Page 11 of Darkbirch Academy

I run through the plan again, mentally checking each step. Get established. Earn trust. Find a way to get Mazrov alone. Strike without leaving evidence (if possible). Exit during the ensuing chaos.

Simple, except for the part where I have to kill perhaps the most dangerous clearblood ever to hunt my kind.

The tour guide finally releases us with instructions to proceed to the dining hall for the welcome luncheon. As the group disperses, I linger, pretending to admire a particularly hideous painting while actually watching Mazrov’s reflection in its glossy surface. He speaks briefly with a senior administrator, his posture deferential but not subservient.

A wolf pretending to be a guard dog. But I come from a line of wolf-hunters.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and allow myself a small, secret smile as I turn toward the dining hall. Grandmother always said every mission should be approached with a certain amount of joy in one’s heart. The joy of purpose. The joy of vengeance.

And I intend to enjoy every moment of bringing down the clearbloods’ favorite weapon, right under their pretentious, self-important noses.

7

The day passes in a blur of false smiles and carefully measured words. By the time darkness falls over Heathborne, my face aches from maintaining my mask of eager curiosity, but I’ve mapped three more exit routes and memorized the patrol schedules of the daytime guards—most importantly, Mazrov’s.

I slip my key into the lock of my assigned dormitory room, listening for the satisfying click before pushing the heavy oak door open. Once inside, I lock the door behind me and lean against it for a moment, finally allowing my carefully constructed facade to slip away. The tension in my shoulders releases with an audible crack as I roll my neck and stand tall for the first time since entering this wretched place.

My assigned quarters are unexpectedly luxurious—a testament to Heathborne’s wealth and their desire to keep their precious students comfortable. The four-poster bed with its navy silk curtains dominates one wall, while a polishedmahogany desk sits beneath a leaded glass window. Bookshelves line another wall, already stocked with clearblood texts on magical theory and protective enchantments—all carefully curated for “Clara Winters” and her supposed academic interests.

“Home sweet home,” I mutter sarcastically, dropping my leather satchel onto the desk with a thud.

The first order of business is security. I move methodically around the room, checking for surveillance devices or magical wards. My fingertips trail along the undersides of furniture, probe the corners of picture frames, and test the integrity of the window seals. Standard procedure—trust nothing in enemy territory.

I find two monitoring charms embedded in the ceiling cornices and a subtle tracking enchantment woven into the carpet. Amateur work, really. Nothing that indicates they suspect me specifically, just the standard surveillance they likely maintain on all new transfers.

“How considerate,” I whisper, carefully leaving the monitoring devices intact. Disabling them would only draw attention.

After confirming the room is secure enough for my purposes, I move to the window. The glass is cool beneath my fingertips as I push the casement open. Night air rushes in, carrying the scent of pine and water. I lean against the stone windowsill, letting my gaze drift across the sprawling grounds to where Heathborne Lake stretches like spilled ink beneath the moon.

The lake’s surface ripples with silver light, deceptively beautiful. I know what lies beneath those waters—the remainsof darkblood bodies, dumped there during the purges. Clearbloods love to build their monuments atop our graveyards.

I exhale slowly, allowing myself this brief moment of quiet contemplation. I think of my brother—of his far-too-pale skin and protruding veins. By now, they’ve likely begun a healing ritual. They’ll have probably taken him to the oldest section of Darkbirch’s graveyard, where the boundary between worlds is thinnest. Mom would oversee the preparation herself, wrapping him in burial linens soaked in a mixture of sacred herbs and his own blood. Then they would lower him into the prepared grave, six feet of loose soil cascading down as the elders chant the ancient words that will draw the healing spirits to him.

He’ll probably lie there for a week—conscious but immobile, his body sustained by magic while ancestral spirits work to repair the damage to his aura. The spirits will surround him like a cocoon, feeding their essence into the wounded parts of his magical core. It’s excruciating, my mother once told me. Like being slowly turned inside out while remaining fully aware of every moment.

But it’s likely his best chance. Maybe his only chance, if Mazrov’s attack damaged his aura as severely as I fear. Normal healing methods can mend flesh and bone, but aura damage requires something deeper, something primal that only the dead can provide.

I press my fingers against my temples, pushing away the image of my brother buried alive, ghostly fingers probing the wounded places in his soul. He’s strong. He’ll endure it. He has to.

A soft chime from my enchanted watch pulls me from these dark thoughts. Time for my tablet of the day. I retrievethe silver disk from its hidden compartment in my luggage, grimacing as I place it on my tongue. The metallic taste floods my mouth, followed by that distinctive cold emptiness as it suppresses my natural abilities.

I move to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. In the mirror, Clara Winters stares back at me, blue eyes revealing nothing of the darkness that lurks beneath. Tomorrow, the real work begins. I need to get closer to Mazrov.

A knock at my door startles me. I hadn’t expected visitors.

“Just a moment,” I call out, quickly assuming Clara’s demeanor—shoulders slightly hunched, voice pitched higher than my natural tone.

When I open the door, I find myself face-to-face with a young woman about my age, her platinum blonde hair cut in a severe bob that frames sharp features and calculating green eyes.

“You’re the transfer,” she states, not bothering with introductions. Her gaze sweeps over me, assessing. “I’m Valerie Hargrove. Student liaison for new arrivals.”

“Clara Winters,” I respond, extending my hand with just the right amount of earnestness. “Thank you for stopping by.”

She ignores my outstretched hand, instead shoving a folder at me. “Your final schedule. Orientation missed some details.” Her tone is clipped, efficient. “Breakfast begins at seven-thirty. Don’t be late or you’ll miss announcements.”

I accept the folder with a grateful nod, maintaining my facade. “I appreciate it. Is there anything else I should know that wasn’t covered today?”

Valerie’s eyes narrow slightly. “Stay out of the west wing after hours. It’s restricted. And the professors here don’t tolerate mediocrity.” With that pearl of wisdom delivered, sheturns on her heel and strides away, leaving me standing in the doorway.

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