“No. Rogue extremists, monitoring Darkbirch. Believe it or not, I don’t control every moving piece in existence.”
Thank the hells for that.
Still, my stomach twists. The wind carries the scent of minerals across the flats, and I taste bile at the back of my throat. Brynn's face flashes in my mind—the betrayal in her eyes when she discovered my lies. I'd convinced myself I was playing both sides cleverly. Now I feel I've just been played.
Dayn could have incinerated me. Either Salem witch could have slit my throat. And Rothmere would have simply noted my termination in a file somewhere.
“What happens now?” My eyes track his every movement, muscles tensing for whatever comes next.
“The Council won't be pleased.” His tone suggests mild inconvenience rather than the life-or-death situation I'm facing. “I've vouched for you repeatedly. Expected better returns on that investment.”
“Finding a hidden dragon realm counts for nothing?”
“Without access? Hardly.” His eyes narrow. “Can you provide entry?”
The calculation in his gaze tells me everything. The moment Ireveal the puzzle runes beneath the salt, I'm expendable. A spy whose cover is blown has limited value. My eyes scan the cracked white expanse—no sign of Brynn emerging. Not through this portal.
Which means...
The realization hits me. “I still have a chance,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone. Hope flares dangerously in my chest.
Rothmere misinterprets my words. “Indeed you do,” he says smoothly. “Simply show me the way into Draethys.”
My demon stirs beneath my skin as I study him. The sapphire ring glints on his finger—his insurance policy against my rage. But there are other ways to hurt a man like him.
“Chancellor,” I say, keeping my voice steady while my skin crawls with the effort of containing my claws, “was I ever going to learn who killed my mother?”
His smile doesn't falter. “In due time.”
I don’t believe him.
“You know his name?”
“Naturally.”
The lie hangs between us, crystalline in its perfection. Everything clarifies in that moment—I've never been more than his expendable tool, discarded now that I've returned from Draethys with empty hands.
I need to find Brynn. Reach Darkbirch before she does, or intercept her journey. Make her understand. Everything can't end here among salt and betrayal. She has to listen to me. Just once.
“I must respectfully decline sharing Draethys's location, Chancellor,” I say, my smile never reaching my eyes.
The blade in my palm draws blood behind my back, each precise cut forming symbols older than Rothmere's lineage. My other self murmurs ancient syllables within me—a technique absent from Heathborne's intelligence reports. The incantation requires no voice when blood speaks.
A warmth spreads through my veins as the magic takes hold.
Rothmere's brow furrows. “What exactly is your objection, Chad? Fear of your own expendability?”
“A reasonable concern, wouldn't you agree?”
“An accurate one,” he confirms with clinical detachment. “Though I should clarify, your death is inevitable regardless. Withholding information merely prolongs the inevitable.”
“So you never intended for me to survive this mission.”
“A creature of mixed blood has limited utility,” he says, contempt finally breaking through his polished veneer. The sapphire on his ring pulses as he raises his hand, channeling power.
My inner darkness may be bound, but I am not.
In one fluid motion, I release the spell, my arm cutting through air that suddenly parts like water. The Blade of Ghosts materializes just long enough, a silver-blue arc of light. Then Rothmere's hand is separated from his arm, the clean cut cauterized instantly.
