Page 40 of Darkbirch Academy

Dayn rises, his amber eyes reflecting my light spell. “Weaknesses. Methods to counter your bloodline magic. The usual.”

We continue deeper, the passage gradually widening into what was once a small ceremonial chamber. Stone benches line the walls, and in the center stands a low altar, its surface dark with ancient stains. Blood rituals, performed right under where generations of clearblood students would later study, blissfully ignorant. The irony isn’t lost on me.

“How much further?” I ask, checking my watch. We’ve been underground nearly twenty minutes—any longer and we risk discovery.

“Just ahead.” Dayn gestures toward a narrow archway on the far side of the chamber. “The oldest burial sites are through there.”

As we approach the archway, I notice symbols carved into the surrounding stone—warding runes, but not clearblood designs. These are older, their patterns reminiscent of the protection spells my grandmother taught me. Darkblood magic, preserved in stone.

“Wait.” I hold out my arm, blocking Dayn’s path. “These are blood wards. They won’t let just anyone pass.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Then I defer to you.”

I withdraw a small silver knife from my boot—not the most ceremonial tool, but it will serve. Pricking my cut, I let several drops of blood fall onto the central rune.

“Blood of my blood,” I murmur in the old tongue, the words rising unbidden from some deep ancestral memory. “I seek passage to pay respects to those who came before.”

The runes flare briefly with dull red light, then fade. A soft grinding sound follows as the sealed archway opens slightly—just enough for us to squeeze through.

“After you,” I tell Dayn, curious to see if the wards will accept him.

He gives me a knowing look but steps through without incident. I follow, wondering what that means. The wards should have rejected non-darkblood visitors. Either they’ve weakened over centuries, or there’s more to Dayn than I understand—neither option particularly comforting.

The chamber beyond takes my breath away. Unlike the utilitarian design of the outer catacombs, this space was created with reverence. The ceiling arches high, supported by columns carved to resemble ancient trees. Burial niches line the walls, each sealed with stone slabs bearing intricate carvings. The floor is inlaid with a spiral pattern that leads to a central platform where several free-standing sarcophagi rest.

“The founders,” Dayn says quietly. “The first darkblood families to establish what would later become Heathborne.”

I stare at him, suspicion flaring. “How do you know that? This history was systematically erased.”

“Not erased,” he corrects. “Obscured. The truth has waysof persisting, if you know where to look.” He steps toward one particular sarcophagus, its lid carved with a symbol I recognize with a jolt—a crescent moon intersected by what looks like a forked flame.

“The Salem line,” I whisper, approaching the stone coffin with reverent steps. “My family.”

“One branch of it,” Dayn confirms. “The record keeping wasn’t quite as precise back then.”

I place my palm against the cool stone, feeling a faint resonance, like the echo of a heartbeat long stilled. “This is what we need? Ash from my own family line?”

“The ritual requires darkblood ash with a spiritual connection to the practitioner,” Dayn explains. “Your family’s remains will respond more readily to your blood magic.”

The realization of what we’re about to do hits me fully. We’re going to disturb an ancestor’s rest—a profound taboo in darkblood culture. Yet part of me understands the poetic justice: using the remains of a Salem who witnessed the founding of what became Heathborne to help break its hold on a creature it now imprisons.

“I’ll need more privacy for this,” I say, meeting Dayn’s gaze steadily. “Turn around.”

To my surprise, he complies without argument, moving several paces away and facing the entrance. I once again call on my natural abilities. The world sharpens, deepens, as my connection to death magic resurges.

I remove the small knife again and this time cut more deeply across my palm, letting the blood pool. Darkblood rituals require sacrifice—the price we pay for communing with what lies beyond. I begin the incantation mygrandmother taught me, words passed down through generations of Salems.

“Blood to blood, ash to ash,” I murmur, letting my blood drip onto the sealed lid. “I call upon the tie that binds us through the veil. Honored ancestor, I seek your aid in the war that never ended.”

The chamber grows colder, my breath forming clouds in the suddenly frigid air. The blood on the sarcophagus doesn’t drip or pool but seems to sink into the stone itself, disappearing as if absorbed. The carvings begin to glow with faint red light.

“By blood right and line descent, I ask for what remains when flesh has fallen,” I continue, the words growing stronger as I feel the presence of something ancient stirring. “Not to disturb your rest, but to carry your essence forward in our shared purpose.”

A low grinding sound fills the chamber as the sarcophagus lid shifts slightly. From within the narrow gap, a fine, dark ash begins to rise—not falling out but floating upward, defying gravity. It hovers in the air before me, swirling in patterns too deliberate to be random.

I hold out the small leather pouch Dayn provided earlier, opening it wide. “I receive this gift with gratitude and purpose,” I finish the ritual. “When our task is done, what remains will return to rest.”

The ash streams into the pouch of its own accord. Once the last particles enter, I pull the drawstring tight and tie it with three knots, sealing the ritual.

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