Page 10 of Darkbirch Academy (Darkbirch Academy #1)

T he restricted wing’s entrance stares at me like a challenge.

I slip my hand into the hidden pocket sewn into my Heathborne uniform and extract a small vial of shimmerslick, the viscous liquid catching what little light filters through the hallway windows.

It’s one of Darkbirch’s finest creations—undetectable to clearblood wards and worth more than a month’s salary for most operatives.

But for what waits behind this door? Worth every drop.

I check the corridor once more. Empty.

The shimmerslick coats my fingertips with a cool tingle as I rub a thin layer around the keyhole’s edge.

Unlike the brutal firegrease I’ve used in Darkbirch operations, this substance leaves no trace and triggers no alarms. It seeps into the mechanism, identifying the tumblers, reading their pattern like a lover’s touch.

I close my eyes and feel the lock’s secrets transfer to my fingertips.

Three quick turns, using just the pressure points the shimmerslick reveals to me, and the mechanism yields with a satisfying click.

No alarms. No flashing lights. No thundering footsteps of clearblood guards. Just the nearly imperceptible whisper of well-oiled hinges as I slip inside.

The restricted wing embraces me with its cool, still air.

The temperature drops several degrees in here—a stark contrast to the carefully regulated warmth of Heathborne’s public areas.

They clearly don’t want staff lingering.

A corridor stretches before me, dimly lit by enchanted sconces that emit a bluish glow, casting long shadows that dance across the stone walls.

Unlike the polished, inviting appearance of the academy’s main halls, this wing makes no effort to hide its true purpose.

Steel-reinforced doors line both sides, each bearing classification symbols and warding runes that would normally repel unauthorized entry.

Were it not for my silver tablets, those wards would be screaming my darkblood nature to every security system in the building. Instead, they remain dormant, unaware of the viper in their midst. And I spot no cameras inside here either. Do they not want to be seen here?

I don’t know which door Mazrov entered. Some doors bear additional markings—red slashes, golden circles—classification systems I file away for future reference.

The third door looks unremarkable compared to others, its only distinguishing feature a small etched symbol that resembles a crescent moon intersected by a line.

Might as well start with the odd one out.

My shimmerslick pack has only one more application left before it loses potency. Hopefully I’ve made the right choice. I repeat the process and the lock surrenders. I push the door open just enough to slip through, then ease it closed behind me .

To my surprise, I find myself in an office.

Though I’m not sure what I was expecting or hoping to find—maybe an alchemy chamber of some kind.

Heavy blackout curtains, currently drawn, frame the tall windows of the room.

A massive oak desk dominates the center, its surface covered with stacks of papers, open folders, and what looks like complex analytical equipment.

The air here feels charged, as though recently disturbed by powerful magic. I’ve felt this sensation before, in the aftermath of Darkbirch’s more potent rituals. It’s the residue of significant energy manipulation.

I approach the desk cautiously, my trained eyes scanning for trip wires or proximity alarms. Finding none, I begin to examine the desk. The papers are meticulously organized despite their scattered appearance—this is a system, not chaos.

The first document I touch bears Heathborne’s official seal and a classification marking I’ve never encountered before—a double ring with a slash through it.

My eyes narrow as I scan the technical jargon.

Energy transference protocols. Aura stabilization parameters.

Containment field specifications. The language is obscure, cloaked in technical terminology that would mean nothing to most readers.

But I’m not most readers.

These are experimental procedures for manipulating the energetic fields that surround living beings.

Every clearblood and darkblood possesses unique aural signatures—it’s what allows our respective detection wards to identify friend from foe.

These papers detail methodologies for altering those signatures at a fundamental level .

I carefully shift to another stack, finding schematic drawings of what appears to be a chamber.

Annotations mark power intake junctions, resonance amplifiers, and containment barriers.

It reminds me of the blood ritual circles our coven would create for our most sacred ceremonies, but with a mechanical precision that feels wrong—sterile and unnatural.

A third document catches my eye—a chart tracking what appears to be stability readings from multiple subjects.

