Page 42

I don’t know how long my containment spell will “contain” Dayn. Five minutes, ten minutes, an hour, forever. As long as it gives me enough time to get to my people, right now I don’t care.

I turn and sprint down the corridor, Dayn’s warning still echoing in my mind.

My grandmother wouldn’t use me like that, would she?

She’s strict, demanding, sometimes ruthless in her methods…

but to frighten me into drinking Dayn’s blood without mentioning the purpose, without providing even the slightest explanation or detail which I could use to make my own choice, just for the purpose of turning me into a useful weapon?

That feels like a step too far, even for her.

I shake my head, refusing to dwell on it. I need to focus.

The corridor ahead branches into three separate pathways.

I sense my glamour has faded—I must have dropped it during my struggle with Dayn—but something tells me I no longer need it.

I close my eyes briefly, extending my senses outward like feelers.

The darkblood signatures pulse strongest to the left—up two more floors, moving with purpose through Heathborne’s east wing.

I head that way, my footsteps unnaturally light, almost silent against the stone floor.

As I round the corner, I come face to face with a squad of clearblood guards—five of them, armed with suppression rods and barrier shields. They spot me immediately, their expressions hardening as they recognize me.

“Halt!” the lead guard shouts, raising his rod. “Darkblood, you are under arrest for conspiracy against Heathborne!”

I don’t stop. I don’t even slow down. Something new surges through me—a confidence that borders on arrogance, a certainty in my own abilities that I’ve never felt before. The shadows around me seem to deepen, responding to my presence like loyal pets.

The lead guard fires his suppression rod, a bolt of pale blue energy hurtling toward me. Time seems to slow as I watch it approach. Before, I would have dodged, rolled away, used the environment for cover. But now...

I raise my hand almost lazily, and shadows leap from my fingertips, forming a shield of pure darkness. The suppression bolt strikes it and... dissolves, absorbed completely. The shadows ripple like water before settling back into a smooth barrier.

The guards falter, exchanging alarmed glances. “What the hell...?” one mutters.

I don’t give them time to regroup. With a flick of my wrist, I send the shadow shield surging forward like a wave. It crashes into the first two guards, wrapping around them like living tar. They struggle against it, but the more they fight, the tighter it grips, pinning their arms to their sides.

The remaining three spread out, trying to flank me.

One fires another suppression bolt while the others advance with barrier shields raised.

I sidestep the bolt with a speed that surprises even me, my body moving faster than my thoughts can track.

The sensation is exhilarating, like my muscles have been waiting for this moment, for this power.

“Enough games,” I mutter, feeling the shadows respond to my irritation.

They rise from the floor, from the walls, pooling around my feet like liquid night.

I thrust both hands forward, and the darkness surges toward the remaining guards in three separate tendrils.

They try to raise their shields, but the shadows simply flow around them, striking from behind, wrapping around their ankles and wrists.

Within seconds, all five guards are immobilized, their weapons clattering uselessly to the floor as the shadows bind them.

They struggle against their restraints, eyes wide with a fear that would have bothered me before.

Now, I simply step past them, the shadows parting to let me through before solidifying again behind me.

“What are you?” one guard gasps as I pass.

I don’t answer. I’m not entirely sure myself anymore.

The stairwell at the end of the corridor leads upward, toward the sounds of battle that grow louder with each step.

Two more flights of stairs, and I burst through a doorway into chaos.

The hallway before me is a battlefield—scorch marks blacken the walls, furniture lies splintered and smoking, and the air is thick with the residual energy of recently cast spells.

A group of clearblood soldiers has taken a defensive position at the far end, pinning down what must be my fellow Darkbirch operatives behind an overturned stone table.

I recognize Riona’s dark head poking out briefly to hurl a blast of necrotic energy at the clearblood position. Beside her, Atlas maintains a shield of bone fragments, his face strained with effort. They’re outnumbered at least three to one, and while they’re holding their own, they can’t advance.

I don’t announce myself. I simply act.

Shadows pool at my feet, then surge forward like a tidal wave, flowing across the floor with impossible speed.

