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The realization that he’s right sends a chill through me. My feet have been carrying me through the castle without conscious direction, following some invisible pull.

“What have you done to me?” I repeat, hating the tremor that’s crept into my voice.

“Nothing irreversible.” He turns and begins walking away, his movements fluid and soundless. “Come. Unless you’d prefer to remain ignorant of the magic currently working its way through your bloodstream.”

I have choices. I could attack him from behind—but the memory of that searing grip makes my wrist throb in warning. I could try to escape Heathborne—but without understanding these marks, I’d be bringing an unknown magical influence back to my coven. Or I could follow him and learn what I’m dealing with.

I choose knowledge.

My knife remains in my hand as I follow him through winding corridors and down a narrow stairwell. The walls transition from the polished stone of the main castle to rougher, more ancient construction. We’re heading into the older sections of Heathborne Academy, away from the dormitories and formal classrooms, into spaces few students ever see.

Finally, Dayn stops before a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands. He places his palm against it, murmuring words too low for me to catch. The door swings inward without a sound, revealing a classroom unlike any other in Heathborne.

No ornate furnishings or clearblood emblems here—justbare stone walls lined with shelves of ancient texts and strange artifacts. A large table dominates the center of the room, its surface carved with symbols similar to those now branded on my wrist. A few chairs are scattered about, and iron sconces hold flames that burn with unnatural steadiness, casting the room in amber light.

“Enter,” Dayn says, standing aside.

I hesitate at the threshold. “Is this where you torture the darkbloods who fail to assassinate your colleagues?”

His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in those inhuman eyes. “If I wanted you dead or imprisoned, Miss Salem, you would already be in the cells beneath us. This is a place of instruction.”

“I didn’t sign up for lessons.”

“Yet here you stand.” He gestures again to the room. “Your choice, of course. Leave, if you prefer to wonder why those marks will continue to burn when you attempt to harm a certain individual in Heathborne. Wonder why your blood magic might falter at crucial moments. Wonder how much I know about your coven’s movements and your grandmother’s grave.”

The mention of my grandmother decides me. I enter the room, keeping the table between us. “How do you know about my grandmother?”

Dayn closes the door behind him with a wave of his hand—no physical touch, just pure magical control. The implications aren’t lost on me.

“I know many things about your family, Esme Salem. The question you should be asking is why I haven’t shared that knowledge with my clearblood colleagues.” He moves to thetable, his fingers tracing the symbols carved into its surface. “Show me your wrist.”

I don’t move. “Answer my question first.”

His eyes lift to mine, and for a moment, they shift from amber to molten gold, pupils narrowing. “I don’t respond well to demands. A lesson you should learn quickly if we’re to have a productive relationship.”

“We don’t have a relationship.”

“We do now.” He extends his hand across the table. “Your wrist, please.”

The “please” surprises me enough that I find myself moving forward, reluctantly extending my arm across the table. The marks have deepened since I last examined them, the runes more defined, like ancient writing etched into my skin.

Dayn’s fingers are surprisingly gentle as they encircle my wrist, turning it to examine the marks from all angles. Despite the gentleness, heat emanates from his touch—not burning this time, but unnaturally warm, as though his body temperature runs several degrees hotter than a normal human’s.

“Binding runes,” he explains, tracing one symbol with his index finger. Where he touches, the mark flares briefly with golden light. “Ancient magic, predating the division between darkbloods and clearbloods. These particular ones create a restriction bond.”

“You’ve enslaved me?” I try to jerk my arm away, but his grip tightens just enough to hold me still.

“If I wanted a slave, I’d choose someone less argumentative.” His tone remains even, almost academic. “These runes don’t control you. They only prevent specific actions—like killing certain members of Heathborne’s staff.”

“Mazrov,” I say flatly.

Dayn inclines his head. “Correct.”

“Why do you care if I eliminate him? He’s just a clearblood experiment, a disposable guard.”

“And your solution is a clumsy assassination attempt at a public event?” He releases my wrist with a dismissive gesture. “If I hadn’t intervened, you’d be in chains right now, undergoing interrogation.”

My ego prickles. He talks as if I’ve never successfully assassinated anyone before, and I needed his intervention. As if I need him to control the situation.He’s like an assassin’s version of a cockblock.