Page 52 of Darkbirch Academy

Just like I must protect mine, in whatever our final step holds.

“Well done,” his voice breaks the silence as he begins the process of binding Mazrov’s hands with enchanted cord. “Your performance was quite... convincing.”

“I’m glad you approve,” I murmur.

27

“So where exactly are we taking him?” I ask, observing Dayn carefully as he finishes binding Mazrov’s unconscious form.

While his attention is on the guard, I extract a small wooden box from my pocket, retrieve two white tablets, and swallow them. The bitter taste of the counter-suppression pills dissolves on my tongue. Within seconds, I feel a rush of power flooding back through my veins. My skin tingles as my darkblood signature reasserts itself.

Now that I’m done with my job of luring Mazrov, and since we’re currently outside Heathborne, there’s no need to continue operating at only thirty percent of my power while around Dayn. Of course, his runes are still stamped on me, but at least I don’t have the added weight of the pills.

“Not Heathborne—yet,” Dayn responds, rising to his feet.

“Change of plan?” I ask.

“A detour,” he replies.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see.”

He throws me my small pack, containing my regular clothes, which he’s been looking after. Then he unfurls a large canvas sack—the kind farmers use for transporting grain—and unceremoniously stuffs Mazrov’s bound form inside. The guard’s head lolls lifelessly, though the steady rise and fall of his chest confirms he’s merely unconscious.

I follow behind cautiously as he strides away from the alley, his pace brisk despite carrying a six-foot guard’s weight. Mazrov’s sacked form looks so vulnerable hung over Dayn’s shoulder, his normally imposing presence reduced to deadweight.

Dayn’s boots click sharply against the cobblestones as he turns down a narrow path that winds away from the village. I keep pace, my senses on high alert. I instinctively stoop and brush my fingers against the hilt of the dagger in my boot.

“Your aura is stronger,” Dayn observes suddenly without turning. “Counter-suppressants?”

Of course he noticed. “The double dosage served its purpose. No point in operating at low capacity when we might encounter... complications.”

“Wise,” he says, his voice low. “Though I wonder if it’s me you hope to prepare for.”

“Maybe I just don’t trust you to watch my back,” I say, my tone light but edged with enough bite to make it clear I’m not joking.

Dayn pauses, glancing over his shoulder with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his molten eyes. “A fair assumption. Though…” He pauses, then faces forward again and continues walking.

“Though what?” I ask. “You were about to say something profound, weren’t you?”

“We should focus, not talk.”

I resist pointing out that he was the one who started the conversation, and set my eyes on the path ahead.

The streets thin out as we approach the village outskirts, houses becoming sparser, the glow of lanterns disappearing behind us. Dayn’s silhouette cuts a sharp figure against the moonlit landscape and I realize we have almost reached the woods that border the village.

They open before us like a gaping maw, ancient trees standing sentinel. Moonlight filters through the canopy in dappled patches, barely illuminating a narrow path.

We walk in silence for several minutes, the forest growing denser around us. My senses—no longer dulled by suppression pills—pick up the whispers of nocturnal creatures, the subtle shifts in magical energy that permeate these woods. Old magic. Angry magic. This place has witnessed bloodshed.

A clearing emerges where an apparently abandoned stone structure stands, partially reclaimed by the forest. Moss crawls up the walls, and part of the roof has collapsed, but the remainder appears sturdy enough. The building seems ancient, perhaps even predating Heathborne itself, with symbols carved into the stone that I don’t recognize.

“What is this place?” I ask as we approach.

“A temporary stop.” Dayn kicks open the rotting wooden door, which groans in protest.

I step slowly inside after him. The air is stale and heavy with dust. Moonlight streams through gaps in the roof, illuminating a space that might once have been a chapel or meeting hall. The floor is stone, worn smooth by centuries offootsteps, and the walls bear faded markings that might be runes or writing in a language long forgotten.

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