His golden armor chimes as he draws himself up. “You mistake this for a negotiation.”
“Call it what you want. My condition stands.”
Rogon pinches the bridge of his nose, the veins in his temple pulsing. “Fine,” he grates out. “What is it?”
I savor the moment. “Stop using 'darkblood' like a slur. It's my heritage, not a curse.”
He exhales. “Well then,Miss Salem… Summon your shadow energy.”
The unexpected victory emboldens me. I extend my palm upward, reaching deep within myself. The familiar yet still foreign spark ignites, then spreads through my veins like ink in water. I imagine putting on a show, and a heartbeat later, darkness blooms above my hand—midnight-black flames with edges that shimmer gold… Gasps ripple through the watching dragons. I find myself gasping softly. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but I’m feeling a deeper symbiosis with this power than just days ago.
“How big can you make it?” Rogon leans forward, scientific curiosity temporarily overriding his hatred.
“I-I've never tested.”
“Feed it,” he instructs. “For dragons, power comes from within—our inner?—”
“Fire,” I finish. “Yes. I carry a fragment of that now.”
“Call to it. It always answers.”
I close my eyes, and suddenly Dayn’s words come back to me.
“Do you feel it? The balance. Your shadow, my fire. They don’t fight each other, Esme. They feed each other.”
And in the darkness behind my lids, a tiny ember pulses, dragon-bright against the void. I reach for it mentally, coaxingrather than commanding. The ember flares, growing from spark to flame… Heat rushes through me, yet simultaneously, a bone-deep chill spreads alongside it. Where they meet, something new forms. Neither light nor shadow… but both.
When I open my eyes, the dragons have fallen silent. The shadow-flame hovering above my palm has doubled, then tripled in size, casting strange patterns across their stunned faces.
The shadow-flame towers over me now, massive yet weightless as it hovers.
“Can you shape it into a weapon?” Rogon asks, amber eyes glinting with undisguised interest. The same man who tried to execute me yesterday now leans forward like a scholar presented with a rare specimen.
I stretch my fingers through the darkness. “Worth a try.”
The energy responds to my will, condensing and elongating. A longsword materializes, broad-bladed and substantial as my hands find its hilt. Wisps of black smoke curl around my fingers while gold shimmers trace the edge. Heat radiates from the blade while the handle presses cold against my palm.
“Remarkable,” Rogon breathes.
“I've never concentrated it like this before,” I murmur, testing the sword's balance. “How is this possible?”
“It appears authentic, doesn't it?”
“It does.”
“Because it is.” Rogon's voice carries a note of resignation. “The legends speak truth after all. I never thought?—”
“What legends?”
“The collision of opposing forces—shadow and flame—creates something... unprecedented. Try setting it down.”
My fingers refuse to release the hilt. “I can't.”
“It won't permit separation.”
“The weapon is you, extended,” he explains, drawing his own blade—shorter and slimmer but equally formidable. “Attack me.”
A smile splits my face. “Rematch from last night?”