The graph lines peak and valley dramatically, most terminating in sharp downward plunges marked with red timestamps.

Failures, then. But two lines continue past where the others end, stabilizing into synchronized patterns that mirror each other perfectly.

My heart quickens. This is beyond concerning. The clearbloods are, in fact, experimenting with something fundamental to our natures, something that could alter the very essence of what makes us what we are. We suspected it, but seeing the confirmation sends a jolt of urgency through me.

I carefully turn over a diagram, frowning at the complex annotations.

This one shows two silhouettes connected by lines of force—energy channels artificially created between them.

Notes in precise handwriting detail “sympathetic resonance” and “harmonic stability achieved post-exposure in subjects 7 and 12.”

Whatever they’re doing, it appears to involve connecting living beings’ energetic fields in ways never meant to be connected. The implications make my skin crawl. This isn’t mere research—it’s playing with the fundamental forces that separate kinds .

As I reach for another folder, I freeze.

Footsteps pad along the corridor outside. Someone is approaching the door.

I quickly but carefully return the papers to their exact positions, my training taking over as I scan for hiding places.

I slide behind the heavy curtains, positioning myself in the narrow space between the window and the thick fabric.

The velvet brushes against my cheek, its scent of dust and age filling my nostrils.

The door opens with deliberate slowness and heavy footsteps enter—measured, purposeful. Not the hurried stride of someone who’s forgotten something, but the cautious approach of someone who suspects intrusion.

“Strange,” Mazrov’s voice carries across the room, low and contemplative. “I could have sworn...”

I regulate my breathing, calling on the training that’s kept me alive through dozens of missions. In, out. Shallow. Silent. My heart pounds against my ribcage, but I force myself to remain perfectly still as I hear him moving around the room.

His footsteps pause at the desk. Silence stretches for what feels like eternity. Is he noticing something out of place? Did I fail to return a document to its exact position?

“Security override Kappa-37,” he says suddenly, his voice clear and commanding. “Run diagnostic on room fourteen.”

A soft hum fills the air. Some kind of scanning system I hadn’t detected.

“All security parameters normal,” responds a disembodied female voice.

Mazrov makes a sound—half sigh, half growl. “Extend scan to residual energy signatures.”

Another hum, higher pitched .

“Trace atmospheric disturbance detected,” the system responds. “Consistent with door opening approximately four minutes ago.”

“And yet no entry logged in the security system,” Mazrov muses. He moves again, footsteps drawing closer to my hiding place.

I press myself further into the shadows, feeling the cool glass of the window against my back. Through a tiny gap in the curtains, I catch a glimpse of him—tall and imposing in his dark-gray armor, his movements bearing the unmistakable precision of military training.

He pauses, those unnaturally bright blue eyes sweeping the room once more. They linger on the curtains for a heartbeat longer than I’d like. Does he know? Is he toying with me?

But instead of ripping the curtains aside, he returns to the desk and begins gathering papers into a folder. “Double security protocols on this wing,” he commands the system.

“Acknowledged,” the system responds.

He moves efficiently, collecting key documents and securing them in what appears to be a warded case. I take mental notes of which papers he prioritizes—the synchronized graph, the dual silhouette diagram, the technical specifications for the chamber.

“Subjects 7 and 12 are scheduled for phase three soon,” he says, apparently dictating notes to the system.

“Observation indicates increasing harmonic resonance even when physically separated. The hypothesis appears correct—once initialized, the connection self-strengthens without additional stimulus. ”

I commit every word to memory. Whatever experiment they’re conducting, it’s progressing rapidly.

After what feels like hours but must only be minutes, Mazrov completes the task he’s come for. He scans the room one final time, those flame-bright eyes narrowing slightly as they again pass over my hiding place. Then he turns and strides toward the door.

It closes behind him with a soft click that sounds like freedom to my straining ears. Still, I remain motionless for another full minute, counting my heartbeats until I’m certain he’s truly gone.

Only then do I emerge from behind the curtain, my mind racing with implications. The clearbloods are experimenting with some kind of artificial connection between subjects—a forced bond that affects their very essence. And they’ve had success.