Page 54 of Darkbirch Academy

“Wh-Why? And what do you mean?” I ask, but her form is already beginning to dissipate, the connection weakening. “And how?! Grandma, how do I?—?”

“J-Just… f-find a w-way,” she interrupts, her voice fading. “Y-You must… d-drink his blood.”

Her image collects into a swirl of mist, then scatters as if blown by an invisible wind. The temperature in the room gradually begins to rise back to its previous chill rather than the supernatural freeze of moments before.

I stand frozen in place, unsure of how to even start processing what my grandmother just instructed me.

Drink dragon blood.

Dayn’s blood.

Right.

Sure. Why not, Grandma? I’ll just waltz up to Dayn and ask him nicely for a sip.

Because that’s going to be a casual conversation starter.Hey, Dayn, mind if I borrow a cup of your ancient dragon plasma? I promise it’s not for anything weird.Of all the cryptic warnings my grandmother could have given me from beyond the grave, she chosethis.

And she didn’t even tell mewhyI need to drink it. Or anything about it. I’m good at following instructions—it’s been drummed into me during my time at Darkbirch Academy—but I’m not in the business of consuming supernatural bodily fluids without at least a leaflet on potential side effects.

I run my fingers through my hair, dislodging my carefully constructed braid. “Drink his blood. Right. Because that’s not weird at all.” My voice echoes in the empty chamber, sounding hollow and slightly manic. I press my palms against my eyes and take a deep breath.

Dragon’s blood. Probably tastes like a mix of battery acid, molten metal, and superiority complex. I wonder if it comes in flavors. Maybe a nice hint of cinnamon would make it go down easier.

But beneath my sardonic thoughts, fear coils in my stomach. Grandmother never appeared to me like this—fragmented, desperate. “Before the Unbinding,” she’d said. What does she think could happen to me if I don’t drink it? And how would she know? How could she possibly understand what the Unbinding Ritual entails when Dayn himself has been so secretive about its requirements? Unless... unless sheknows something about dragons that I don’t. The thought is troubling.Why didn’t she tell me more about them?

I glance at my wrist where his runes pulse steadily. The man who marked me, the dragon whose blood I apparently need to drink. The same man who’s made it abundantly clear he sees me as a tool at best, a liability at worst.

“Just ask him nicely,” I mutter. “Because that’s a totally normal request.” I pace the chamber, my boots kicking up dust with each agitated step. “Drink the blood of a manipulative, arrogant dragon professor who’s probably older than this building.”

I glance at my wrist again, where his runes pulse with amber light. The same runes that are currently preventing me from communicating properly with my grandmother. The same runes that give him an alarming degree of control over me.

“And what exactly happens if I ‘drink his blood?’” I make air quotes with my fingers to an audience of ancient stones and one unconscious guard. “Do I turn into a dragon? Grow scales? Start hoarding gold and virgins?” Or worse, become like Dayn?

The absurdity of my situation hits me all at once, and I can’t help but laugh—a short, sharp sound that bounces off the walls.

The mere thought makes my stomach turn. I’ve consumed some questionable substances during my training—poisons to build immunity, strange herbal concoctions to enhance my senses—but this? It’s a new level of revolting.

I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the dusty floor, my knees pulled up to my chest. This is ridiculous. Absolutely ridi?—

The sound of approaching footsteps cuts through my thoughts. Dayn is returning—on foot rather than his vanishing act, for some reason—and I have mere seconds to compose myself. I stand up quickly, dusting myself down, positioning myself near one of the walls in a casual stance.

The rotting door creaks open, and Dayn’s imposing silhouette fills the frame. His amber eyes immediately lock onto mine, narrowing slightly as if sensing something amiss.

“Problem?” he asks, his voice deceptively casual.

I shrug, my face a carefully constructed mask of indifference. “No.”

29

“Good,” Dayn replies, though his tone suggests he doesn’t believe me. “It’s time to move.”

He crosses to where Mazrov lies and checks the runes surrounding him. With a flick of his wrist, the golden light dims, then vanishes completely. He hoists the sack onto his shoulder with disturbing ease.

“We’re heading back to Heathborne?” I ask, gathering my pack.

“Yes. The preparations are complete.” He gestures toward the door. “After you.”

I step outside, the cool night air a welcome relief after the musty confines of the stone building. The forest seems different somehow, the shadows deeper, the moonlight sharper. Or maybe it’s just my nerves, stretched taut as bowstrings.

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