Heat blooms across my skin. I long for my Darkbirch uniform—boots that could hide a blade, sleeves wide for my garrote—but it’s too late. Many dragon hours too late.
“I really hope those dragon drinks are good,” I murmur as he steps aside, letting me pass first.
Once we reach the lower floor, the air shifts. Denser, heavier,touched with the pulse of music and voices carrying from beyond the hall.
Dayn hooks my arm through his, and the nearness messes with my focus more than I’d ever admit. His heat seeps through leather and cloth, steady and unyielding, while my own pulse hammers unevenly against his. The Draxion lords’ words gnaw at me from earlier—two sworn enemies, stitched together by blood.Blood that I still crave to taste again.
I tighten my jaw, forcing the thought down, even as a dangerous flicker of hope whispers that maybe—just maybe—Dayn knows some way to sever this bond.
“Whatever they ask,” he murmurs, his voice close enough to graze my ear as we approach the ballroom doors, “keep your answers brief.”
The doors open, and the noise hits like a wave. Hundreds of voices ripple beneath the steady thrum of drums, played by dragon performers whose sweat gleams on bare, muscled chests. Gold glitters on every wrist and throat, gowns spill across the floor, hair twisted into impossible shapes. Drinks flow freely, and everywhere I look are polished smiles that don’t reach the eyes—eyes that shift quickly toward Dayn. Toward me.
“Something tells me they’re more interested in killing me than anything else,” I mutter, catching the first dagger-glares as we step toward the crush of bodies.
“Some of the elders think you might be… useful,” he replies.
I give him a sharp look. “Me? A filthy darkblood?”
“My essence makes you a curiosity,” Dayn says, his tone too casual. “Nyssa saw your shadow spell. Word travels fast. Rumors are already circling that you’re… special.”
Great. Because that’s what I wanted the most. Draethys’s attention.
Dayn guides me across the ballroom, and the hum of conversation falters, then dies. A hundred gazes fasten on me. Whispers uncoil like smoke as I scan the crowd: burgundy silks, dark leathers, gold chains and jeweled pins, medals glittering on lapels andshoulder tresses. Perfumes thick enough to choke, hair piled in elaborate crowns. Some wear elaborate masks.
Curiosity burns in a few gazes, but there’s contempt in most. I stay close to Dayn. Stray too far, and it feels like they’ll take a shot at ripping me apart.
“There he is, the man of the hour!”
A tall man clad in immaculate white strides toward us. His gold hair gleams under the chandelier’s light, pulled back into a tight bun. A beard of white and gold, oiled and sculpted, frames his mouth like a hedge trimmed to perfection, while battle scars cut harsh lines down his cheek.
“Colonel Rogon,” Dayn greets, clasping his hand in a firm shake.
“It’s good to have you back, Lord Daynthazar,” Rogon replies, his voice gravelly. “Draethys has been… less without you.”
“You give me too much credit, Colonel.”
“And this must be the darkblood you dragged back with you, for reasons beyond me.” His attention slides to me.
One glance at him tells me he could physically snap me in two with a careless backhand. The thought of his dragon form flashes unwanted through my mind, but I push the shiver down.
“Colonel,” I say evenly. “An… honor to meet you.”
Rogon's lip curls. “A Salem, no less.” He leans in, inhaling deeply, nostrils flaring like a predator catching scent. His eyes widen. “By the ancient fires. Your father mentioned?—”
“Tonight is hardly the occasion, Colonel,” Dayn interrupts, his voice carrying the quiet authority of a blade unsheathed. “My return warrants celebration, not interrogation.”
Rogon's massive shoulders drop as he exhales. “The clearbloods forced your hand. I understand survival.”
“And Esme's unique abilities make her value obvious,” Dayn adds smoothly. “We'll discuss her potential after tonight's festivities. The crowd grows restless.”
The sharp click-click of approaching heels cuts through my questions. I turn to find a statuesque blonde—an apparent rarity inDraethys—advancing toward us. Her red silk dress strains against curves as she moves. Light catches the diamonds adorning her throat and wrists, throwing fractured rainbows across her pale skin.
Rogon chuckles, warmth softening his stern features. “Ah, Raelle, my precious daughter.”
Dayn stiffens beside me, his frame tightening as he keeps me close. Raelle all but shoves me aside to wrap her long arms around him.
“Daynthazar, darling,” she exclaims, her voice syrupy, dramatic. “You took forever to come back to us.”
