Page 16 of Darkbirch Academy

The dormitory wing lies just ahead. I can make out the ornate archway that marks its entrance, the lanterns casting pools of golden light. The presence behind me grows more palpable with each step—a weight in the air, a disturbance in the natural flow of things.

I break into a run, my footsteps echoing loudly against the stone floors. The sound of pursuit behind me is nearly silent—just the barest whisper of movement.

I reach my door, fumbling with the key as I feel the presence draw nearer. The lock yields, and I throw myself inside, slamming the door shut. My breath comes in short gasps as Ipress my back against the solid oak, listening intently for any sound from the corridor.

Nothing. No footsteps, no breathing, no scratch of claws or rustle of clothing. Just a heavy silence that presses against my ears like cotton.

I slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, my knees drawn up to my chest. This doesn’t make sense. Why would something follow me but not confront me? If Heathborne suspected my true identity, they wouldn’t send some shadow creature to stalk me—they’d have guards breaking down my door this very moment.

The silence stretches, becoming almost more unnerving than active pursuit would be. I force myself to breathe deeply, to think clearly. Perhaps it was merely a senior guardian on night patrol? But that doesn’t explain the unnatural height, the strange quality of movement.

A soft whisper of sound breaks the silence—paper sliding against wood. I freeze, watching as a small folded note appears beneath my door, pushed through the crack beneath the door with slow deliberation.

I stare at the cream-colored paper, my pulse hammering in my throat. The note sits there, innocent yet threatening in its unexplained presence. I wait another full minute, straining to hear any sound from the corridor. Nothing.

With careful movements, I reach for the note, unfolding it to reveal elegant, slanted handwriting:

“Attend combat class 9:00 AM tomorrow with Professor Dayn.”

No signature. No explanation. Just a directive that raises more questions than it answers.

I feel a prickle of annoyance, spring up, and yank open the door, half-expecting to confront the mysterious stalker—but the hallway stretches empty in both directions, silent and still as a tomb. The shadows between the enchanted lanterns seem deeper than they should be, but there’s no trace of the person that followed me.

10

The combat classroom smells of steel, sweat, and something else—a lingering scorch mark of power that hangs in the air like invisible smoke. I slide into a desk near the back wall, positioning myself with sightlines to all exits.

A part of me has no idea why I’m sitting here. This nine o’clock class doesn’t clash with any other class in my schedule, but I don’t takedirectivesfrom strangers in enemy territory. Another part of me knows perfectly well: I have to find out who left me that note, which possibly this “Professor” may know. I don’t have time to waste completing my mission, but curiosity—and, frankly, irritation, at this point—can’t let this go.

Plus, the day is still young.

Unlike the opulent Hall of Champions, this room embraces a stark utility. The walls are bare stone, floor marked with a large circular arena surrounded by tiered seating. Ancient weapon racks line the perimeter, holdingeverything from traditional swords to more specialized magical implements. Each bears signs of actual use—nicks, wear patterns, blood stains not quite scrubbed away. Not decorative museum pieces like the ones in the hall, but working tools of violence.

I look again at the exits—main double doors behind me, smaller door to the right that likely leads to an equipment room, and what appears to be a private office entrance behind the instructor’s platform. Two visible security cameras track movement from opposite corners, though I suspect more are hidden. This room has fewer magical wards than the main halls, presumably because combat magic is practiced here, and interference would be counterproductive.

A tall blonde girl slides into the seat beside me, her uniform crisp and precisely arranged. “You picked a dangerous spot,” she whispers, nodding toward my chosen seat. “Professor Dayn likes to make examples of students who sit in the back.”

“Oh,” I reply, infusing my voice with appropriate nervousness. “I didn’t know. I thought sitting in front would be worse.”

She laughs, a brittle sound. “There is no safe place in this room. I’m Patricia, by the way.” She extends her hand with the entitled confidence of old clearblood money.

“Clara,” I respond, grasping her hand with a grip calibrated to be just shy of confident. “Transfer student.”

“Well, Clara, just a friendly warning—don’t volunteer for anything today. Dayn’s first-day demonstrations tend to end in the infirmary.”

Interesting. I file away this piece of information, mentally adjusting my approach. If injury is common, it might provideopportunities to slip away and get to Mazrov. The medical wing would likely have different security protocols than the academic sections. So long as I wasn’t injuredtoobadly, obviously, which I don’t intend to be.

The room fills quickly, students jostling for what they perceive as safer positions. The air grows thick with anticipation, conversation dwindling to nervous whispers. Three minutes before the scheduled start time, the main doors slam shut with enough force to rattle the weapon displays. No one enters. I scan the room, noting the confusion rippling through the student ranks.

Then I feel it—a wave of heat, rolling across the room like the breath of some massive beast. The temperature spikes several degrees in seconds. Sweat prickles along my hairline as the air begins to shimmer near the instructor’s platform.

He simply appears, as if stepping through an invisible doorway. No magical flash, no theatrical smoke—just absence, then presence. Professor Dayn.

I almost swallow my tongue.It’s… him.The room spikes with intensely unsettling energy, bringing back a rolling wave of déjà vu.The stalker.

The rumors didn’t do him justice. He stands at least six-foot-four, with a frame that manages to be both lean and imposing. His features carry a sharp, aristocratic precision—high cheekbones, straight nose, jawline that could cut glass, framed by obsidian locks. But it’s his eyes that arrest my attention. Even from this distance, they burn with an internal light, shifting between amber and molten gold as he surveys the room.

“Preparation,” he announces, his voice sending aninvoluntary shiver down my spine, “is the difference between victory and death.”

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