Page 13 of Darkbirch Academy

“Are the western archives still restricted?” he asks a passing instructor, his voice carrying the edge of command despite the deferential words.

The older man—Professor Caldwell, who teaches Advanced Warding—stiffens slightly. Interesting. “Clearance hasn’t changed, Guardian Mazrov. Third level and below remain sealed except to those with Headmaster Rothmere’s explicit permission.”

Mazrov nods once, dismissively. “Just confirming security protocols.”

I make a mental note:Tension between academic and military branches regarding archive access. Mazrov testing boundaries of authority, using security as pretext.

When the professor leaves, Mazrov remains still for several beats. Too still. I can almost feel the hairs rising on the back of my neck. His posture has shifted, his awareness expanding outward like ripples in a pond. He’s sensing for followers.

I casually open my textbook and walk toward a stone bench beneath a window, sitting down among other students. Just another clearblood apprentice struggling with theory before midday practical lessons. My heart maintains its steadyrhythm through years of training. Esme Salem might break into a cold sweat at this moment, but Clara Winters has nothing to hide.

Mazrov continues down the corridor. I exhale softly, counting to sixty before gathering my things and following.

We enter a section of Heathborne I’ve never visited—the archival passages that connect the western teaching wing to the central keep. The latter is the heart of the clearblood stronghold, a towering structure that houses vital research facilities and the council chambers where the academy’s most influential leaders supposedly convene. Based on the map Corvin provided me, it appears the only way to access it is via the west wing.

Mazrov moves with greater caution now, his footsteps barely audible against the stone floor. The passage narrows, and maintaining distance becomes challenging. I pause at one of the paintings on the wall, pretending to study it while watching his reflection in a decorative mirror positioned at the end of the hall—another stroke of luck. Or perhaps not luck at all. Grandmother Esther always says our ancestors guide our steps when we walk dangerous paths.

He approaches a door—heavy oak banded with iron, marked with symbols that make my vision blur slightly when I try to focus on them. Warding runes, old ones, designed to discourage attention rather than actively repel. Clever. Most would walk past without noticing the door at all.

I draw a quick sketch of the symbols in my notebook, my hand moving from memory rather than direct observation. Mazrov glances over his shoulder, scanning the corridor, and I’m already absorbed in tracing a finger over a nearby stone carving, a new student appreciating Heathborne’s architecture.

His fingers hover over the door’s surface, not quite touching it. Is he... feeling for something? The air shimmers slightly, like heat rising from summer-baked stones. Magic, subtle but potent, ripples outward. I resist the instinct to throw up protective wards of my own. Clara Winters wouldn’t sense the energy, wouldn’t know to shield herself from its probing tendrils.

The lock clicks open without Mazrov inserting a key. Interesting. Very interesting.

He slips inside, the door shutting soundlessly behind him. I count his footsteps as they fade—seventeen before they’re swallowed completely by whatever lies beyond.

I approach the door cautiously, not touching it but studying the warding runes more directly now. My heart beats a steady rhythm against my ribs. This is what I came for—whatever lies beyond this threshold matters enough to warrant Mazrov’s deliberate deviation from routine, matters enough for subtle but powerful concealment magic.

The sound of voices from the main corridor forces me to retreat. Two guardians in matching gray armor round the corner, their conversation cutting off abruptly when they spot me.

The taller one nods toward the main hall. “This section isn’t meant for general student access.”

“Oh!” I press a hand to my mouth, eyes widening. “I’m so sorry. I thought it was only restricted after hours, and... I mean, there weren’t any signs... I’m simply fascinated by pre-founding-era architecture.”

“Return to the public areas,” the second guardian says, not unkindly but firmly.

I nod, gathering my books with flustered movements. “Of course. Sorry to disturb you.”

As I walk away, I listen for their next moves. They position themselves on either side of the door Mazrov entered. Guards, then. Whatever lies beyond is significant enough to warrant protection but not important enough to keep permanently staffed.

Or perhaps they only arrive when someone accesses the room.

For some reason, there don’t appear to be security cameras in the immediate vicinity. I wonder why.

I make my way back to the crowded main hall, processing what I’ve learned. Mazrov has access to a warded archive room that requires special clearance. He appears to check this room at irregular intervals, breaking from his routine to do so. Two guardians arrive to stand watch when he accesses the room.

The pieces don’t form a complete picture yet, but they’re beginning to align.

I find a quiet alcove near the Hall of Champions, where sunlight pours through a massive circular window whose stained glass depicts the founding of Heathborne. My pen moves across the page of my notebook, making sure I’ve properly recorded every detail while it’s fresh in my mind. The rune configurations, the guard positions, the professor’s reaction to Mazrov’s question about archive access. Small pieces that Darkbirch can use to understand what Heathborne is hiding.

Something tickles at the back of my mind—a memory of something I learned in Darkbirch about clearblood research into blood magic. Their desperate attempts to understand ourpower while condemning its use. Could that room contain forbidden knowledge? Texts on darkblood practices that Heathborne’s leadership studies in secret while publicly denouncing them?

The irony would be delicious, if not so dangerous.

I close my notebook and tuck it away. Today’s surveillance has been productive, but I need to maintain my cover. I have a Protective Theory class in a few minutes, and Clara Winters never misses lectures. I stand, straightening my robes, adjusting my glasses once more.

For now, I’ll continue my role as the perfect clearblood student. But tonight, when darkness falls and the academy grows quiet, Esme Salem will pay that locked door another visit.

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