Page 12 of Darkbirch Academy

I close the door softly, dropping the folder onto my desk. Charming welcome committee. Though her warning about the west wing intrigues me...

A strong gust of wind sweeps through the room, making me shiver. I return to the window, reach out, and pull the casement toward me. That’s when I notice something flickering in the glass.

A shadow towering behind me—too solid, too deliberate. My body reacts before conscious thought can form. I whirl, knife already drawn from my sleeve in one fluid motion?—

My dorm room stares back at me, innocent in its stillness.

The lamplight cowers in the corners, casting elongated shadows that seem to breathe. The silence presses against my eardrums like a physical weight.

Yet the air... it feelsviolated. Hanging thick and charged around me… like the space between thunderclaps, dense as mercury, vibrating at a frequency that sets my teeth on edge. It’s not the familiar prickle of magic. I don’t know what it is. I’ve never sensed anything like it. It somehow feels… primordial. Ancient. A wrongness that predates civilization itself. Like reality has been punctured, and something is seeping through the wound.

And I swear the air feelshot, even though I only just closed the window.

I force a deep breath and try to pull myself together.

Am I succumbing to an extreme bout of paranoia, or could the silver tablets be corrupting my perception? Elder Reed would have warned me of hallucinations, wouldn’t she?Unless she didn’t know… They’re a relatively new invention and she might not know every detail about them.

I retreat to my bed with measured steps, muscles coiled tight. But I don’t sheathe my knife. Not as I take a careful sip of water, not as I slide beneath the sheets. The room remains still, but the dark feels somehow heavier… Watching.

8

Idon’t know how I managed to fall asleep, but somehow I drifted off in the early morning hours. And when I wake, my room feels more… normal. No apparent sign of another presence having been in the room. Everything is in its place, my furniture untouched.

Maybe it was a hallucination?

If so, I hope it won’t be a recurring event. The last thing I need on this mission is unstable senses.

I try to push all thoughts of the night aside as I prepare for the day ahead.

I study the updated class schedule Valerie delivered. I’m pleased to see my first lecture was delayed due to an ill professor. Now I’m not expected at any class until early afternoon… leaving me with hours to slip into the shadows and begin my pursuit of Mazrov.

Twenty paces ahead, Mazrov moves with the fluidity of a predator, his dark-gray armor absorbing the daylight that streams through the vaulted windows. I keep my steps light, my cipher notebook open as if reviewing class notes while my pen scratches a detailed record of his movements. Nothing escapes my notice—not the slight tilt of his head when he senses something amiss, not the way he scans each corridor before he turns.

Mazrov appears to maintain loyalty to the guard patrol schedule I studied yesterday with clockwork precision. At least, so far. Breakfast hall precisely at seven-thirty. Five-hundred steps from his quarters to the training grounds. Exactly eighteen minutes in the Hall of Champions before his first patrol. I’ve been waiting for him to do something interesting.

Like now.

He veers left where he should continue straight, his shoulders squared with purpose. I duck behind a cluster of students discussing some trivial protective charm homework, using their animated gestures as cover while I scribble in my notebook:11:42 AM – Eastern corridor deviation. Deliberate pace suggests destination, not wandering.

I’ve perfected the art of blending in at Heathborne. My unremarkable brown hair is pulled back in a sensible ponytail. My robes are perfectly pressed but not immaculate—trying too hard attracts attention as surely as neglect.

Mazrov pauses at an intersection, and I immediately halt, pretending to examine a notice board plastered with announcements about upcoming dueling competitions and lectures on clearblood combat history. The nonsense they teach here would be laughable if it weren’t so dangerous.

Darkbloods are driven by malevolence. Engaging with them is futile. They must be cleansed or eliminated.

The propaganda makes my blood simmer, but I manage to keep Clara’s face placid, interested only in whether Professor Thornfield’s exam will cover protective or offensive wards.

The corridor Mazrov has chosen fills with the cloying scent of lemon and sage incense, burning in elaborate golden censers hung from the vaulted ceiling. I wrinkle my nose slightly. Clearbloods and their obsession with purification—as if smoke and herbs could cleanse what lives in the shadows of their own hearts. The marble floors gleam painfully bright, enchanted to repel even the slightest speck of dust, much like Heathborne itself tries to repel any trace of darkblood influence.

I allow three students and a professor to pass between us before following. The morning rush provides perfect cover—young clearblood apprentices scurrying to their lessons, carrying stacks of books on counter-curses and combat techniques. I join their flow, another fish in the academic stream, while keeping Mazrov’s dark-gray silhouette in my peripheral vision.

He moves differently here, I notice. His steps deliberate but somehow more... cautious? My pen moves across the page, creating a cipher only I can read. To anyone glancing over, it would look like course notes, but each symbol maps his movements, each line chronicles his behavior. Darkbirch didn’t send me to merely observe routine patrols. I need to understand why Mazrov—why his entire unit—has been granted special dispensation within Heathborne’s hierarchy.

And why his eyes burn with that unnatural fire.

The crowd thins as we enter the western wing. Here, thearchitecture shifts subtly—the ceilings lower, the windows narrower, as if the building itself is holding its breath. I slide my notebook into an inner pocket of my robes and extract a small crystal lens, a trinket that appears decorative but allows me to observe reflections around corners.

Mazrov stops suddenly, his head cocking slightly. I immediately turn to a water fountain, bending to take a sip while monitoring him through the crystal held casually against my textbook.

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