Corvin actually laughs. “If I remember correctly, the dragon took Esme. Not the other way around.”
“Where is she? Is she in there?” one of Archer’s lieutenants butts in like an eager puppy.
Archer shoots him a death glare. “Ezra, I'll do the talking.”
The way they're eyeballing each other, standing like they've got broomsticks up their butts, barely moving except for some sketchy hand-shuffling behind their backs... This is giving me major creep vibes. It's like watching the world's worst high school play, not some legit peace talk.
“This situation has gotten a little out of hand,” Archer turns back to Corvin, all smooth-like. “We just need to talk to him.”
“Who?” I blurt out.
Corvin shoots me a death glare, but Archer's already smirking at me like I'm the village idiot. “The dragon, of course. It was no coincidence that he escaped just as your spy infiltrated Heathborne. Do not take us for idiots.” His eyes rake over me. “Who are you, again, Miss?”
“Let me get this straight,” Corvin cuts in with a dry laugh. “You came all the way out here with a peace delegation made up of not one, not two, but five lieutenants, to ask us where we put your dragon?”
“Desperate times, desperate measures,” Archer replies.
“Except he's not your dragon, is he?” The words tumble out of my mouth before my brain catches up.
Five sets of clearblood eyes lock onto me like heat-seeking missiles. Chad's giving me serious “shut-the-hell-up” vibes, and Corvin looks ready to strangle me. But there's something fishy about these guys that's making my internal alarm system go haywire.
Whatever. Might as well earn my keep since Corvin dragged me into this mess.
“Excuse me?” Archer's voice is like ice.
“Look, I'm just connecting the dots here. What kind of dragonhangs out in Heathborne for fifty years? And if he was so happy being your pet project, why'd he trash your place and grill half your staff on his way out? Sounds less like 'yours' and more like 'prisoner who finally broke his chains.'”
Archer shifts his weight like a cobra preparing to strike. Behind him, Ezra and Rennington are doing that creepy silent-communication thing, while Gordon and Phillips seem to be hulking up right before my eyes. Great.
“I have to ask again. Who. Are. You?” Each word drops from Archer's mouth like a stone.
Corvin throws up a hand to shut me up, but the movement makes Gordon and Phillips flinch like they're expecting an attack. Double great. This isn't a peace talk anymore—it's the awkward silence before someone gets stabbed.
“It's none of your business, Lieutenant Archer. The fact of the matter stands. You lost your dragon, and you came here to see if we'd just, what, cordially hand him over? You must take us for fools,” Corvin says.
Ezra's mouth is moving but no sound's coming out, and that smirk is shadier than a black market soul dealer.
“They're not here to talk. They're stalling,” I blurt.
“Stalling?” Chad mumbles, but I can see the lightbulb click on as his eyes dart between the five clearbloods.
Ezra's lips keep moving in that creepy ventriloquist way, and my stomach drops. “They're performing a spell,” I hiss.
The lieutenants' faces go ghost-white as Corvin throws his hands up like he's directing demonic traffic.
“Stop whatever it is you're casting,” he barks. “You came under a white flag, do not soil the last remnant of peace talks between our factions!”
“Argh, Lieutenant, I can't sense him in Darkbirch,” Ezra doubles over like someone's twisting his intestines. “Stop it!”
But it's not Archer playing puppet master—it's Chad, his hand stretched out like he's feeling for rain, lips moving in a silent counter-spell. “Let’s put an end to this farce,” he growls.
“Incoming!” One of our guards shouts, and my heart does a triple backflip.
Archer curses as the bushes start doing the monster mash. From the woods lining Darkbirch's main road, a dozen more clearbloods emerge like the world's worst surprise party. These guys aren't carrying peace flags—they're decked out in armor so shiny I could do my makeup in it.
They never should’ve been able to make it into our coven without our permission; unnoticed. Our protective shield's supposed to be impenetrable. No unauthorized clearblood should be able to breach-cast through without triggering every alarm we've got. But with our guardian darkblood spirits running on fumes since the Heathborne incident, our magical perimeter's losing reliability. Like my go-to excuse for missing combat drills.
“Dammit, I needed more time!” Archer snaps at his backups.