The clearblood soldiers don’t notice until it’s too late—the darkness rises around their ankles, solidifying into unbreakable bonds.

Their startled shouts draw the attention of my teammates, who turn to see the source of this unexpected assistance.

“Esme?” Riona’s voice is a mixture of relief and confusion.

I stride forward, the shadows continuing to rise around the trapped clearbloods.

With each step, I feel power thrumming through me, intoxicating in its potency.

A soldier manages to free one leg and aims his weapon at me.

I don’t even break stride—with a flick of my wrist, shadows wrap around the barrel of his gun, crushing it like it’s made of paper.

“How are you doing that?” Atlas asks, his shield dropping as he stares at me in astonishment. Apparently these two weren’t briefed about my likely newfound power.

Instead of answering, I focus on completely immobilizing the clearblood soldiers, the shadows rising to their chests now, immobilizing their arms.

“We need to move,” I tell my teammates, gesturing toward the end of the corridor. “The rest of our team—where are they?” It’s a rhetorical question, because I already sense them scattered around various parts of the building, but with a concentration two floors up .

Riona confirms this, still staring at me with wide eyes, then asks, “What happened to you, Esme? Your aura is...”

“Later,” I cut her off. “We need to regroup and get out of here.”

As we move past the trapped clearblood soldiers, one manages to free an arm, producing a small silver device from his pocket. Before I can react, he activates it, sending a pulse of energy rippling through the air.

The wave hits me like a physical blow, staggering me backward. It’s a signature amplifier—designed to boost magical signatures to make them easier to track. My newly enhanced darkblood signature must now be broadcasting like a beacon throughout Heathborne.

“Run!” I shout to Riona and Atlas. “They’ll be coming for us now.”

We sprint down the corridor toward the central staircase.

Behind us, boots thunder against stone as reinforcements respond to the amplifier’s signal.

As we round the corner, we collide with another squad of clearblood operatives—elite ones this time, their uniforms bearing the silver insignia of Heathborne’s special forces.

“Take cover!” Atlas yells, diving behind a stone column as energy bolts streak past us.

I don’t follow his lead. Instead, I step forward, directly into the path of fire.

Riona screams my name, but I barely hear her.

Something is rising within me—instinct, power, knowledge that isn’t entirely my own.

The runes on my wrist flare to life, their pattern spreading up my arm in intricate whorls.

The first energy bolt strikes me squarely in the chest—or it should have. Instead, it dissolves inches from my skin, absorbed by a barrier I didn’t consciously create. The next three bolts meet the same fate, dissipating harmlessly against an invisible shield that seems to pulse with my heartbeat.

“What the hell?” one of the operatives mutters, adjusting the settings on his weapon.

I feel a smile spread across my face—predatory, confident, unfamiliar. “My turn,” I whisper.

I thrust both hands forward, and darkness erupts from my palms—not the controlled shadows from before, but something wilder, more primal.

It surges forward like living smoke, engulfing the squad of operatives before they can retreat.

Their screams cut off abruptly as the darkness solidifies, cocooning each of them in separate prisons of shadow.

“Esme...” Riona’s voice is barely audible, tinged with awe and something like fear. “How are you doing that?”

I stare at my hands, watching as tendrils of shadow continue to dance between my fingers. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “It just... responds to me.”

Before Riona can reply, another explosion rocks the building, this one closer than the last. Dust and fragments of stone rain down from the ceiling.

“We need to keep moving,” I say, already turning toward the staircase.

We race up the steps and I take them two at a time.

The landing at the top opens into a large atrium—Heathborne’s grand hall, its vaulted ceiling rising three stories above us.

And there, engaged in fierce combat with a battalion of clearblood elite guards, are at least forty Darkbirch operatives.

They’ve formed a defensive perimeter around the room’s center, using overturned furniture and debris as cover.

Energy bolts and necrotic blasts crisscross the space, leaving scorch marks on the ancient stone walls.

Among them, I spot Corvin, his tall frame unmistakable as he directs our forces. Beside him, Isander’s leathery wings snap open as he launches into the air, avoiding a barrage of suppression bolts before diving toward a group of clearbloods, his midnight-speckled eyes gleaming with focus.