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Mazrov turns, his fire-blue eyes narrowing as he notices us. For a heart-stopping moment, I think he recognizes me through the glamour, but his gaze slides away after an assessing look.

“Professor,” he acknowledges with a curt nod. “Is there a problem?”

“None whatsoever,” Dayn replies smoothly. “I was just becoming acquainted with this charming visitor from the north. Though I believe she was about to depart.”

His eyes lock with mine, and the message is clear: leave now or face worse consequences.

I force a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Indeed. The hour grows late.”

As I step away, I glance down at my wrist. Red marks circle it like a bracelet, but these aren’t simple pressure marks from his grip. They’re runes—ancient symbols that glow faintly beneath my skin with an inner fire. I pull the sleeve of my gown down to cover them, my mind racing. These aren’t normal burns; they pulse with magic I don’t recognize.

Nearby guests have begun to watch our interaction with mild curiosity. A few whisper behind jeweled fingers, no doubt wondering about the tension crackling between the professor and the unknown northern noble. I need to maintain my cover and exit before more attention falls on me.

“Until next time, Professor,” I say coldly, inclining my head slightly.

“Oh, I assure you,” he says, his voice carrying an undercurrent of something that sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine, “there will be a next time, Miss Salem.”

My blood freezes. He knows who I am. My disguise didn’t fool him for a second.

I turn and make my way toward the exit, fighting the urge to run. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, drowning out the music and chatter. The pain in my wrist throbs in counterpoint, the runes seeming to tighten with each pulse. As I pass other guests, I maintain my composed façade, but inside, my mind churns with implications.

Dayn not only recognized me through magical disguise but intervened precisely when I was about to strike. Was he watching me the entire time? And these marks—what magic has he used on me? The burning sensation continues to spread slowly up my arm, not damaging but... claiming.

I push through the massive doors of the ballroom, nodding politely to the guards as I pass. Only when I’m in the empty corridor do I allow my face to show the fury and confusion roiling within me. I examine my wrist again. The runes have settled into my skin like a brand, no longer glowing but clearly visible—a circle of intricate symbols I can’t decipher.

The worst part isn’t the pain or even the mysterious marking. It’s the inexplicable feeling that blooms beneath my anger—a disturbing fascination with the man who just thwarted me. The way his eyes held mine, the controlled power in his grip, the absolute certainty in his voice. He’s dangerous in ways I don’t fully understand, and that makes him both my enemy and a puzzle I suddenly, desperately need to solve.

I slip into an alcove where I return my appearance to Clara and tuck the useless syringe back into its hidden pocket. Tonight’s mission was a failure, but the war is far from over. Mazrov remains a threat to my coven, and now ProfessorDayn has revealed himself as definitely something more than just another clearblood academic.

I touch the marks on my wrist gingerly. They don’t hurt anymore, but they pulse with a strange warmth that connects to something deep inside me. Whatever game Dayn is playing, he’s made a critical mistake by marking me.

He’s made this personal.

12

The corridors of Heathborne grow quieter as night deepens, the sounds of the banquet fading behind me like a bad dream. I’ve abandoned the silver gown for my customary Heathborne uniform, retrieved from a pre-arranged hiding spot in an unused guest chamber. The marks on my wrist continue to pulse with uncomfortable heat, visible even in the dim light of the corridor. I trace one finger over the intricate runes, trying to decipher their meaning. Whatever magic Professor Dayn used, it hasn’t faded—if anything, the connection feels stronger now, like an invisible tether pulling me through these shadowed halls.

I should be halfway back to the coven by now, reporting my failure and planning our next move against Mazrov. Instead, I find myself lingering, driven by a need to understand what happened. What these marks mean. What Dayn knows about me.

The rational part of my mind screams that this is a trap, that I’m endangering myself and the coven by remainingwithin these walls. But the marks on my arm tell a different story—this magic has already bound me in ways I don’t understand. Running won’t sever this connection.

As I round a corner into a particularly deserted corridor, the torches along the wall suddenly dim, plunging the space into near-darkness. The temperature increases several degrees. I reach for the knife concealed at my hip, scanning the shadows.

“Your blade won’t help you here, Miss Salem.”

The voice emerges from the darkness behind me. I spin, weapon already drawn, to find Professor Dayn standing where nothing but empty corridor existed seconds ago. He’s changed from his formal attire into a simpler dark tunic and pants, but the effect is no less imposing. If anything, the absence of clearblood finery makes him appear more dangerous—more authentic.

“What did you do to me?” I demand, gesturing with my marked wrist while keeping my knife steady in my other hand.

His amber eyes shift, catching the faint torchlight and reflecting it back with an inhuman glow. “I prevented you from making a catastrophic mistake. You should be thanking me.”

“I’ll send a fruit basket,” I snap. “Now remove these marks.”

A smile ghosts across his face, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. “I can’t. More accurately, I won’t.” He gestures down the corridor. “Walk with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“You already are.” He nods toward my marked wrist. “Those runes have been guiding you toward me since you leftthe ballroom. Why else would you still be wandering these halls instead of fleeing Heathborne entirely?”