Page 41 of Darkbirch Academy

The temperature in the chamber gradually returns to normal. I turn back to Dayn.

“It’s done,” I say, my voice hoarse.

Dayn approaches, his amber eyes studying me with unsettling intensity. “Are you alright?”

“Don’t pretend concern,” I snap, tucking the pouch safely into an inner pocket. “We got what you wanted. Let’s go.”

He reaches for the pouch. “I should carry it. The proximity to your blood might activate it prematurely.”

I step back. “No. This is my ancestor, my responsibility. I’ll carry it.”

“The ash isn’t just a component, Esme,” Dayn says, his voice lowering. “It’s a conduit for death magic. Even with your abilities suppressed by that tablet, your natural affinity will cause the ash to react.”

“Then I’ll be careful.” I start toward the exit, unwilling to continue the argument in this sacred space.

Dayn follows, his footsteps unnaturally quiet on the stone floor. “Your grandmother would approve of your reverence,” he says after a moment.

I stop abruptly, turning to face him. “Stop doing that. Stop talking about my family like you knew them.”

“I didn’t say I knew her,” he replies carefully.

“But you imply it. Just like you somehow knew exactly where to find a Salem grave in catacombs that supposedly no one has accessed in centuries.” I step closer, glaring up at him. “What aren’t you telling me, Professor?”

For a moment, something ancient flickers in his eyes—not the dragon’s gold, but something older, something that recognizes me in a way I don’t understand.

“Many things,” he finally says. “But none that would help us complete our task tonight.”

I hold his gaze for another long moment before turningaway. “We have the ash. Let’s get back before someone notices we’re gone.”

As we make our way back through the winding passages, I can’t shake the feeling that the ash in my pocket pulses with each beat of my heart—a tiny echo of an ancestor long dead, awakened and aware. And though I wouldn’t admit it to Dayn, I feel watched by countless unseen eyes as we leave the catacombs, as if the entire darkblood history buried beneath Heathborne has stirred at the presence of a Salem in their midst.

What troubles me most isn’t the weight of their judgment, but the sense that they recognize Dayn too.

22

The maintenance shaft behind Heathborne’s north tower wasn’t designed for comfort. I squeeze through the narrow opening, scraping my shoulder against rough stone as I follow Dayn into darkness. The acidic smell of old moisture and something like oxidized metal fills my nostrils as we descend. According to Dayn, these tunnels predate Heathborne itself—remnants of an older structure that once stood here, built directly over the convergence of seven powerful ley lines. The perfect place to tap ancient power, and the perfect place to die if we make one wrong step.

We are here for the fourth, and I hope final, ingredient that requires collection.

“Watch your footing,” Dayn warns, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space. “The structural integrity diminishes the deeper we go.”

“Reassuring,” I mutter, testing each stone before committing my weight. My small light spell illuminates only a few feet ahead, revealing uneven floors and walls that seem tosweat with moisture. “How much farther to this convergence point?”

“Three levels down, then east through the old sanctum chambers.” He moves with inhuman confidence in the near-dark, his body radiating just enough heat to create a subtle halo in the cold, damp air. “The water source sits at the precise center where all seven ley lines intersect.”

I follow closely, careful not to lose sight of him in the twisting passages. The walls around us change as we descend, transitioning from rough-hewn stone to more deliberate architecture. Ancient runes appear, carved into the walls at regular intervals—not clearblood symbols, but something older. They pulse faintly as we pass, responding to our presence.

“These markings,” I say, gesturing to a particularly intricate set. “They’re not darkblood or clearblood.”

“Because they predate the schism,” Dayn replies without turning. “From when magic was simply magic, before your kind and the clearbloods divided it into opposing philosophies.”

“My kind didn’t divide anything,” I shoot back. “Clearbloods hunted us because they feared our connection to death.”

Dayn makes a noncommittal sound and continues forward. The passage widens into what was once a ceremonial antechamber. Crumbling pillars support a ceiling carved with a celestial map—stars and constellations positioned as they would have appeared centuries ago. Water trickles down one wall, collecting in a shallow basin before disappearing through a crack in the floor.

“The first sign of the convergence,” Dayn says, nodding toward the water. “The ley lines’ energy pulls groundwatertoward the center. The closer we get, the more apparent the flow becomes.”

I step carefully around the basin, noting how the water seems to shimmer with faint blue luminescence. “Why exactly do we need this water for your ritual?”

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