Chapter 26 #2
Her voice resonates around Dayn and me. His grip on my hand tightens to the point of pain, but I don’t pull away.
I can feel the shock that runs through him—something profound and visceral that seems to hollow him out from the inside.
For a moment he looks younger somehow, stripped of the composure he usually wears.
“My son. My firstborn,” she continues, her spectral form shimmering as she moves closer. Her gaze is fixed entirely on her son, drinking in the sight of him with an intensity that makes me feel like I'm intruding on something deeply private. “I didn’t think I would see you again.”
“Neither did I,” Dayn manages, his voice rough. “It feels like it’s been… so long.”
The spirit smiles, and the subtle resemblance between them strikes me—that curve of the mouth, the proud set of the jaw.
I try to remain still, to keep the connection stable, but her gaze shifts to me, her ancient amber eyes seeming to peer straight through my defenses.
“And who is this?” she asks, though something in her tone suggests she already senses exactly who I am.
“This is Esme Salem,” Dayn says. His thumb brushes across my knuckles, a small, unconscious gesture. “My… wife.”
I feel heat rise to my cheeks at the introduction. The way he says it—so matter-of-fact, so natural—still catches me off guard.
His mother’s spectral form seems to brighten, her eyes widening with what looks like genuine delight. “A Salem? Oh, how fascinating.” She leans closer, studying me with unabashed curiosity. “I can see your ancestral line flowing through you, child. Powerful. Resilient. And just a touch... defiant.”
“It's an honor to meet you,” I manage to say, though the words somehow feel inadequate. “We've come seeking your guidance.”
“Have you now?” Her gaze flicks between us. “But how about you tell me first: how did my son convince a Salem witch to bind herself to him? The last I remember, our families weren't exactly exchanging Solstice gifts.”
Dayn clears his throat. “It's... complicated, Mother.”
Yeah, tell her.
“I'm sure it is,” she says, her voice warm with amusement.
“The most worthwhile things always are.” Her eyes linger on our joined hands, and I swear I can feel her gaze tracing the invisible threads of our bond.
“But I see it now. The connection between you.
It runs deeper than mere politics, doesn't it?”
I feel my cheeks flush harder beneath her gaze. Something about her presence makes me feel like she can see past even the parts of myself I can't currently access. I wonder if dragon spirits are more sentient than darkblood ones… more attuned to the world, somehow.
She moves closer, the emerald gown rippling. When she reaches toward me, I feel a whisper of sensation, deeper than physical touch, like fingers brushing against the surface of my spirit.
“My son has chosen well,” she murmurs, her eyes softening. “Even with parts of yourself locked away, your essence burns bright. I can see why he was drawn to you.”
Dayn's hand tightens around mine. “Mother—”
“No, let me speak, Daynthazar.” Her voice carries a gentle authority that silences him.
“I have waited centuries for this moment, to see the path your heart would choose.” She turns back to me.
“The Salem line and the Draxion blood—fire and shadow—have been circling each other since before the wars began. Not as enemies, as most believe, but as necessary counterbalances.”
I manage to find my voice. “With all due respect, your highness, our families have been trying to annihilate each other for generations.” As I believe you know firsthand.
Her laugh is bitter. “Yes, because they forgot the oldest truths. Before the divisions, before the hatred, our kinds recognized what we were to each other: opposites that create balance.”
She reaches out, her translucent hand hovering above our joined palms. For a moment she says nothing. Her gaze just follows the line where Dayn’s fingers lace with mine.
“For centuries, our world has been a series of fractures,” she says at last, her voice quieter. “Too many lost their lives to it. Dragon against mage. Power against power. We built our kingdoms on the distance between us.”
Her gaze lifts to our faces.
“Distance is a comforting lie.”
A faint smile touches her lips.
“But you two… You stand in the place where that lie begins to fail.”
Her eyes fix on mine.
“To love the thing you were taught to hate,” she says softly, “is the most dangerous kind of magic there is.”
She tilts her head slightly, regarding us with quiet fascination. I feel my heart hammering in my throat. Love. Nobody’s used that word before in the context of Dayn and me. Nobody’s thought of it. Nobody’s dared to.
“A sword may be forged in fire,” she continues, seemingly oblivious to my discomfort, “but it is tempered in the shade.”
Her gaze settles on her son, steady and searching.
“Do not fear what exists between you, Daynthazar Draxion.”
She looks back at me.
“Nor you, Esme Salem-Draxion.”
Her hand lowers over our joined fingers.
“The world will fear it enough for both of you.”
“What do you mean, Mother?” Dayn asks.
Her expression goes serious. “I mean your path ahead will not be easy. You will have to fight every step of the way.”
Dayn’s grip tightens around my hand. “We’ve already been doing that.”
“Yes,” she says gently. “But until now, you have only been fighting circumstances. Soon, you will be fighting intention.”
I feel a chill move down my spine. “What do you mean?”
A faint smile touches her lips again, though there is no real humor in it.
“The world is slow to release its old hatreds,” she says. “Especially when those hatreds have been useful.”
Dayn studies her. “Useful to whom?”
Her gaze lingers on him for a moment, something ancient and complicated flickering there.
“That,” she says softly, “is a question we will soon have an answer to.”
She withdraws her hand from above ours, the faint pressure of her presence lifting.
For a long moment, the uncertain weight of her words hangs between us.
“But for now…” she says at last.
The candles around the circle flicker, as if stirred by a breath of wind that doesn’t exist.
“For now,” she continues, her voice gentler, “I am simply pleased to meet the woman who finally managed to land my son. I had begun to suspect he’d forgotten how.”
“Mother,” Dayn says.
“You can call me Kalindra, by the way.”
I bow my head slightly, even as my cheeks flame. “Kalindra,” I repeat, finding my voice. “We, uh, also had a specific question for you… We need to know the location of Salome.”
Her expression shifts, the warmth remaining but a sharp, regal focus returning to her eyes. She nods slowly. “The ancient witch. Yes. She is the only one who can anchor a soul as fractured as yours has become.”
She turns her gaze toward the darkened corners of the library, as if looking through the very walls of the mountain. “Salome does not live in a place of stone or earth. She resides in the Forest of Verith.”
“The Forest of Verith?” Dayn and I repeat at once. My tone is confusion—I’ve never heard of the place—but his sounds more like caution.
“Indeed,” she replies. “The forest does not appear on maps. It has not for a very long time.”
Dayn’s brow furrows. “I thought Verith was destroyed.”
“Not destroyed,” his mother corrects softly. “Hidden. Or, perhaps more accurately… avoided.”