I gingerly peel back the wax seal, untie the ribbon, and unfurl the parchment. The moment the inked words reveal themselves, I exhale sharply.
“An invitation to join the Bellatorium, Miss Salem. Draethys’s military institute. A rare and never-before-seen distinction, might I add,” Lord Bemmar interjects. “An honor, for the likes of you.”
“An honor,” I repeat, gesturing at my name, “since you’ve finally bothered to call me by my actual name? You want me enrolled in your military academy? Are you insane?”
The king shifts uneasily, hands clasped behind him. “Perhaps. But gifts like yours demand nurturing, and we can’t entrust that to your own people. No one knows what you might be capable of. We must evaluate you.”
“Evaluate me?”
“Yes, Miss Salem. We need to understand whether you’d be of any use to us or not. You are the first instance, that we know of, of dragon blood actually fusing with magical essence to the point of developing a new ability.”
“My so-called shadow energy.”
“Yes. We need to understand its extent and its limitations.”
I give him a hard look. “Because you want to use me.”
Why did I think this would go any differently? They’re dragons. They spent most of their recorded history hating us and trying to killus. We did the same, when we weren’t too busy hating and trying to kill the clearbloods who were also hating and trying to kill us. I see the vicious circle now, all too clearly.
It leads nowhere good.
“What makes you think I’d want to be a part of your military institute?” I ask.
Lord Bemmar gives me a cold smile. “Because like I said before, Miss Salem. You’re not dense. You do recognize the opportunity before you.”
“It’s a greater opportunity for you, since you’ll get to… study me.”
“And you’ll get to study us. You’ll gather your intel. Observe. Learn. Adapt. It’s in your nature.”
I could say no. But he’d find a way to make me. Besides, he’s right. I need intel. And getting my spot in Draethys’s military institute sounds like the perfect way in. Sure, they’ll reap benefits of their own, but so will I. And if I play along, I might just get another chance to reach past those double doors of the Black Archives, soon enough.
“Does Lord Daynthazar know about this?” I ask the king.
“He’s the one who suggested it.”
Why doesn’t that surprise me? “Then he should’ve been the one to deliver this scroll, don’t you think, your grace?” I ask tartly.
“I wanted to learn more about you personally,” Lord Bemmar says. “At least now I know exactly who I’m dealing with.”
“Oh?”
Lord Bemmar's eyes narrow. “You're deceitful. Calculating. Lethal. A woman who pursues her desires at any cost.” His lip curls. “Traits I might admire under different circumstances. But when it comes to my son and Draethys, you represent a danger, Miss Salem. Having you here is risky, yet you're safer with us than with your own kind. For your protection as much as ours.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Would your coven truly place your welfare above their ambitions?”
The word 'yes' forms on my tongue but dissolves before I speakit. My grandmother Esther's machinations. The reckless deployment of Darkbirch's elite to retrieve me from Heathborne. Dayn's warnings. Each piece clicks into a mosaic more disturbing than I'd imagined.
I'd rather perish than turn my abilities against my coven. Surely Bemmar realizes this. He likely believes he can bend me to his will—or perhaps exploit my connection to Dayn to manipulate me. We’ll see. For now, I'll accept his offer.
A question still bugs me though.Why does Dayn really want me there?
7
ESME
The Bellatorium towers before me, its spires scraping the cavern ceiling. My neck cranes back, vision swimming at the sheer scale of it all. Flight arenas large enough for dragons to spread their wings stretch across the eastern wing, while training yards and barracks sprawl westward. Each obsidian block seems to whisper of ancient battles and fallen warriors.
