Page 5 of Darkbirch Academy

The grounds surrounding it areuntamed, deliberate in their danger. Thorned vines coil up the eastern wall like serpents, twitching at passing footsteps. Bone-trees—white and leafless—line the walkways like silent sentinels, their bark smooth as skin, their roots capable of drinking more than water.

I pass under the archway carved with runes that glow faintly beneath moonlight—wards keyed to repel the uninvited. Their hum stirs something low in my bones, familiar and sharp. The academy may be vast, but it knows its own. And it knows me.

Most of the dorms cling to the main structure, rows of uniform stone tucked behind the most central tower. But mine stands apart—secluded by design and by request, a shadowed turret in the northwest wing. By tradition, private rooms are reserved for those sufficiently… accomplished—or dangerous—to warrant solitude during nightly hours when energy tends to run wild among our kind. My placement here isn’t entirely due to privilege.

A narrow stone staircase curls up through ivy-draped walls, leading to my turret. Shadow-kissed and quiet. It smells of charred incense, old paper, and faint ozone—scents that have clung since my earliest days here.

Thanks to the majority-mage population’s constant attempts to eradicate us from existence, every darkblood youth undergoes a minimum of three years of specialized combat training once they hit twenty-years-old, after general training and education. Darkbirch serves as the central training ground for several covens—especially the smaller ones that can’t sustain their own programs. It’s not just an academy. It’s a war machine wearing the bones of a school.

We might be fewer than the clearbloods, but we’re smarter. And we don’t flinch when it gets bloody.

A single lantern burns outside my door, flickering with a rose-gold flame that no wind can snuff out. I press my hand to the iron handle, and the wards behind it respond with a faint ripple, recognizing my presence.

Inside, the air is cooler. Still. My space is simple by choice: shelves crammed with grimoires and dried herbs, a selection of my favorite weapons leaning neatly against the wall, and a bed that’s more function than comfort. But the view is unmatched—my window stares out over the sprawling woods, twisted and wild, the glass etched with faint protective glyphs that glint when the moonlight hits them just right.

It’s not much.

But it’s mine.

And it never judges me for what I am.

I sleep like a brick until early afternoon. I’m not disturbed for any classes; everyone who matters knows I’ve been out on a mission.

The message comes in while I’m mid-shower, steam curling through the air as my pager buzzes on my bathroom counter. Corvin, of course. Always direct.

Council meeting. One hour. Don’t be late.

No theatrics. No delivery crows clawing at the window, no dramatic smoke trails spelling my name across the room. Just a blunt message, crackling on plastic like I live in 1994.

Even in our world, some things stay charmingly outdated.

I dress quickly. Black pants, tall boots, crimson tunic—senior uniform. No excess. No flair. Just function. I twist my hair into a tight bun, then slip out through my quarters’ second door, into the narrow stairwell that winds down into the academy’s interior.

The corridors are nearly deserted as I make my way through the academy’s west wing. Most students are sequestered in their classes, leaving the vaulted hallways quiet except for the occasional echo of my footsteps against the obsidian floors.

I pass the Transmutation Hall and pause as stifled cries and low, wavering moans bleed through the heavy oak door. The sound is familiar—somewhere between agony and surrender, ritualized and raw. Professor Sylth is teaching advanced body manipulation today. No quick-fix tablets, but longer-term… modifications.

Further down, the scent of blood and sulfur seeps from beneath the Alchemical Studies chamber. I catch snippets of Professor Morrigan’s husky voice demonstrating the proper way to extract essence from still-living specimens. A student’s nervous laughter cuts off abruptly, replaced by a collective gasp as something apparently goes spectacularly wrong—or right, depending on one’s perspective.

The underground corridor leading to the council chamber passes the Stimulus Annex, where advanced students are trained to refine sensation into spellwork—pleasure, pain, and everything between. Today’s lesson appears particularly intense—the room pulses with waves of energy so potent I can feel them brushing against my consciousness, a coiled force pressing at the edge of my thoughts. Riona staggers out, cocoa-brown hair clinging to her damp skin, caramel eyesglazed. She leans against the wall, breathless and trembling, a flush still blooming across her cheeks.

“Oh, hey, Es,” she gasps briefly, noticing me. I barely have a chance to respond before she stumbles back into whatever charged torment forced her to leave.

I reach the ancient doors of the council chamber just as the clock tower strikes the hour. The doors’ carvings depict our founders in sweeping scenes of ritual and dominance—etched in reverence rather than humility. I trace my finger along the familiar pattern of the blood lock and press my palm against it.

The massive doors swing inward silently, revealing the circular chamber beyond.

The air in the meeting room hangs heavy, thick with the weight of centuries-old magic. I slide into my assigned seat at the long oak table, observing the lines of concern etched into the seven faces of our coven’s leadership council. Their postures are rigid and ancient tomes stretch before them. They certainly haven’t summoned me here to compliment my extraction mission.

Old Warden Blythe sits with her spine perfectly straight, her silver-streaked hair pulled back so tightly it must hurt. Next to her, Director Reinhardt’s fingers drum an irregular rhythm on the yellowed parchment before him. The others maintain that peculiar stillness that comes with age and power—they don’t need to fidget to command attention.

At the head of the table stands Corvin, his tall framecasting a long shadow across the ancient wood. “Salem,” he says. “Thank you for joining us.”

I simply nod, keeping my face a careful mask of respectful attention.

The room smells of old magic—iron, earth, and the faintest trace of blood. Ancient books line the stone walls, their spines bearing titles in languages long dead to all but us. This is the inner sanctum of Darkbirch’s military institute, a place where only the gravest matters are discussed.

“We have a situation,” Corvin continues, placing his palms flat on the table. “One that requires your... particular talents.”

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