Page 9 of Darkbirch Academy

“Will remain with you, even when you cannot hear my voice,” she interrupts. “Trust what I have taught you. Trust your instincts.”

Her spectral hand reaches out, hovering just above my cheek in the closest approximation of a touch that her current form allows. “You carry the Salem blood. It will not fail you, even when disguised.”

I nod, drawing strength from her confidence. “I’ll succeed, Grandma. I always do.”

“Be cautious,” she warns. “The clearbloods may appear weaker for their disconnection from death, but they have developed other magics to compensate. Do not underestimate them.”

“I won’t,” I promise. “I’ll be back before the next full moon.”

She smiles, her form already beginning to fade. “I will be watching from beyond the veil, child. Make your ancestors proud.”

With that, she’s gone, leaving behind only a lingering chill in the air and the faint scent of grave soil that always accompanies her manifestations. I take a moment to composemyself, knowing it may be at least a week before I can speak with her again.

I turn back to the table and pick up one of the silver tablets, examining it closely. Small enough to swallow easily, yet powerful enough to fundamentally alter how my magic presents itself to others. I should test its effects now, to be prepared.

“Recording vitals and magical signature before tablet consumption,” announces the Keeper’s voice as magical sensors activate around the room.

I place the tablet on my tongue, grimacing at its metallic taste as it dissolves. For a moment, nothing happens. Then a wave of coldness spreads from my center outward, different from the comfortable chill of death magic—this is an emptiness, a sudden absence where my connection to ancestral power should be.

I gasp, steadying myself against the table as my knees weaken momentarily. The mirrors around the room shimmer and adjust, showing me the change as it happens. My magical aura, normally a deep crimson shot through with threads of silver, shifts and pales to a clearblood’s typical blue-white.

“Fascinating,” I murmur, straightening up and approaching one of the mirrors. The physical discomfort passes quickly, but the sense of disconnection remains. I can still access my personal reserves of magic, but the wellspring of power I usually draw from my bloodline is muffled, as if behind a thick wall.

I attempt a simple blood magic spell, pricking my finger and attempting to form the droplet into a small sentinel bird—a trick I’ve been able to do since childhood. The blood risessluggishly, forming only a crude approximation of a bird before collapsing back into a formless drop.

“Magical capacity reduced by approximately forty percent,” the Keeper informs me. “Darkblood signature successfully masked. Detectable power now registers as standard clearblood classification.”

Not ideal, but workable. I’ll need to rely more on my physical skills and intelligence than magical nature. Fortunately, I’ve never been one to depend solely on power when cunning will suffice.

I turn to the collection of clearblood clothing, selecting a tailored navy jacket and matching skirt that fits the Heathborne aesthetic while allowing enough freedom of movement for combat if necessary. The fabric is enchanted to resist minor spells and staining—practical for both a student and an assassin.

I try on the colored lenses next, blinking as they settle into place. My reflection now shows a young woman with clear blue eyes, dressed in scholarly attire, with nothing to suggest her darkblood heritage. Clara Winters looks back at me—ambitious, intelligent, and utterly fabricated.

“Perfect,” I say, satisfied with the transformation. “A model clearblood student.”

I return to the documents, continuing to memorize details of my cover identity as the tablet’s effects wear on. By morning, I’ll know Clara Winters better than she would know herself, if she existed. Every fictional achievement, every fake relationship, every forged credential must become as familiar to me as my own history.

The weight of the mission settles more firmly on my shoulders as the reality of what I’m about to do sinks in.Infiltrating Heathborne isn’t just dangerous—it’s potentially suicidal. If they discover my true nature, I’ll face the kind of execution that clearbloods reserve for darkbloods: prolonged, public, and designed to destroy not just my body but my spirit’s ability to transition peacefully.

And yet, failure isn’t an option. If this Mazrov truly has developed a way to permanently damage darkblood auras, he represents an existential threat to everyone I care about. My brother, my mother, the rest of my remaining family, my entire coven—all vulnerable to a weapon that could strip away the very essence of who we are.

I gather the documents and begin arranging them in the slim briefcase provided for Clara Winters’ academic materials. My fingers brush over the small scrap of notes I’ve made—vulnerabilities to look for, potential allies, emergency extraction protocols.

In the polished window across the room, I catch a glimpse of my reflection. With my back straight and my gaze determined, I look every inch the confident clearblood scholar. No one would guess at the darkness flowing through my veins or the lethal intentions behind my carefully constructed smile.

I nod to myself, a silent affirmation of my readiness for what’s to come. The mission is clear, the stakes understood, and the path forward set. In three days, I’ll walk through Heathborne’s gates as one of them. And then, when the moment is right, I’ll show them exactly who I really am—the last face their precious Mazrov will ever see.

The clearbloods think they’ve created the perfect weapon against my kind. They’re about to learn they’ve merely provided the perfect target for mine.

6

Icross the threshold into Heathborne Academy with the carefully measured steps of someone who doesn’t belong but is determined to pretend otherwise. The grand entrance hall stretches before me, dripping with the kind of ostentatious wealth that only clearbloods think impressive. Golden light filters through stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns across marble floors that probably cost more than what my entire coven lives on for a year. I force my lips into the hesitant smile of a new transfer student. If these pretentious idiots only knew what was walking among them.

A robed administrator with a painfully tight bun approaches, clipboard clutched to her chest like it contains state secrets instead of class schedules. The woman’s smile is professionally vacant as she checks my forged documents.

“Miss Clara Winters,” she reads. “Welcome to Heathborne. We’re delighted to have a transfer of your caliber join us mid-semester.”

I duck my head in rehearsed modesty. “I’m honored to be accepted.” The words taste like ash in my mouth.

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