“Hardly, Miss Salem. Attack.”
I need no further invitation. I launch forward, surprisingly light despite the weapon's heft, and bring the shadow-blade down in a vicious diagonal arc.
Someone shouts, “Colonel!”
“Silence!” Rogon snarls, steel ringing as he meets my strike.
The collision of our blades unleashes a shockwave that hurls us apart. Sweat streams down my temples, my lungs burning as I struggle for breath. Still, I lunge forward, swinging again.
Rogon parries, triggering another explosive pulse. This time I crash onto my backside, my shadow-sword dissolving into smoke that slithers back into my skin. The sensation—fire and ice intertwined—races up my arm and settles somewhere beneath my sternum.
“Well, that was unexpected,” I manage between gasps.
Rogon sheaths his weapon only after I've climbed to my feet. “Such raw potential,” he observes, “but finite. Unlike a dragon's reserves.”
“So I'm not quite the dragon-slayer material yet?” My disappointment isn't entirely feigned.
“I wouldn't conclude that.” His eyes narrow. “Your shadow energy carries a distinctive... cruelty. It reached into my marrow. That pulse we witnessed? Not merely clashing forces—it's the fusion happening inside you.”
Rhode Meraxis's hand shoots up. “Colonel, what implications does this have?”
“Could she harm our kind?” a snotty female student’s voice carries a note of anxiety. Perfect.
“Any darkblood poses potential danger, Leena,” Rogon reminds her coldly. “But Miss Salem represents something unprecedented. Far more concerning.”
“You'll make me blush with all this flattery,” I quip.
He leans close, voice dropping to a whisper. “You stand at the threshold of something… revolutionary… embodying both our greatest strengths and fatal flaws. See that Draethys doesn’t mark you as hostile.”
“I thought I already held enemy status.”
“As a mere darkblood? Hardly worth notice—a pest easily eliminated should you become too troublesome.” His lips curl. “Your abilities require careful monitoring, Miss Salem. We must establish your limitations while refining your control.”
I clear my throat. “Colonel, what exactly are you hoping to accomplish with all this?”
His eyes lock onto mine, unblinking.
“I'm determining if Draethys can weaponize you in our coming conflicts,” he says with clinical detachment. “If not, we certainly can't risk returning you to Darkbirch.”
My stomach drops, but I keep my expression neutral, my breathing steady. A muscle in my jaw twitches—the only betrayal of the storm inside me. I swallow the angry retort building in my throat.
The cold calculus is clearer than ever: I'm a resource to be exploited or eliminated. But two can play this game. For now, I need what Draethys offers: training, knowledge, control over this new power surging through my veins… while Dayn supposedly figures a safer way out for me. If everything falls apart, I'd at least rather face these dragons with trained abilities than raw potential.
Days blur together in a haze of training sessions. I study morning and afternoon while Dayn remains conspicuously absent. The first week, I breathed easier without his intensity hovering nearby. Now I catch myself glancing toward doorways when footsteps approach.
Nyssa seems to have been instructed to keep her distance from me as well. I’m not entirely sure why.
At least the dragons of Draethys, when not fantasizing about my execution, prove surprisingly generous with their knowledge: combat techniques that make my shadow-flame dance like living darkness, histories that predate even the oldest Salem grimoires. I've discovered rune sequences in their archives that explain the very foundations of both darkblood and clearblood magic. Not that Dayn would know. He's never around to see my discoveries.The only time I see him is in the mornings, across the breakfast table.
“Your plate's getting cold,” Byzu remarks, his toying voice cutting through my thoughts.
I blink, suddenly aware of the Draxion breakfast spread surrounding me—Lord Bemmar at the head, his sons arranged like chess pieces. Byzu still steals glances at me in ways I’d rather not notice.
My untouched plate holds fragrant bread and some weird fruit I can't identify. Across the polished wood, Dayn sits beside his father, deliberately positioned away from me, though somehow I still catch the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the table conversation.
“Not hungry,” I mutter, eyes flicking toward him instinctively.
Bemmar's deep voice fills the silence. “I hear your training progresses exceptionally well.”
