Page 23 of Darkbirch Academy

“Your posture is better than Winters’, Salem,” Dayn remarks. The name still jars me—no more “Miss Winters,” no more pretense. He knows who I am, what I am, yet here we stand, predator and prey uncertain of which is which.

“I’ve been practicing,” I reply, keeping my voice neutral.

Dayn’s amber eyes flicker with that strange internal fire. “Show me a containment ward.”

I don’t know why he’s asking to see this, but I resolve to play along for now. I extend my hands, palms facing eachother. Between them, a sphere of energy forms—clearblood magic, not my natural affinity, but I’ve become adept at mimicking it. The sphere pulses with a pale blue light, its surface rippling like disturbed water.

“Adequate,” Dayn says, circling me slowly. Heat radiates from him, and I resist the urge to step back. “But you’re still thinking like a darkblood. You’re trying to command the energy rather than channel it.”

“Force of habit,” I mutter, adjusting my technique. The sphere stabilizes, its light growing steady.

“Habits can kill you in this world, Salem.” His voice drops lower. “Or they can save you, if they’re the right ones.”

I dissolve the energy sphere, letting my hands fall to my sides. “Is that what we’re really here to discuss? Habits?”

Something shifts in his expression. “No. We’re here because you need to understand what you’re facing.” He moves to the chamber door and locks it with a flick of his wrist. The sound of magical wards activating hums through the stone walls. “No interruptions, no surveillance.”

My body tenses, ready for combat. “That’s rather dramatic, Professor.”

“What do you know about dragons, Salem?” he asks, ignoring my comment.

My breathing slows as I stare at him, taken off guard by his question. “I… They’re extinct… Hunted to extinction centuries ago during the Blood Wars.”

In response, Dayn rolls up the sleeves of his formal academic robe, revealing forearms roped with lean muscle and etched with intricate markings that I could have mistaken for tattoos at first glance. But as I watch, the markings begin to burn with dark amber light.

“What are—” I begin, but stop as the temperature in the room increases. The air between us shimmers with heat haze.

“I am the last of my kind, or near enough.” Dayn’s voice lowers, deepens. “The last of those that went into hiding, and watched the world forget.”

My mind races to process his words. Dragons—actualdragons—still exist? The Salem family archives mention them only as ancient enemies, beings of fire and destruction that plagued darkblood covens before the clearbloods rose to power.

“You don’t believe me.” Dayn holds out a hand, palm up. A flame appears, dancing above his skin—not magical fire conjured from the air, but something that seems to emerge from within his flesh itself. “This is what Heathborne wants. Not just my knowledge, but what I am.”

I force myself to breathe evenly, to show no fear. “You’re saying you’re a dragon? A literal, fire-breathing, treasure-hoarding dragon?” I can’t believe I just said that.

“The treasure-hoarding is a stereotype,” he says with unexpected dryness. “But yes, in essence.”

“But… how…?” My voice trails off as I look over his predatory human form, and only now do I recall a detail of one of the ancient stories I heard as a child: dragons shifting between skins, sometimes beast, sometimes man.

Was that one of their actual abilities, or another legend twisted over time into myth? I feel a moment’s hesitation—a primal instinct that urges me to leave, to run, even though it goes against my very nature. I stay rooted, needing to press for more.

“Shapeshifting,” I say, my skepticism barely masking my curiosity. “Is that something you can do?”

“Perhaps this will suffice?” His eyes flash, the amber darkening to molten gold. His skin ripples, and for a moment, dark scales shimmer across his neck before fading back to human appearance. It’s brief but unmistakable—inhuman, ancient, terrifying.

I swear before I can stop myself. My grandmother’s stories were true. The nightmare creatures that haunted darkblood history aren’t myth.

Dayn’s expression hardens. “I am bound to this place, Salem. To Heathborne. To its purpose.”

“Why would a dragon serve clearbloods?” I ask, my mind still reeling from the fact I’m standing in front of something that should not even exist.

“Not by choice, obviously. They performed a tethering ritual on me fifty years ago. An ancient binding spell that even your coven has forgotten.”

I’ve never heard of such a ritual, but I’m familiar with the concept of binding spells. “What does this binding do?”

“It chains my essence to their purposes. More specifically, it allows them to siphon my power—my innate dragon magic—and channel it through their chosen vessels.”

The pieces click together with horrifying clarity. “Mazrov,” I breathe.

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