Page 33

T he ancient stone walls seem to watch me as I pace the length of the musty room.

Thirteen steps from the decaying door to the far wall, ten steps across.

I’ve mapped the space in minutes, a habit ingrained from years of training.

‘Always know your environment,’ Corvin would say.

‘It might save your life.’ Right now, what might save my life remains frustratingly unclear.

I cast a glance at Mazrov’s bound form in the corner, still motionless within the sack, the golden runes of Dayn’s shield casting an ethereal glow across the dusty floor.

The air feels charged, as if the very stones are holding their breath, waiting. For what, I don’t know.

Moonlight filters through the broken sections of the roof, casting long fingers of silver-blue light across the chamber.

The beams intersect with the golden glow of Dayn’s runes, creating patches of strange, greenish illumination that shift and dance.

The walls are covered in markings—some appear to be deliberate carvings, others the more random scratches of time and circumstance.

I run my fingers along one sequence that seems more intentional than the rest: a series of interlocking circles with lines radiating outward like stylized suns.

They remind me of the protection symbols my grandmother once drew around her home during the dark moon, though these are older, more primal somehow.

The skimpy black dress I wore to seduce Mazrov clings uncomfortably to my skin, the fabric itching against the goosebumps rising on my arms. I retrieve my pack from where I dropped it near the entrance and pull out my combat clothes—reinforced black leggings, a long-sleeved thermal top, and my familiar leather jacket with its numerous hidden pockets and weapon sheaths.

I position myself in a corner where I can keep an eye on both Mazrov and the door while I change, though I doubt the unconscious guard poses any immediate threat.

As I peel off the clingy dress, the cool air raises more goosebumps across my exposed skin.

I change quickly, efficiency trumping modesty.

The familiar weight of my combat clothes feels like armor, not just against the chill but against the uncertainty of my situation.

I tuck the dress into my pack—no sense leaving evidence behind—and secure my hair back into a tight braid.

Each motion is practiced, automatic, allowing my mind to focus on more important concerns.

With my physical comfort addressed, I move closer to survey the rune shield Dayn placed around Mazrov.

I didn’t get a chance to properly examine the one he drew earlier.

I’m careful not to touch it—I’ve seen what Dayn’s magic can do.

The circle is approximately eight feet in diameter, with Mazrov’s bagged form at its center.

The runes themselves pulse with an amber light that matches the marks on my wrist, but these are far more complex, layered in concentric rings.

I recognize some of the symbols from my training in blood magic—containment glyphs, binding markers, sensory dampeners—but others are wholly unfamiliar.

They don’t align with any magical system I’ve studied, neither darkblood nor clearblood.

Some appear to have been drawn in a language that predates our modern runic alphabets, with shapes that seem to twist in my vision if I look at them too directly.

Dragon magic. Ancient and powerful in ways I can barely comprehend.

The temperature in the room suddenly plummets, my breath crystallizing in front of my face. It’s a familiar cold—not the ambient chill of a stone building at night, but the bone-deep freeze that accompanies spiritual manifestation.

The air in the center of the room shimmers, light bending around a point that seems to absorb the moonbeams. A figure begins to form—transparent at first, then gaining a translucent solidity.

“Grandma,” I gasp.

My grandmother’s familiar weathered face emerges from the shimmer, her silver-streaked hair in its usual traditional braids.

But something is wrong. Her form stutters, fragments of her image appearing and disappearing like a broken projection. Her mouth opens to speak, but no clear sound emerges, just a distorted echo that bounces off the stone walls.

“Ch-Ch-Child,” her voice finally breaks through, distant and fractured.

I instinctively move toward her, then stop as I feel a burning sensation from the runes on my wrist. They glow brighter now, pulsing with what appears to be agitation.

Of course—Dayn’s markings aren’t just limiting my power, they’re interfering with my connections to darkblood magic in all its forms, including ancestral communication.

“Grandma, I can barely hear you. A… uh… A dragon has marked me.”

That’s… definitely the weirdest thing I’ve ever said to my grandmother. I should probably write it down, for future therapy sessions.

What do I expect her to reply? “A dragon has marked you? Esme, I hope you at least got his number. That’s quite the first impression.”

I show her my wrist, the runes now burning hot against my skin, and I can almost hear the universe cackling at my expense.

A dragon has marked me. Sure. Because being a darkblood operative with a vendetta against clearblood authority and a lethal, aura-destroying machine wasn’t complicated enough.

It had to throw in ancient, unpredictable magical bonds—just to keep things interesting.

Clearly, what my life was missing was a dash of dragon drama, because, you know, ancient magical contracts with beings who haven’t been seen in centuries are exactly the kind of commitment I was looking for.

Forget dating—apparently, I’m now bound to a creature whose idea of a relationship involves magical coercion and the occasional life-threatening ritual.

Perfect. Just what I always wanted in a partner—mysterious, dangerous, and, let’s not forget, hundreds of years old .

