Page 8 of Darkbirch Academy

I could have died four times last year alone, on missions less dangerous than this one. The difference then was I could call on my grandmother’s spirit, draw on our ancestral magic, and fight with the full strength of my darkblood heritage. This time, I’llbe walking into enemy territory with my power deliberately dimmed, hunting a target specifically designed to destroy me.

Lovely odds. Just how I like them.

The preparation chamber lies at the end of a seldom-used corridor, past the training rooms and armory. Few have clearance to enter it—only those assigned to high-risk covert operations. I’ve been here six times in my life. Two of those missions nearly killed me.

I press my palm against the heavy metal-bound door, feeling the familiar prick as the blood lock takes its sample. There’s a moment of resistance, then a series of clicks as the ancient mechanisms recognize my bloodline and grant access. The door swings inward on silent hinges, revealing a chamber bathed in cool blue light.

“Welcome, Esme Salem,” comes the disembodied voice of the room’s guardian spirit. “Your preparation materials have been assembled as requested.”

“Thank you, Keeper,” I respond, stepping inside as the door seals shut behind me.

The chamber is circular, with a central table surrounded by shelves containing everything from weapons to potions to specialized clothing. The walls are lined with mirrors, enchanted to show different aspects of a person’s appearance—physical, magical, spiritual. They’ll be essential for ensuring my dark magical nature remains concealed beneath my clearblood disguise.

On the central table lies an array of items carefully arranged around a detailed floor plan of Heathborne Academy. I set down my file and begin to examine what Corvin has prepared for me.

First, the identity documents. The cover is thorough—academic records from a minor magical academy in the western territories, recommendation letters bearing forged signatures from respected clearblood scholars, and a detailed background history. According to these papers, I am now Clara Winters, a promising young researcher specializing in protective enchantments, seeking to complete my advanced studies under Heathborne’s renowned faculty.

“Clara Winters,” I test the name aloud, tasting its falseness. “Orphaned at sixteen, raised by scholars, graduated with honors.” A lifetime of fabricated achievements and tragic background laid out in meticulous detail. Enough truth woven through the lies to make it believable—I did lose my father at a young age, after all, just not in the way these documents claim.

Next to the documentation are two small wooden cases. One contains a pile of silver tablets, each engraved with complex runes that shimmer under the blue light. These will be my greatest vulnerability and protection simultaneously—masking my darkblood nature while cutting me off from a significant portion of my power. The second wooden case is marked by a label that reads “counter-suppression” and contains a pile of white tablets. A note next to this case informs me that these tablets will reverse the effects of the silver tablets. Useful, in case of an emergency.

Beside the wooden cases sits a collection of weapons disguised as academic tools. A fountain pen with a removable cap revealing a slender poisoned needle. A ceremonial letter opener that doubles as a throwing knife. A researcher’s magnifying glass with edges sharp enough to sever an artery.An ornate bookmark that unfolds into a garrote wire. And other useful weapons.

“Subtle,” I murmur appreciatively, testing the weight of the pen in my hand.

More practical items follow—like clothing in the Heathborne style, predominantly in their preferred colors of navy and silver. Cipher notebooks with hidden compartments. A collection of innocuous-looking vials labeled as health supplements that actually contain various potions—healing, strength enhancement, glamour, and one particularly nasty concoction that can melt internal organs if ingested.

At the far end of the table sits a small, unassuming silver compact mirror. I recognize it immediately as a communication device. When opened under specific conditions, it will create a momentary connection to its twin, held by my handler back at Darkbirch. A note informs me it’s for emergency use only—each activation risks detection by Heathborne’s magical surveillance.

I spread out the floor plans, studying the layout of what will soon be my hunting ground. I’ve never had to examine it in this much detail before. Heathborne Academy is massive—a sprawling castle complex with multiple wings, underground facilities, and heavily warded walls. The dormitories are in the east wing, research laboratories in the north, classrooms scattered throughout. Administrative offices occupy the central tower.

“Where are you hiding, Mazrov?” I murmur, fingers tracing potential locations. Security headquarters? Research labs? Private quarters?

A notation on the map catches my eye—a section marked with a warning symbol. “Restricted access. Protection ineffect.” That’s interesting. Whatever they’re hiding there might be worth investigating.

I look up from the papers at the nearest mirror, studying my reflection. My pale skin and black hair could pass for a clearblood’s with minimal adjustments; I might dye or glamour my hair brown. My eyes are the problem—they carry the distinctive storm-cloud gray of the Salem bloodline, with the subtle red flecks that mark me as a practitioner of blood magic.

The silver tablets will hide those magical markers, but I’ll need glamour or colored lenses as an additional precaution. On the shelf beside me, I find a small case containing lenses that will turn my eyes a more clearblood-appropriate blue.

I step back from the table, taking a deep breath as I center myself. Before I go any further with preparations, there’s something I need to do.

“Grandmother,” I whisper, closing my eyes and reaching for that familiar connection. “I need your guidance.”

The air grows colder around me as I channel a small amount of my blood essence, opening the pathway between worlds. The torches dim slightly, and I feel the distinctive prickle along my spine that signals a spirit’s approach.

“Child,” comes my grandmother’s voice. “You seek to walk among our enemies.”

I open my eyes to see her translucent form standing before me, her silver-streaked hair in its traditional braids, her posture as regal in death as I imagine it was in life. Here she chooses to manifest herself fully, unlike in the graveyard earlier, and I am grateful for that at this moment.

“The council has assigned me to eliminate a threat,” I explain. “One who can permanently damage our auras.”

Her ghostly features sharpen with concern. “Such power violates the natural order. It must not be allowed to spread.”

“That’s why I’m going,” I say. “But I’ll need to take these.” I gesture to the silver tablets. “I’ll be cut off from you and the ancestors for days.”

Grandmother Esther’s spirit drifts closer, her form flickering slightly in the blue light. “You have never relied solely on our power, Esme. Your strength comes from within as much as from your bloodline.”

“But your guidance?—”

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