If she only knew what sleeps within her. Part of me longs to set off that bomb and watch what happens next.
27
BRYNN
Isquint against the glare of Bonneville's sun—way brighter than I expected for this time of year. After that biblical-level storm we just escaped in Darkbirch, the clear sky feels almost offensive in comparison. The Salt Flats stretch out like some alien landscape, this ridiculous expanse of nothing but white crystals meeting blue sky. My tongue feels coated with salt just from breathing. Each step crunches under my boots, like I'm walking on the crushed bones of some ancient, forgotten world.
“It's hot as balls out here,” Chad mutters, practically melting in his Darkbirch uniform.
I'm sweating too, but whatever—I've got Hedder's notes to focus on. The salt stings where it hits the cuts on my hands from yesterday's spell-casting.
“Imagine the dragon flew all this way without anyone noticing,” I say, scanning the endless white for any trace of those runes. “All the way from Heathborne.”
“Cross-realm flight,” Chad says, turning slowly.
“We'll be searching forever.” I sigh. “Twelve miles of nothing but salt. And according to Hedder, we're looking for a portal, not some actual physical entrance.”
“There's no underground cavity here anyway, geographically speaking,” he adds.
His eyes narrow, fixed on something in the distance. It's creepy how still he gets sometimes. I follow his gaze and spot them: three black dots against all this white and blue.
“Who are they?” I ask.
Probably just normies with their stupid selfie sticks.
I take a swig from my water bottle, using the move to casually brush my hand over the Darkbirch insignia on my jacket. Like muscle memory at this point—see normies, hide magic, get gone. They freak at the smallest hint of anything supernatural.
Last summer, this lady at a mall saw a protection rune tattoo I had and literally crossed herself. Can’t really blame her—it's better when our worlds don't collide. First year history taught us about these old-school covens that would kidnap talented nonmagicals and jam-pack them with magic until they either evolved or exploded. Metal, but also super messed up.
“Tourists, maybe,” Chad says, but his voice has that edge I've learned means trouble.
“What aren't you telling me?”
He gives me this look—half worried, half something else. “It's going to sound weird, but I'm hoping you'll trust me on this.”
I roll my eyes. “Already on the edge of my seat.”
“I can smell them,” Chad says, nostrils flaring like some predator.
The dots are getting bigger now. Three men. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with that military precision that screams trouble. Not dressed in Darkbirch colors either. As they get closer, I make out white coats with those distinctive blue piping lines that make my stomach knot.
“What can you smell, exactly?” I ask, though the answer is already forming a lump in my throat as the three men break into a run toward us.
“Clearbloods,” Chad confirms, voice tight.
My breath catches. “They followed us here?” My limbssuddenly feel like they're filled with cement, my brain stuttering between running and fighting.
Chad's already got his knife out, carving a spell rune into his palm. “They must've been tracking us from Darkbirch.”
A drop of his blood falls onto the salt flat, and I can't help staring at the way it spreads—not soaking in like normal, but blossoming outward in this weird crimson pattern that's actually kind of beautiful in a morbid way.
“They've had eyes on the coven this whole time,” he mutters. “Which shouldn't come as a surprise.”
I drag my gaze away from his blood-art. “Why'd they decide to show themselves now, then?” I fumble for my own blade, etching the familiar curves of a Gaudian Pulse into my skin.
Chad glances over, frowns. “What are you doing?”
“Preparing for a Gaudian Pulse,” I say, like duh.
