Page 19 of Darkbirch Academy

11

Iglide through Heathborne’s grand ballroom like a shadow among stars, each step calculated despite the ridiculous silver gown I’ve squeezed myself into. The clearblood elite swirl around me in their finery, oblivious to the predator in their midst.

I’ve determined it would be foolish to wait for whenever Dayn or Mazrov decide to start my formal “training.” I obviously can’t trust either of them. I can’t play by their schedule—which could very well be a trap. I need to end this, now, and get out.

Thankfully, I learned this very evening presents an interesting opportunity.

Through the crush of perfumed bodies and tinkling crystal, I keep my eyes fixed on the target: Mazrov. The weight of the poison-filled syringe against my thigh reminds me why I’m here.

The ballroom drips with excess—chandeliers that spiral toward the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, tables laden withfood no darkblood would ever taste by invitation. A string quartet plays something classical and tedious in the corner. I resist the urge to sneer at the display. Clearbloods and their performances of civility while they torture my kind in the chambers below.

I adjust the thin chain at my neck—a hollow silver pendant that houses a potion granting me temporary glamour. I’ve changed my transfer student persona. To everyone here, I appear as a minor noble from the northern territories. Forgettable. Unimportant. Perfect for my purpose.

Mazrov stands across the room, wearing the formal uniform of Heathborne’s elite guard rather than his usual gray armor. Even in ceremonial dress, he looks dangerous—rigid posture, alert eyes scanning the crowd. The experimental subject of the clearbloods’ military program doesn’t get nights off, apparently. His duty tonight appears to be to blend in while remaining vigilant, watching for threats.

Like me.

I angle my path through the crowd, careful not to move directly toward him. A waiter passes with drinks, and I take a glass, sipping the bland, fizzy liquid while assessing the security layout. Two uniformed guards at each entrance. Four plainclothes agents dispersed through the crowd—I identify them by their too-perfect posture and the slight bulge of concealed weapons under their formal wear.

None of them notice me. None of them will until it’s too late.

I place my empty glass on a passing tray and drift toward a cluster of laughing nobles. I position myself at their periphery, nodding and smiling at appropriate intervals while scanning the room over their shoulders. Mazrov hasn’t movedfrom his position near the eastern wall, his gaze methodically sweeping the ballroom.

“And you’re from where again, dear?” A woman with an elaborate feathered headdress suddenly addresses me.

“Northbrook,” I lie smoothly. “My father’s estate borders the Silverwood.”

“Oh! Do you know the Hemsleys?” Her eyes brighten with interest.

“Distantly,” I murmur, then gesture vaguely across the room. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I see an old acquaintance.”

I slip away before she can respond, cutting through the crowd with practiced ease. Each step brings me closer to Mazrov, but never directly. I pause to examine a particularly gaudy ice sculpture, then drift toward the refreshment table, steadily decreasing the distance between us.

My hand slides discreetly to the slit in my gown, fingers brushing against the syringe strapped to my thigh. The poison inside—a darkblood concoction that leaves no trace—will stop his heart in seconds. Clean. Silent. By the time anyone notices something is wrong, I’ll be halfway across the ballroom, just another shocked guest witnessing a tragedy.

Twenty feet away now. I pretend to admire a painting on the wall nearby, angling my body so I can watch him from the corner of my eye. Fifteen feet. I accept another drink, using it as prop and shield. Ten feet. I engage a tipsy diplomat in brief conversation, smiling emptily at his pompous observations about trade agreements.

Five feet. I’m close enough to spot the barely perceptible earpiece Mazrov wears for communication with the other guards. One moment of distraction is all I need.

As if summoned by my thoughts, a minor commotion erupts across the ballroom—someone’s dropped a tray of glasses. Mazrov’s head turns slightly toward the noise, assessing the threat level.

Now.

I move swiftly, closing the final distance with practiced steps that make no sound despite my formal shoes. My fingers close around the syringe, pulling it free from its hiding place as I position myself directly behind him. One quick jab at the exposed strip of neck between his collar and hairline, and this threat to my kind will be eliminated.

I raise my hand?—

Heat sears across my wrist like a band of molten metal. My fingers spasm involuntarily as pain shoots up my arm. The syringe stays hidden in my palm, but my strike halts mid-motion.

“Attempting assassination at a diplomatic function? How disappointingly crude.”

The voice slides over me like ice water. I don’t need to turn to know who it belongs to, but I do anyway, meeting the amber-gold eyes of Professor Dayn. He stands beside me, one hand casually extended to grasp my wrist, his formal attire impeccable. To any observer, we might be greeting each other, except for the white-hot agony radiating from where his skin touches mine.

“Try harder,” he murmurs, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.

My breath catches.What?

I attempt to twist free, but his grip tightens. The pain intensifies, and I feel something beneath the surface of my skin—a burning sensation that seems to seep into my blood.When he finally releases me, I have to fight to maintain my composure, to not clutch my injured wrist to my chest.

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