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We reach a set of double doors marked with medical runes—protection and preservation symbols that glow faintly blue. The blood repository lies beyond, housing samples from every senior staff member. Monthly donations, Dayn had explained, part of Heathborne’s emergency protocols for healing high-value personnel.

Dayn studies the wards with clinical detachment. “These are basic preservation enchantments, not security measures. They’re designed to maintain the samples, not prevent theft.”

“They never anticipated someone would want to steal blood,” I observe.

“Why would they? Blood magic is a darkblood practice.” His fingers trace the air just above the runes. “To clearbloods, blood is merely... medical material.”

I watch as he manipulates the wards, his fingertips leaving trails of heat in the air that distort the magical signatures without disrupting them. It’s elegant work, I’ll admit—not destroying the protections but temporarily convincing them we’re authorized personnel.

“Your turn,” he says after a moment. “The door requires physical access.”

I reach for the lock, a standard mechanism rather than amagical one. This, at least, is familiar territory. I extract a thin metal tool from my sleeve and work it into the keyhole. After a few moments, it clicks open.

The repository beyond is a compact room lined with refrigerated cabinets. Each drawer bears a name and designation, organized with military precision. The clinical chill raises goosebumps on my arms.

“We need blood from someone with true authority,” Dayn says, scanning the labels. “Not merely a teacher—someone whose essence carries the weight of Heathborne itself.”

“The Headmaster,” I suggest.

Dayn shakes his head. “Too obvious if it goes missing. We need someone senior but not irreplaceable.”

His fingers stop at a drawer labeled “Archmage Levon, Combat Arts Division.”

“Perfect,” he murmurs. “An elder with battle experience. His blood will carry both authority and power.”

The drawer is sealed with additional wards—more serious than those on the door. These will detect tampering, and I doubt Dayn’s heat trick will work here.

“I need to use my magic,” I say quietly. “Stand watch.”

Dayn moves to the door without argument, his back to me. It’s a small gesture of trust—or perhaps just pragmatism. Either way, I take advantage of the moment.

My full darkblood powers are suppressed, but I hope I’m able to tap into them enough to pull this off. I close my eyes and try to sink as deeply into them as I can.

My senses expand, the world suddenly sharper, deeper, more alive, as I relax into my natural state. I can feel the pulse of death and life in everything around me—including the preserved blood in the drawers.

Working quickly, I draw a bead of my own blood from the cut I got earlier. I smear it across the ward on the drawer, whispering, “Blood recognizes blood.”

My grandmother’s teaching echoes in my mind. Magic isn’t about domination—it’s about recognition. Everything contains life and death; we merely need to speak to the parts that understand us.

The ward shimmers, recognizing a kindred essence—not in my clearblood disguise, but in the fundamental nature of blood itself. It doesn’t break, but bends, allowing me access without triggering the alarm.

Inside the drawer, neat rows of vials filled with dark crimson liquid sit in temperature-controlled slots. Each bears a date and batch number. I select the most recent one, sliding it carefully into a padded case that Dayn hands me.

As I close the drawer, I sense him watching me.

“Impressive,” he says. “Few darkbloods master blood recognition so young.”

The world dulls around me as I slip out of my natural state. “I’d think fewer dragons recognize darkblood techniques by name.”

His expression remains neutral, but something flickers in his eyes. “As I told you, I’ve lived a long time.”

Before I can respond, footsteps echo in the corridor outside—too heavy for the night nurse. Dayn moves swiftly, pulling me behind one of the cabinets. I’m acutely aware of the vial of elder blood in my pocket, pressed between us.

“...don’t care what protocol states,” a male voice carries through the door. “After that incident in the greenhouse, we’re checking all secure areas.”

I curse. Mazrov. Again. His voice unmistakable even through the door.

“The wards haven’t been triggered,” a second voice responds. “And the night healer would have?—”