Page 53 of Darkbirch Academy

Dayn drops the sack in a corner, none too gently. Mazrov’s body makes a dull thud as it hits the stone floor. He kneels beside the sack, presses his palm to the ground, and begins to trace a complex pattern around Mazrov’s concealed form. Golden light follows his fingertip, etching a circle of runes that pulse with the same amber glow as the marks on my wrist. Another shield.

“Just a precautionary measure,” he explains without looking up. “He shouldn’t wake up for hours. I need to make some… preparations in Heathborne, before we bring him there, and then I’ll return. I’ll be back in less than an hour.”

“And I’m supposed to wait here with him?” I glance at the sack.

“Yes.” Dayn moves toward the door, then pauses. “Just try not to break anything while I’m gone. Some things in this world are truly irreplaceable.”

I frown as he disappears, unable to tell if he’s referring to the building, to Mazrov, or to something else entirely. That’s the problem with Dayn—layers upon layers of meaning, each one potentially a trap.

28

The 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 morerandom 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 themselvespulse 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 glowbrighter 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 areexactlythe 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’taskfor 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.

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