Chapter 28
brYNN
I'm floating, adrift in my own body while something else pilots it. I can see through my eyes, but everything's suddenly too sharp, like reality's been cranked up to painful clarity. My limbs move without my permission. My mouth forms words I’m not choosing.
“Pathetic prince,” my voice hisses, and it doesn't sound like me. It sounds ancient, layered with weird, multiple tones. “You think you can contain what walks between worlds?”
Arrynth steps back, his eyes widening.
I feel my body rise, the Ide using me like a puppet. I'm trapped inside, screaming silently, pounding against the walls of my own mind.
“Salem!”
Rogon's voice cuts through the fog. It's sharp, commanding—the voice of someone who's witnessed centuries of chaos and survived.
“Brynn, this is not you,” Nyssa adds urgently. “Focus on our voices. Find your center.”
I struggle to locate myself in the swirling darkness. It feels like swimming through tar, every movement a battle against a current determined to sweep me away. The Ide's presence is overwhelming—cold, ancient, and ravenous. It feels like it doesn't just want control… it wants to consume.
I try to cling to Nyssa's voice like a lifeline. I picture my mental library: the shelves, the leather-bound books, the quiet corners where I've always felt safe. I visualize grabbing the Ide and shoving it back into its cage.
“Fight!” Nyssa presses. “You're stubborn enough to give this thing hell.”
Something in her tone—the familiarity, the confidence—gives me an anchor. I push harder, feeling the Ide's grip loosen just slightly.
“Get... out...” I manage to gasp with my own voice, the words feeling like glass in my throat.
The cold pressure in my head flickers momentarily.
Arrynth watches this internal battle with naked fascination. His eyes dart between my face and the door, clearly weighing his options.
“What is this?” he whispers.
Byzu steps forward. “Our brother may be king, but you know you’re on the wrong side,” he growls. “You've suspected it since Dayn left.”
Arrynth's jaw tightens. “I serve the throne.”
“Do you serve the throne, or the truth?” Nyssa asks. “I saw your face earlier—you believe Anees framed Dayn.”
I'm still fighting, clawing my way back to the surface. The Ide resists, but its hold is starting to weaken as I reclaim pieces of myself. My glasses. My books. My family. My stubborn determination to control my own fate.
“I... am... Brynn...” I grunt, each word a small battle won.
Arrynth's eyes meet mine, and I see conflict there—duty warring with doubt.
“Let us pass,” Byzu hisses. “You don't have to join us. Just... look away.”
A commotion erupts somewhere down the hallway—shouts and the heavy thud of running feet.
Arrynth exhales sharply, then makes his decision.
“The eastern tunnels,” he says quickly. “There's a service exit used by the kitchen staff. Guards will be concentrated on the main passages.” He glances over his shoulder. “I'll create a distraction. Make it count.”
With that, he turns and runs back the way he came, shouting, “Western hall! All guards to the western hall!”
The moment stretches, suspended in disbelief.
“Did he just—” Nyssa starts.
“Move,” Rogon cuts her off, already heading for the door.
The Ide gives one final, vicious push against my consciousness, but I've regained just enough control to force it back. I stagger, nearly falling as I reclaim my body fully. Nyssa—the closest one to me—catches me, her grip firm but gentle.
“Are you with us?” she asks, her amethyst eyes searching mine.
“I'm here,” I gasp, though my voice sounds raw. “I'm… me.”
“Get on my back,” she orders, and I don’t argue. I wrap my arms around her neck and legs around her waist, and we run.
The eastern tunnels are narrow and poorly lit, clearly not meant for official use.
The smell of food grows stronger—fragrant roasts and fresh bread that would be tempting under different circumstances.
My legs feel like they're made of water and each breath burns even though I’m not running. That Ide did a number on me.
Behind us, we can hear the chaos of Arrynth's distraction: orders being shouted, boots pounding stone, the occasional angry growl that reminds me these aren't just soldiers but dragons in human form.
We burst through a small wooden door and into the cool night air. The mountain stretches below us, a vast, dark expanse dotted with trees. There are no guards that I can see in this spot. Freedom is so close I can taste it.
The service door clatters shut behind us, muffled by the howling wind that whips around the jagged spine of Iron Peak.
My boots hit the uneven rocks as I slide off Nyssa’s back, my legs buckling the moment they touch the ground.
I’m a mess of adrenaline, Mandrake-breath, and the lingering, oily cold of the shadow that almost ate me alive.
“We cannot stay on foot,” Rogon says, his voice a low command. He’s already scanning the treeline below, his soldier’s instincts overriding the exhaustion written in the deep lines of his face. “Once Arrynth’s distraction stops, every wing will be in the sky looking for us.”
Nyssa nods, her chest heaving. “I suggest we fly south, past the Deadwood Marches. I doubt they’d expect us to head toward the clearblood territories.”
“Right. Logistics,” I croak, shoving my glasses up. My hands are still shaking, but I pivot so quickly I almost trip over a rock when I hear the rustle of leather and the metallic chink of Byzu’s buckle being undone.
Just… standard dragon procedure. Everyone gets naked. Apparently they want to keep their clothes intact.
“Problem?” Byzu asks from somewhere behind me.
“Nope. Just don’t need the pre-flight demonstration.”
He chuckles. “I need to borrow your satchel.”
I place it on the ground and shove it backward with my foot.
The sounds that follow are a nightmare of bio-acoustics. There’s a wet, heavy thud of shifting organs and the staccato crack of bones elongating. The air grows hot, a sudden wave of draconic heat that singes the back of my neck.
“Ready,” Nyssa’s mind-voice echoes in my head.
I turn around to see three titans of scale and muscle crouching on the rocks.
Nyssa is a shimmering streak of moonlight; Rogon is a massive, scarred beast the color of weathered hematite; and Byzu is a gleaming, predatory obsidian, his amber eyes locked on me with a look that is far too sentient for comfort.
I don't wait for a formal invitation. I scramble back onto Nyssa’s neck, my fingers finding the familiar, heated ridges of her scales. My satchel is heavy against my side, stuffed with their human clothes.
Rogon takes flight first, his massive wings hammering the air into submission. Byzu follows, vaulting skyward and snapping into a cocky midair roll that I’m fairly certain is directed at me. Then Nyssa lunges.
The ground vanishes.
Wind tears past us, bitter and sharp, but I barely notice. My mind drifts back to what just happened—to those moments when the Ide took hold.
That wasn’t just co-piloting.
It felt like it was trying to erase me. Scrape me out of my own skull and slide into the empty space.
Nothing I’ve ever read prepared me for that. Darkbirch’s library barely mentioned the Ides beyond vague descriptions and half-finished theories.
What happens when it tries again? What if I’m alone next time, with no one there to drag me back to myself?
I guess that’s why Darkbirch has created a new training course. To teach us how to control these things. To master the wild spirits that ride inside us.
Hopefully I’ll get better at it.
But as we climb higher into the cold scatter of stars, I can’t shake the feeling that something important might have been left out of the fine print.