Page 10 of Darkbirch Academy

She hands me a thick leather-bound student manual that weighs as much as a small child. “Everything you need to know about conduct, scheduling, and our proud history is contained within. We expect you to have it memorized by week’s end.”

Of course they do. Clearbloods and their obsession with rules—as if writing something down can actually control the chaos of the world. I’ve already memorized their security protocols from the information Corvin provided me. The rest is just clearblood self-importance bound in expensive leather.

“Thank you,” I murmur, clutching the manual to my chest as if it’s precious. “I’ll study it thoroughly.”

“See that you do.” She gestures toward the grand staircase. “Your orientation tour begins in ten minutes in the Hall of Champions. Don’t be late.”

As she clicks away on sensible heels, I allow myself the luxury of an internal eye roll. Hall of Champions. Could they be any more obvious about their superiority complex?

I follow the stream of students up the marble staircase, maintaining a careful distance. My disguise isn’t just my physical appearance. It’s in how I hold myself—slightly hunched, eyes downcast, moving with the tentative steps of someone unsure of their place. The opposite of how a Salem woman carries herself.

The hallways of Heathborne are a strange fusion of medieval castle and modern academy. Ancient stone walls rise to vaulted ceilings, but security cameras disguised as ornamental gargoyles track movement at regular corners. I don’t remember seeing those last time I was here.

Magical wards shimmer almost invisibly along doorframes—apparently detection spells that would immediately sound alarms if I were foolish enough to approach without the silver tablets’ protection. I believe those are new too.

“Watch it,” snaps a tall, auburn-haired boy as I accidentally brush against his arm. The silver crest pinned to his lapel marks him as one of the elite clearblood families. Probably never had to apologize for anything in his life.

“Sorry,” I whisper, shrinking further into my disguise. The urge to slip a paralysis tablet into his water flask is nearly overwhelming, but I resist. I’m not here for petty revenge.

I’m here for something much bigger.

The Hall of Champions proves to be exactly as pompous as its name suggests. The massive chamber’s walls are lined with oil portraits of clearblood heroes throughout history, their expressions uniformly smug and self-satisfied. Beneath each portrait, glass cases display “artifacts of significance”—mostly weapons used to slaughter my kind.

I spot three different exits, two visible security cameras, and a panic button disguised as an ornamental rosette on the wall near the podium. Mentally, I map the quickest escape routes, calculating how long it would take to reach each one while dodging potential pursuers. Seven seconds to the side door, twelve to the main entrance, eighteen to the smaller exit behind the podium. Always know your exits—first rule of infiltration that Darkbirch taught me.

A gaggle of first-years huddles near the center of the room, wide-eyed and reverential as a tour guide drones on about “the sacred duty of protecting magical integrity.” I drift toward them, assuming the same awestruck expression whileinternally composing creative curses for every ancestor praised in this hall.

“The Purification Crusade of 1746 marked a turning point in our ongoing battle against corruption,” the guide announces, gesturing to a particularly gruesome painting of darkbloods being rounded up for execution. “Under the leadership of Grand Purifier Hartwell, the southern territories were cleansed of dangerous influence.”

Cleansed. How clinical they make genocide sound. That “cleansing” wiped out three entire darkblood families, including my father’s cousins. The rage that bubbles up inside me threatens to crack my carefully constructed facade, but I swallow it back like bitter medicine. Focus on the mission. That’s why I’m here.

Mazrov—the clearblood’s most effective weapon against us. Heathborne’s golden boy.

A commotion near the entrance draws my attention. Students step back, creating a path as a group enters the hall. The atmosphere shifts immediately—heads turn, conversations halt, and a strange tension fills the air. Even the tour guide stops mid-sentence, her expression switching from boredom to alert deference.

And then I see him.

Mazrov.

He moves with military precision but natural grace, his dark-gray armor absorbing the light around him like a black hole. The reflective metal guard covering the upper half of his face can’t hide what makes him truly distinctive—those eyes. Bright blue with an inner fire that seems to burn from somewhere inhuman.

He scans the room with practiced efficiency, and I lowermy gaze just before his sweep reaches me. Don’t attract attention. Don’t stand out. Just another starry-eyed clearblood student admiring their hero.

“As I was saying,” the tour guide continues, her voice noticeably higher, “Heathborne Academy takes pride in training the next generation of protectors. And speaking of protectors—” she gestures toward Mazrov with poorly disguised reverence “—we are honored to have Senior Guard Kieran Mazrov observing today’s orientation.”

The students around me practically vibrate with excitement. A girl to my left actually sighs. It takes me every ounce of self-control not to gag audibly.

I risk another glance.Kieran Mazrov. Up close, he is even more imposing than his reputation suggests. He stands still, almost unnaturally so, as if conserving energy. His hand rests casually on the hilt of a blade that’s definitely not standard issue—the metal has a strange iridescent quality that suggests enchantment.

How many darkbloods has that blade sliced open? How many of my people might he have already attempted to hunt with those burning eyes?

For a heart-stopping moment, those eyes fix directly on me. I keep my expression neutral, even as my pulse hammers in my throat. The silver tablet I took should hide me completely, but something in his gaze feels... searching. Penetrating. As if he can sense something isn’t quite right.

Then his attention shifts away, continuing his scan of the room, and I exhale slowly through my nose. I’ll need to be exceptionally careful around him. For all I know, he has enhanced senses.

As the tour continues, I maintain my position within thegroup while keeping Mazrov in my peripheral vision. I note how he moves, how he positions himself in the room—always with his back to a wall, always with clear sightlines to all entrances. He’s vigilant but not visibly tense. Confident in his territory.

Except this isn’t just his territory anymore. Now it’s my hunting ground too.

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