Page 29 of Darkbirch Academy

“Fine,” I finally say, the word feeling like a bitter, toxic surrender. “I’ll help you break the bond.”

Something flashes in his eyes—triumph, relief, or something darker—before his expression smooths back to careful neutrality.

“A wise decision.”

“But understand this,” I continue, stepping closer until we’re almost touching, my voice dropping to a whisper that promises violence. “If you betray me, if a single darkblood dies because of you, I will find a way to destroy you. I don’t care what it costs me. I don’t care what ancient power burns beneath your skin. I will end you.”

A slow smile spreads across his full lips. “Promises, promises. I wouldn’t expect less from a Salem.”

17

Libraries are supposed to be sanctuaries of knowledge. This one feels more like a prison cell with prettier walls. I trace my finger along the spine of an ancient tome, feeling the crackle of old leather beneath my skin while acutely aware of Dayn’s presence behind me. The soft glow of enchanted lanterns casts our elongated shadows across the towering shelves of Heathborne’s ancient library, and I can’t decide which I despise more—the musty smell of clearblood propaganda disguised as scholarship or the fact that I need this insufferable man’s help to find what we’re looking for.

“The section on pre-schism artifacts should be this way,” Dayn murmurs, his voice barely audible above the ambient hum of magical preservation wards that keep these precious clearblood relics from crumbling to dust. A fitting metaphor for their entire culture—sustained only by artificial means.

I follow him with deliberate steps, maintaining enough distance to make it clear this is an alliance of necessity, not choice. My silver tablet dissolved hours ago, its effects stilllingering in my system like a bad aftertaste. It dulls my connection to my blood magic just enough to avoid detection, but also makes me feel half-blind in a place saturated with hostile energy.

“Remind me why we couldn’t just steal the unbinding relic directly?” I ask, scanning the section labels as we pass. “Instead of this scholarly treasure hunt.”

Dayn pauses, turning to face me with that infuriating half-smile that never quite reaches his eyes. They burn amber in the low light, like embers waiting to ignite.

“Because, dear Clara—or should I say Esme?—Heathborne doesn’t keep their most valuable artifacts on display. The binding rune relics are hidden beyond conventional space. We need the location cipher.” His tone suggests I’ve asked why water is wet. “Unless you’ve suddenly developed the ability to phase through dimensional barriers?”

I narrow my eyes. “I’ve developed plenty of abilities that would surprise you, Professor.”

“I sincerely doubt that.” He turns away, dismissing me with casual cruelty.

The worst part is that he’s right. I can’t just stumble upon an object that exists partially outside normal reality. The binding rune artifacts—ancient tools from before the blood divide—are our only hope of severing his connection to Mazrov and dismantling Heathborne’s plans for creating an army of Emissaries. But acknowledging that means admitting I need him, and I’d rather swallow broken glass.

“So, I assume your earlier announcement that I would train under Mazrov was pure bullshit?” I ask.

“It helped catch your attention,” Dayn replies. “Whether it will actually come to fruition remains to be seen…”

I exhale slowly, willing for patience.

We reach a secluded alcove lined with reading tables. Dayn selects several volumes from a nearby shelf. I watch his hands, noting how the ambient heat around him makes the air shimmer slightly. Another reminder of what he is—something ancient and deadly wearing the costume of a professor.

“Start with these,” he says, placing three texts before me. “Look for references to the Primordial Marks or Ancient Bonds. Anything mentioning convergence points or liminal chambers.”

I pull the nearest book toward me, a weathered tome with faded runic inscriptions along its binding. “You’d think you’d be quicker at following clues than hunting for shadows,” I remark dryly.

His lips curl slightly. “And you’d think you’d stop overanalyzing old paper.”

I roll my eyes and turn my attention to the text. The pages are brittle beneath my fingers, covered in dense academic prose and annotated diagrams of runic configurations. My Darkbirch training included ancient languages, but these symbols predate even the oldest darkblood traditions.

We work in tense silence for nearly an hour. I feel his gaze occasionally flick toward me, assessing my progress or perhaps just monitoring my movements. When our eyes accidentally meet, I pointedly return to my research, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing my discomfort.

“Anything useful?” he eventually asks.

“If you consider three hundred pages of clearblood self-congratulation useful, then yes,” I reply. “Otherwise, no.”

Dayn closes his book with controlled precision. “Let’s try a different approach. We’ll cover more ground if we split up.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Worried I’ll slow you down, Professor?”

“Worried you’ll miss something critical.” He glances around the vast library space. “Take the eastern stacks. I’ll check the restricted section behind the archivist’s desk.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to get into—” I stop myself, realizing he’s already anticipated my objection.

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