Page 25 of Darkbirch Academy

I narrow my eyes. “And once you’re free? You’ll what—peacefully retire? Somehow I doubt that.”

A smile curves his lips, predatory and ancient. “What I do after is my concern. But I can promise it won’t involve darkbloods. My quarrel was never truly with your kind.”

I don’t trust him—can’t trust him—but the strategic calculation is clear. If Dayn is the source of Heathborne’s power, then he’s the logical primary target. Mazrov becomes secondary.

“I need to think about this,” I say finally.

“Of course.” Dayn glances at the ornate timepiece on the wall. “Our lesson time is nearly up, anyway.”

Some “lesson.”

My skin feels too tight, too warm as I gather my things. The revelation about dragons, about Dayn himself, has upended everything I thought I knew.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks, his tone returning to that of the formal professor, though something darker lingers in his eyes.

“I’ll be here,” I lie.

As I leave the chamber, my resolve hardens into crystal clarity. Dayn is the key—the source of Heathborne’s experimental threat. He must be eliminated first, then Mazrov.

14

Ipress my back against the cold stone wall, counting the seconds between guard rotations. One and a half minutes exactly. Heathborne Academy’s clockwork precision makes infiltration both easier and more dangerous—miss your window by a heartbeat and you’re caught in the open. I withdraw a small vial from my inner pocket, the liquid inside gleaming with an unnatural blue light. The draught that will let me sense magical barriers. I down it in one bitter swallow, my senses immediately sharpening as the world takes on layers of luminescent energy signatures.

I check my weapons one more time. The silver dagger in my left boot, coated with a mixture of nightshade and juniper oil that’s deadly to most supernatural beings. The thin wire garrote wrapped around my wrist, which I removed from my bookmark and disguised as silver bangles. And my primary weapon, tucked into a custom sheath at the small of my back—an obsidian blade infused with ancient binding runes. The blade was marked for “apex predators” in our historical texts.If Professor Dayn is as powerful as he suggests, I’ll need something with more bite than standard issue.

The corridor empties as the patrol passes. I slip forward, keeping to the deepest shadows, my footfalls silent on the polished stone. Dayn’s quarters are hidden behind an unassuming door at the far end of the faculty wing, distinguished by a small brass nameplate.

I reach the door and press my palm against the smooth wood, feeling for wards… but there are none. The lock is next—a simple mechanical affair that takes me less than ten seconds to pick. Dayn’s surprising lack of reliance on security is either arrogance or misdirection. I’ll know soon enough.

I ease the door open just wide enough to slip through and close it silently behind me. The chamber is dark, illuminated only by thin strips of moonlight filtering through narrow windows. My eyes adjust quickly, revealing a space that feels... wrong. Not because it’s extravagant or threatening, but because it’s so sparse. I find myself in a room that resembles a monk’s cell more than a professor’s quarters.

A single dark wooden table sits in one corner, its surface bare except for a leather-bound book. No papers, no personal effects. Two high-backed chairs stand sentinel beside it, carved from the same dark wood but lacking any cushioning or comfort. A narrow bookshelf is tucked in another corner of the room, and heavy drapes frame the windows, their thick material designed to block both light and sound. The floor beneath my feet is hardwood, worn smooth by age but meticulously maintained.

I move farther into the room, my senses alert for traps. The air feels warm and dry, as if I’ve stepped into a desert climate rather than the perpetually chilly castle. There’s ascent in the air—something metallic and ancient, like heated copper mixed with amber and ash.

Through an arched doorway, I glimpse what must be the bedroom. I move toward it, each step measured and silent. The heat intensifies as I approach.

The bedroom is as austere as the outer chamber. A massive bed dominates the space, its frame made of a dark metal. The sheets are crimson—silk, from the way they catch the light. No pillows. No blankets. The room’s only other furniture is a tall wardrobe pressed against the far wall.

And there, in the center, lies Professor Dayn.

He sleeps shirtless, his upper body completely bare from his toned chest down to the taut, defined muscle of his abdomen, the blood-red sheets tangled around his hips. His muscles are lean but corded with strength, more like weaponry than flesh. There’s no sign of the burning patterns that mark him. Perhaps hidden. Perhaps dormant. Except for an ever so faint, hypnotic glow that seems to linger just beneath the surface, as if his very blood hums with something ancient and untamed. I feel heat radiating from him from several feet away. My throat feels suddenly much too dry.

His skin has an unusual sheen to it, almost iridescent where the moonlight touches his shoulders and arms. The effect should make him appear vulnerable, but even in sleep, power emanates from him in palpable waves. The bed looks almost like an altar with him sprawled across it, like some ancient god at rest.

I grip my obsidian blade tighter.

I force my eyes away and scan the room again, checking for additional security measures before approaching the bed.

Three steps closer, and I can see Dayn’s face clearly now.In sleep, his sharp features appear almost carved from stone. His dark hair, usually perfectly styled, falls across his forehead in a surprisingly human display of disorder. His breathing is deep and even, the soft rise and fall of his chest creating a deceptive image of peace.

I’ve killed before. It’s part of being who I am: a Salem, an agent of Darkbirch. But those targets were active threats—clearblood officials ordering raids on our safehouses, informants about to expose our operatives. Killing a sleeping man, however deserving, feels different. I push the thought aside. Sentiment has no place in this mission.Besides, he’s branded me with his runes.

I take another step forward, my blade now poised for the killing strike. I’ll need to be precise—the heart or the throat. Anything else, and a being of Dayn’s power might survive long enough to retaliate. The obsidian blade feels unusually heavy in my hand, the ancient darkblood runes etched into its surface pulsing with a faint red glow that almost matches the sheets beneath Dayn’s sleeping form.

One more step. I’m close enough now to sweat from the unnatural heat emanating from his body. Close enough to notice the subtle markings on his skin.

I trust my training. Trust my blade. Trust the legacy that flows through my veins.

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