of my vision sharpening as the magic dissolves.
I take another quick swig of it as we reach the landing of the stairs.
Rogon and Byzu are too physically large for this potion to be of much use to them.
The sound of heavy boots hits my ears. A patrol, and they’re coming fast.
“Left,” Nyssa hisses, pulling us into a side-corridor that smells of stagnant water.
“This leads to the ventilation shafts,” she whispers as the guards' voices echo from the main stairwell. “It's a tighter squeeze, but it’ll bypass the main barracks.”
“Tighter squeeze? Great,” Byzu mutters, glancing at his broad shoulders. He looks down at me, eyes bright in the dark. “If I become lodged, will you assist?”
“No,” I reply. “That’s a promise.”
“Keep moving,” Nyssa hisses, and my hand finds a small pouch of flash-powder in my pocket. If we get cornered, things are going to get very bright and very loud.