I can't help the smirk. “So Darkbirch called it. You're scared shitless that Salem might convince her pet dragon to torch your academy.”
“You find that amusing?”
“Little bit, yeah.”
He's in my face before I can blink. “Listen, you half-breed mongrel. I didn't plant you in that coven for your stand-up routine.” His finger jabs toward my chest, stopping just short. “I need intel to crush those freaks once and for all. One dragon stands between me and victory, which means one dragon stands between you and a one-way ticket back to whatever hellpit spawned your father!”
Something hot and ancient surges behind my eyes. I feel them change, burning red, the Chancellor's startled face reflected in them. Fury builds within me, begging for release, but the loyalty seals carved into my back when I was fourteen pulse with warning pain. Fifteen different ways to tear out his throat flash through my mind, but my body won't obey.
“Easy, Chad.” His tone shifts, suddenly careful. “Let's not do anything... regrettable.”
“Course not, sir.” I force the words through clenched teeth. It’s like swallowing fire.
We both know I'm lying through my fangs.
“I’m headed to Bonneville with Brynn Salem,” I say. “She’s gota solid lead on her sister. Still, I recommend you hold your forces until we can verify it. There are three potential dragon sites, and this one seems the strongest.”
The Chancellor folds his arms. “Where did she get that lead?”
“From old diaries. Apparently dragons and darkbloods share a long history—especially the Salem line.”
Rothmere’s face drains of color as he stares across the lake. A sudden wind whips around us, forecast of a brewing storm. A single leaf skims past my cheek. “That makes sense. It’s why Esme Salem was the one who freed him,” he mutters. “What do you know of Dayn’s ties to the Salems?”
“Very little. Dayn approached them hoping to broker peace between humans and dragons. Esme’s sister might know more. She’s the one who studied those journals. I was busy keeping up appearances.”
“That tracks,” Rothmere says. “And they still don’t suspect you’re playing both sides?”
“They have no clue, sir. My darkblood lineage is strong. I keep my demonic nature under tight control. I even layered extra blood-bindings on top of yours, just in case.”
“Good. And Darkbirch—what’s their next move?”
I hesitate. In the past, I divulged intel freely, convinced I was serving the clearbloods and keeping the darkbloods off balance. But after what happened to Jax, I realized the clearbloods were pulling too far ahead.
I can’t, in good conscience, let one faction crush the other. As concerned as I am about the darkbloods’ Ides trial, I struggle to tell Rothmere everything. He hasn’t bound me with compulsion spells, because he trusts me. I’ve earned that trust more times than I care to count.
“They’re hunting the dragon, too,” I say. “And Esme above all. They’ve launched a parallel operation. I don’t know their full plan yet. But if Brynn and I pull this off, I’ll gain access to the upper echelon’s secrets.”
Rothmere’s brow furrows. “You really think so?”
He sounds skeptical, but I can see a spark of hope behind his doubt.
I meet his eyes. “I'm sure of it.”
My heartbeat doesn't quicken. My pupils don't dilate. Nothing in my face betrays the lie, because half-demon blood means my body doesn't react to falsehoods like others do. Rothmere's clearblood truth-detection spells slide off me like rain on glass. If he knew this particular quirk, he'd have carved different bindings into my flesh years ago.
“If we locate Dayn, what then?” I ask.
Rothmere's lips thin. “You alert us immediately. I've developed specialized containment measures.”
The word 'Draethys' sits heavy on my tongue. I swallow it back. After years playing both sides, I've learned too well that neither faction deserves my complete loyalty. We're all just desperate creatures clawing for survival.
“And if I judge the extraction too risky?” I press.
What I mean is: What if there's an entire hidden dragon civilization that would incinerate your clearblood squad on sight? My binding scars burn beneath my shirt—a permanent reminder that I cannot directly endanger him or his people.
“There's no scenario we can't handle,” he says with that insufferable clearblood superiority. “Focus on your assignment.”
“For how much longer?” The question escapes before I can stop it.
