Anees’s lips curl. “You’ve certainly forgotten your manners. Leave now—and stay away, or Lord Bemmar will hear of your insolence.”
At the mention of our father, the Braynor dragons’ mouths tighten. Their eyes flick between us with more caution. Lord Bemmar’s iron rule still looms over this kingdom, despite growing dissent.
But the caution in Sema’s gaze isn’t for our father. It’s for my still-glowing fist. He knows I could finish him if I chose.
“Come, brother,” Anees urges.
“I’ll see you around, Sema,” I call over my shoulder, and follow Anees around the corner, leaving the Braynor vipers behind.
My years at Heathborne clearly led them to believe I'd gone soft. The heat still radiating from my knuckles should correct that misconception. Still, this complicates things. With Esme's darkblood essence now flowing through me and whispers already circulating, I can't afford questions about my authority. Not just as I’m about to delve deeper into Draethys’s increasingly concerning politics.
6
ESME
It’s taken me two full days of playing along to map every corridor, stairway, chamber, and salon in the palace—most crucially, Draethys’s archives locked away in the Black Room deep in the basement. I still haven't glimpsed more than fragments of the palace’s dark basalt exterior through windows; from what little I've seen, the construction might be circular, or perhaps a pentagon with towers at each point. But that doesn’t matter right now.
Those same two days have taught me Nyssa’s routine and the guards’ patrols, so I choose a moment just after lunch to slip from my quarters.
On the ground floor, a gold-plated commander addresses the four guards posted at the base of the grand staircase. “Lord Bemmar wants more details before the council meeting. You two, with me.”
One of the remaining pair asks, “What about us, captain?”
I press back against a thick obsidian column, breath caught and fingers itching for magic. But I have no idea what wards Bemmar installed after Dayn brought me here, and I can’t risk exposure.
“Hold your positions until you’re relieved. Your shift change is imminent,” the commander replies.
Three pairs of boots recede down the hall, and relief washesover me. I’ve already noticed faint runes carved around my door—barely visible etchings in the stone. Lord Bemmar isn’t a fool.
Sneaking the old-fashioned way isn’t the worst outcome. My stealth skills are sharpening, at least. Still, I’d rather cloak myself with blood magic and slip unseen through Heathborne, which now feels like child’s play.
I remain hidden as palace staff drift past: maids polishing banisters, guards marching their rounds, each moving with Nyssa’s trademark precision. It’s a stark reminder that Draethys runs like a military state under strict protocols.
“Took you forever,” one guard at the stair’s foot grumbles at the newcomers.
“We had a skirmish in the south alley. Braynor kids demanding an audience with the king,” the other man says. “Something about Lord Daynthazar assaulting their cousin.”
My ears prick at Dayn’s name.
“Braynors and no brains,” the first guard snorts.
He’s no saint, either, I think, peering around the carved banister.
Time is slipping away. While they swap gossip, I study the pillar I’ve been hiding behind. Its ornate relief runs from floor to ceiling, as if holding up the entire hall. Those ridges could serve as handholds, and my leather sandals are thin enough to grip the stone.
What I need is cloaking magic—and my new shadow work, born of dragon essence, might be fresh enough to slip past their wards. It’s a gamble worth taking. I draw a deep breath.
From this vantage, they won’t see me vaulting the banister, though they’ll hear me hit the floor below. I summon a swirl of shadow energy, my fingers tingling as I stretch it into a cloak and drape it over my shoulders. Footsteps echo in the hallway. I freeze beside a column, nestled in its shadow while the brazier above floods the corridor with light. A dragon guard strides past, and I remain motionless. Worst case, I’m a lost guest who wandered from her room, wide-eyed until Dayn arrives.
He never does. The guard never even notices me.
So the cloak works, amplifying darkness and hiding mecompletely. It’s cold against my skin but oddly comforting, like a midnight breeze back at Darkbirch’s cemetery.
“Sema of House Braynor got a cracked rib,” one guard murmurs. “He should count himself lucky.”
“Lord Daynthazar could’ve killed him,” the other snaps.
“Forget Dayn, wait till Lord Bemmar hears. He’ll want Sema’s head on a platter.”
