Page 39 of Darkbirch Academy

“The night healer is dealing with three first-years who thought midnight lightning practice was a good idea,” Mazrov snaps. “Check. Every. Room.”

The door handle turns. I hold my breath, feeling Dayn’s heartbeat against my shoulder—steady as a metronome. His hand moves to my waist, fingers splayed across my lower back. For one alarming moment, I think he’s going to use me as a shield or distraction.

Instead, he whispers a single word in a language I don’t recognize. The temperature in the room plummets suddenly, frost forming on the cabinets. The lights flicker and die.

The door opens, and Mazrov’s silhouette appears, backlit from the hallway.

“Power fluctuation,” the second voice says. “The refrigeration units must be overloading the circuit.”

Mazrov steps inside, his hand moving to the weapon at his belt. His eyes—unnaturally blue and blazing—scan the darkness. For a terrifying moment, his gaze passes over our hiding spot.

“These samples can’t be allowed to thaw,” he says finally. “Get maintenance up here immediately.”

The door closes. Their footsteps retreat down the hallway.

I release my breath.

“That was close,” Dayn whispers, finally stepping away from me. The loss of his heat is almost shocking in the frozen air. “We need to leave before maintenance arrives.”

As we slip out of the repository, carefully reclosing thedoor and resetting the wards, I can’t shake the uneasiness of our earlier exchange.

“You’re keeping more secrets than you’re sharing,” I accuse him quietly.

He turns, his amber eyes momentarily flaring gold. “Every dragon has scales they don’t show, Esme,” he says, his voice low. “Just as every witch has spells she keeps unspoken.”

We exit through an emergency door, the cool night air a relief after the sterile chill of the infirmary. The vial of elder blood sits heavy in my pocket—another piece of Dayn’s mysterious ritual acquired, another step across whatever this chessboard is.

And with each step, I’m less and less sure who’s truly in control.

21

The early morning sky bleeds purple through narrow ground-level windows as we descend into Heathborne’s forbidden catacombs. Each step down the worn stone staircase feels like crossing a threshold—not just between above and below, but between clearblood propaganda and buried truth. The air grows colder, heavier with each step, thick with centuries of dust and forgotten history. I run my fingers along the damp stone wall, feeling a connection to this place that Dayn, for all his ancient knowledge, cannot share. Somewhere in these tunnels rest the remains of my people—darkbloods whose existence Heathborne has tried desperately to erase.

The third ingredient required is darkblood ash.

“Stay close,” Dayn murmurs, his voice oddly muted in the dense underground air. “The layout changes periodically. A clearblood security measure.”

“Against what?” I ask. “They’ve already killed those they were afraid of.”

He doesn’t answer, which is answer enough. The living aren’t the only things clearbloods fear.

We pass through an archway riddled with preservation runes. They flicker weakly, starved for maintenance, like neglected headstones. I reluctantly cast a small illumination spell, just enough to see the immediate path ahead. The pale blue glow reveals corridor walls lined with stone coffins, stacked three high. Most bear no names, just simple carved symbols.

“Darkblood burial marks,” I whisper, tracing one with my fingertip. The symbol resembles a crescent moon pierced by a dagger—the emblem of a family line I don’t recognize. “I thought clearbloods destroyed all darkblood remains during the Purification Crusades.”

“They tried,” Dayn says, ducking beneath a low archway. “But these catacombs predate Heathborne itself. When clearbloods built their academy, they simply sealed off this section rather than risk disturbing the older magic.”

“Older magic that might have fought back,” I translate, a hint of pride warming my chest. Even in death, my ancestors resisted.

The passage narrows, forcing us to proceed single file. Dayn leads, his body radiating heat that cuts through the catacomb chill. I follow close behind, hyperaware of the oppressive weight of stone above us and the countless remains surrounding us. For darkbloods, proximity to ancestral remains represents both power and responsibility—we guard our dead, and in return, they lend us strength. I wonder if the spirits here know that one of their descendants finally walks among them after centuries of abandonment.

A sharp crack echoes as Dayn’s foot connects withsomething brittle. He freezes, then kneels to examine the floor. I peer over his shoulder to see fragments of bone scattered across the stone.

“Someone’s been here before us,” I whisper.

“Not recently,” he replies, examining the dust patterns around the scattered remains. “Decades ago, at least. Probably researchers from the academy.”

The thought of clearblood academics poking through darkblood remains makes my blood burn. “Looking for what?”

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