His howl echoes across the salt flats as he watches his severed appendage twitch among the crystals.
“You treacherous?—”
“I'll be keeping this,” I interrupt, plucking the ring from his twitching finger before driving my boot into his sternum.
He collapses backward, his pristine suit now stained with blood and salt. As he writhes, something dark within me drinks in his suffering like an elixir. I cannot end him completely, but I've cut the strings that made me his puppet.
The ring slides into my pocket with a satisfying weight. Distance is all that matters now. Keeping this sapphire far from his remaining hand buys me freedom, however temporary. I'll decode his binding spell eventually. For now, this small victory creates space to breathe, to choose.
I'm done being the man Rothmere crafted: a creature of calculated betrayals and convenient loyalties. The path forward isn't clear, but it's mine to walk. Perhaps I can become someone the darkbloods might respect. Someone Brynn might someday forgive.
Rothmere's howls fade behind me as I stride across the salt flats, his pain a symphony I've waited years to hear. His vengeance will come, inevitable as sunrise.
Let it.
Brynn Salem awaits, somewhere beyond these crystalline wastes. And if the dragons move forward with their invasion, I also have a world to protect. If anything in existence is destined to burn it all down, it won’t be the dragons. It’ll be the demons. Just like our legends have said.
39
ESME
In the hours following Anees’s shocking announcement, the kingdom of Draethys seems to have transformed—from the secluded haven of dragons to a nest of aspiring conquerors. The dome above the city echoes with their roars, emboldened by his empowering speech.
Brynn and I crouch behind a chimney stack on the Bellatorium's roof. The northern turret casts just enough shadow to keep us hidden.
“What was that?” Brynn finally whispers, breaking our stunned silence.
I peer over the edge. Dragon lieutenants parade through cobblestone streets, recruiting fighters with promises of glory. “Reclaim what was stolen!” one shouts, his voice carrying up to our perch. “The skies will burn with our vengeance!”
My chest tightens. “Dayn failed,” I murmur. “He never claimed the throne.”
“Is he dead?” Brynn's eyes widen.
I shake my head slowly, clinging to the hope that my instinct is accurate. “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I’d have somehow sensed him dying, given our blood bond.”
“Pretty sure?”
“As certain as I can be.” My voice catches. I study my sister's dirt-streaked face, her singed hair. “You okay?”
Brynn laughs bitterly. “Should’ve stuck to my scrolls. At least they don’t try to set me on fire and deliver a monologue about vengeance.”
I smile. Classic Brynn. Always retreating to her tomes when the world gets messy. I used to mock her for it, but now I understand. Reality keeps hitting us like waves, no chance to breathe before the next one crashes down.
And now that reality is war.
“But you had no choice but to step out of the library, right?” I ask, studying my sister's face. “Corvin, Director Reinhardt, they summoned you.”
Brynn's jaw tightens. “For the trials. Corvin wants every Salem he can get his hands on.”
My stomach knots at the word. Nothing comfortable ever follows when Darkbirch speaks of trials. “You started to explain before everything went to hell?—”
“They're planning to summon Dominic Merlin's Ide.”
I swallow hard. The Ides… Merlin’s Ide. I’d heard rumors that we may someday need that kind of raw spiritual power to defend ourselves. But it was only a theory. A madness in practice, for so many reasons.
“Are you sure?” I murmur.
“You heard me. Darkbirch wants to summon the Ide of Dominic Merlin. The only Ide whose identity we’re aware of that we can reach out to,” Brynn says. “The trials are meant to?—”