I’m sure that won’t come with any baggage.

Or maybe she’ll say, “Esme, don’t play with fire.” “Esme, don’t talk to strangers.” “Esme, don’t let ancient, manipulative dragons carve their runes into your wrist. ”

But she’ll be thrilled to know I didn’t ask for this. It just sort of happened. Like a bad tattoo after a night of questionable decisions—except instead of whiskey, it was a dragon with a god complex and a penchant for dramatic flair.

In truth, I don’t know how much Esther Esme Salem knows about dragons because she rarely spoke of them to me, and I can’t rely on what comes out of Dayn’s mouth. But I think she must at least sense ancient magic in the room.

Her image flickers violently, parts of her form dissolving into mist before reforming. “The d-d-dragon’s b-blood,” she manages, her voice skipping like a damaged recording. “You must... t-take it into you.”

I stare at her. “What?”

“D-Drink his blood, child.” Her eyes widen in her flickering form. “B-Before the Unbinding. Y-You must.”

The urgency in her voice injects ice in my veins. My grandmother was many things—ruthless, demanding, occasionally cruel in her teachings—but she was never one for melodrama or false warnings. That never changed in her death.

“Wh-Why? And what do you mean?” I ask, but her form is already beginning to dissipate, the connection weakening. “And how?! Grandma, how do I?—?”

“J-Just… f-find a w-way,” she interrupts, her voice fading. “Y-You must… d-drink his blood.”

Her image collects into a swirl of mist, then scatters as if blown by an invisible wind. The temperature in the room gradually begins to rise back to its previous chill rather than the supernatural freeze of moments before.

I stand frozen in place, unsure of how to even start processing what my grandmother just instructed me .

Drink dragon blood.

Dayn’s blood.

Right.

Sure. Why not, Grandma? I’ll just waltz up to Dayn and ask him nicely for a sip.

Because that’s going to be a casual conversation starter. Hey, Dayn, mind if I borrow a cup of your ancient dragon plasma? I promise it’s not for anything weird. Of all the cryptic warnings my grandmother could have given me from beyond the grave, she chose this .

And she didn’t even tell me why I need to drink it. Or anything about it. I’m good at following instructions—it’s been drummed into me during my time at Darkbirch Academy—but I’m not in the business of consuming supernatural bodily fluids without at least a leaflet on potential side effects.

I run my fingers through my hair, dislodging my carefully constructed braid. “Drink his blood. Right. Because that’s not weird at all.” My voice echoes in the empty chamber, sounding hollow and slightly manic. I press my palms against my eyes and take a deep breath.

Dragon’s blood. Probably tastes like a mix of battery acid, molten metal, and superiority complex. I wonder if it comes in flavors. Maybe a nice hint of cinnamon would make it go down easier.

But beneath my sardonic thoughts, fear coils in my stomach.

Grandmother never appeared to me like this—fragmented, desperate.

“Before the Unbinding,” she’d said. What does she think could happen to me if I don’t drink it?

And how would she know? How could she possibly understand what the Unbinding Ritual entails when Dayn himself has been so secretive about its requirements?

Unless... unless she knows something about dragons that I don’t.

The thought is troubling. Why didn’t she tell me more about them?

I glance at my wrist where his runes pulse steadily. The man who marked me, the dragon whose blood I apparently need to drink. The same man who’s made it abundantly clear he sees me as a tool at best, a liability at worst.

“Just ask him nicely,” I mutter. “Because that’s a totally normal request.” I pace the chamber, my boots kicking up dust with each agitated step. “Drink the blood of a manipulative, arrogant dragon professor who’s probably older than this building.”

I glance at my wrist again, where his runes pulse with amber light. The same runes that are currently preventing me from communicating properly with my grandmother. The same runes that give him an alarming degree of control over me.

“And what exactly happens if I ‘drink his blood?’” I make air quotes with my fingers to an audience of ancient stones and one unconscious guard. “Do I turn into a dragon? Grow scales? Start hoarding gold and virgins?” Or worse, become like Dayn?

The absurdity of my situation hits me all at once, and I can’t help but laugh—a short, sharp sound that bounces off the walls.

The mere thought makes my stomach turn. I’ve consumed some questionable substances during my training—poisons to build immunity, strange herbal concoctions to enhance my senses—but this? It’s a new level of revolting.

I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the dusty floor, my knees pulled up to my chest. This is ridiculous. Absolutely ridi? —

The sound of approaching footsteps cuts through my thoughts. Dayn is returning—on foot rather than his vanishing act, for some reason—and I have mere seconds to compose myself. I stand up quickly, dusting myself down, positioning myself near one of the walls in a casual stance.

The rotting door creaks open, and Dayn’s imposing silhouette fills the frame. His amber eyes immediately lock onto mine, narrowing slightly as if sensing something amiss.

“Problem?” he asks, his voice deceptively casual.

I shrug, my face a carefully constructed mask of indifference. “No.”