Nyssa's spine straightens. “Lord Jeron of House Braynor,” she murmurs, her voice pitched lower than usual. “Miss Salem is still adjusting to Draethys customs.”
I meet his gaze. “Translation: I haven't learned when to shut up yet.” I tilt my head. “Problem with that?”
His lip curls. “The problem is your presence contaminating these halls. Our king's... curiosity... doesn't obligate the rest of us to pretend you belong here.”
My fingers twitch at my sides. “Careful. Last group that tried to chase me out with torches and pitchforks didn't fare so well.”
The air between us crackles with something dangerous. My blood hums with it—that familiar, delicious tension before violence erupts. I am a Salem after all. We don't bow; we break.
“My lord, please excuse us.” Nyssa's fingers dig into my arm as she pulls me away from Jeron and the growing circle of onlookers.
“I know, I know,” I mutter as she drags me through the corridor, past the smell of fresh bread and into an empty classroom. “Engaging was stupid.”
She releases me with a hiss. “He's a bastard with powerful connections. I specifically asked you not to make trouble.”
“I tried. He didn't.”
Nyssa leans against the door, inhaling. “These dragons will bait you until you snap. Until you cross a line not even Lord Daynthazar can help you back from!”
I meet her gaze. “So they want me to self-destruct.”
“Precisely. If they can't execute you outright, they'll manipulate you into giving them cause.” Nyssa grips my shoulders. “Give Draethys a fighting chance… I don’t know much about the political decisions regarding your enrollment, but I do know that House Draxion has decided to keep you alive. Don’t give them reasons to say otherwise, Esme. Survive. Play nice. Play along. And see what comes next.”
I frown at her. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve grown fond of me, Nyssa.”
She blushes and releases me. “Perhaps. I admire your fortitude, Esme. And I promised Lord Daynthazar to look after you whenever he’s away. I’d like to keep that promise.”
I need to find a balance between my urge to obliterate the enemy and my mission to… leave here alive. Being addicted to a certain dragon’s blood and, at the same time, being cut off from my ancestors’ spirit power has me restless and not as clear-headed as I need to be. To my surprise, Nyssa is a newfound voice of reason.
“Thank you, I guess,” I say with a deep sigh. “You’re right. There’s no point in getting myself killed for every dragon punk with entitlement syndrome in Draethys.”
“Now, let’s go. We’re starting off strong this morning.”
Nyssa takes my hand and pulls me out of the classroom—which gets one last fleeting glance. The tables, the chairs, the matte blackboard wall. Oddly enough, it reminds me of Darkbirch. Education is essentially the same everywhere, I guess. Young souls huddled in the same room as they’re taught to do better than their forefathers.
Yet they all end up doing the same.
Fighting. Killing.
Repeating history while struggling to survive.
“What do you mean we’re starting off strong?” I ask.
But I get my answer soon, just a few seconds later down thehall, as Nyssa takes us into one of the combat arenas. A massive, egg-shaped hall with black stone walls and thousands of torches illuminating the entire ceiling. I’m breathless, trying to take as much in at first sight as possible.
“This isn’t even our biggest combat training hall. This one’s for fifth tier students,” Nyssa says.
There are over three dozen dragons already gathered before a commander—I’m guessing he’s a commander based on his gray uniform and brass shoulder tresses, as well as the gold streaks in his hair. Apparently a sign of old age in dragons.
As soon as he sees me, however, his humor fades.
“Ah. The darkblood is here,” the commander says, his tone as flat as the surface of a frozen lake. And just as cold.
“Forgive us, Commander Penn,” Nyssa says. “We got sidetracked on the way in.”
“I don’t care. Keep that creature in check, Tier 4,” Penn bluntly replies.
That creature.
