Page 35 of Darkbirch Academy

His lips twitch slightly. “Efficiency, Salem. Something you might learn from.”

I hold back my reply as the door swings open. We slip inside, and I’m immediately engulfed by humid, perfumed air that clings to my skin like a second layer of clothing. The interior of the greenhouse stretches before us, a labyrinth of exotic plants bathed in ethereal moonlight filtering through the glass ceiling. Pathways wind between beds of vegetation—some familiar, many not.

“The moonfire lilies will be in the center,” Dayn says, already moving forward. “They only bloom directly beneath the full moon.”

Great. Plants as stubborn as you.

I follow him down the narrow path, careful not to brush against any of the specimens. Some of these plants could kill a witch with a single touch—a fact I’m acutely aware of from my own botanical training at Darkbirch.

“Watch the vines near your feet,” Dayn warns without turning. “Strangling ivy doesn’t distinguish between enemies and trespassers.”

As if on cue, a tendril unfurls from a nearby pot, reaching lazily toward my ankle. I step over it, noticing how it recoils. Iwonder if it can somehow sense the subtle death essence that clings to my aura—my darkblood signature that the silver tablets are supposed to conceal.

“The ivy seems to dislike me,” I observe.

“I won’t comment on that,” Dayn mutters.

I follow, keeping my steps light on the stone path. “Maybe I should push you into them,” I say, absentmindedly toying with the idea. “Would save a whole load of trouble.”

“You have an open invitation to try.”

I almost feel like getting into another tangle with him… but maybe somewhere less deadly. All around us, plants rustle and shift in ways that have nothing to do with wind. The Heathborne botanical collection is infamous for its carnivorous specimens, cultivated over centuries for research and, occasionally, punishment.

As we navigate deeper into the greenhouse, I notice Dayn’s gaze lingering on a cluster of black-petaled flowers nestled in a bed of ash.

“Widow’s Lament,” he says, unexpectedly. “Your grandmother would appreciate these. They’re particularly effective in death chants when harvested during the dark moon.”

I stop mid-step, narrowing my eyes. “How would you know?”

His voice drops lower. “Dragons have long memories, Salem.”

Before I can respond, a nearby plant—something resembling a pitcher but large enough to consume a small child—lunges toward us. Its maw opens, revealing rows of thorn-like teeth dripping with digestive acid.

Dayn moves with inhuman speed, shoving me against the stone wall while extending his other hand toward the plant. Aburst of concentrated heat hits the predatory flora, and it recoils with a hiss that sounds disturbingly sentient.

For a moment, neither of us moves. His body is pressed against mine and the sheer proximity sends an unwelcome jolt through my system—my senses suddenly hyperaware of everything about him: the scent of ember and something ancient beneath it, the unnatural heat radiating like a furnace pressed against my chest. I feel the solid contours of him, the tension in his muscles as he remains alert for further threats.

I push away from him with more force than necessary, reclaiming my personal space.

He looks at me in mild surprise at my rather violent motion, but doesn’t say anything.

“Let’s keep moving,” I mutter, straightening my jacket.

After a moment, he asks, “Did I offend your delicate sensibilities, Salem?” His voice carries that insufferable edge of amusement.

“I could list exactly how you offend me but we’d be here all night,” I reply coolly.

I continue down the winding path and turn my thoughts to another subject. One I’ve been curious about for a while. “So, tell me, Dayn. How does an ancient dragon end up playing professor at Heathborne? Seems like quite the demotion from... whatever it is dragons typically do.”

Dayn’s eyes flick toward me, the gold in them catching the moonlight. The corners of his mouth twitch—not quite a smile, but close. “What do you think it is we do?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I reply, carefully sidestepping a cluster of pulsing blue mushrooms. “Trading ancient hoards and terrorizing villages? Going from that to dealing with snotty clearbloods sounds like a step down, in my book.”

“I see your knowledge of dragon history comes from bedtime stories.”

“Then enlighten me.”

He pauses at a junction in the path, considering which way to turn. “Dragons have always been... curators of knowledge. The hoarding instinct isn’t about gold. It’s about information.” He gestures left, and we continue deeper into the greenhouse.

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