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I approach the desk once more, quickly photographing the remaining documents with a concealed micro-lens embedded in my bracelet. The technology is our own—darkblood innovation that captures images using shadows rather than light, undetectable to clearblood security systems.

When I’ve gathered all I can, I make my way to the door, listening carefully before easing it open. The corridor remains empty. I slip out, pulling the door locked behind me.

As I navigate back through the restricted wing toward the main academy halls, my mind catalogs everything I’ve learned.

The clearbloods are venturing into territory they don’t understand—the fundamental energies that define us.

They’re creating connections between subjects that shouldn’t exist, forcing bonds where nature intended boundaries.

What’s their endgame? Weaponization seems the obvious answer. It always is with clearbloods. They never can resist turning discovery into dominance.

By the time I emerge back into the bright, polished halls of Heathborne’s public face, I’ve composed myself fully into Clara Winters once more.

But beneath that careful mask, my darkblood heart beats with urgency. What I’ve discovered could change everything about this mission—and perhaps the future of the eternal shadow war between our kinds.

I want to call Corvin and tell him everything I’ve found immediately, but communication is only for emergencies. I need to forge ahead to the next step, as fast as possible: eliminating Mazrov. Then I can return to Darkbirch.

The wide corridors feel deserted at this hour, my footsteps echoing against stone walls. I maintain Clara’s careful gait, though my mind races. These experiments had to explain Mazrov’s unnatural abilities. He’s not just their weapon but their successful prototype.

I turn down the east corridor leading to the dormitories but hesitate mid-step. Faint footsteps echo behind me.

I don’t turn immediately. Instead, I pretend to adjust my satchel, using the movement to scan the corridor behind me in my peripheral vision. There—at the far end where the passage curves—is a shadow darker than it should be. Too tall to be a typical Heathborne guard. Even too tall to be Mazrov.

I continue walking slowly and force myself not to look back directly.

But as I pass a decorative mirror, I catch a glimpse of the figure.

It’s moving with deliberate stealth, keeping pace with me but maintaining distance.

The silhouette is massive—taller and broader than any normal person should be. And it’s following me.

A chill runs through me, but my first instinct is to confront, to challenge—Esme Salem doesn’t flee from threats. But Clara Winters would, and Clara Winters would never place herself in unnecessary danger. I adjust my strategy accordingly, continuing my walk with slightly quicker steps.

This is no ordinary patrol guard. And it’s definitely not Mazrov—this figure stands at least a head taller than him. Whoever—whatever it is—slips quickly into the shadows every time I attempt to get a better look.

My pulse quickens as I make a sharp turn down another corridor.

The presence follows, its movements unnaturally fluid for something so large.

There’s something wrong about the way it moves—too graceful, too precise.

The air around me feels suddenly overcharged: intense and…

reminiscent of the energy I felt last night.

I’m not hallucinating now, surely?

The dormitory wing lies just ahead. I can make out the ornate archway that marks its entrance, the lanterns casting pools of golden light. The presence behind me grows more palpable with each step—a weight in the air, a disturbance in the natural flow of things.

I break into a run, my footsteps echoing loudly against the stone floors. The sound of pursuit behind me is nearly silent—just the barest whisper of movement.

I reach my door, fumbling with the key as I feel the presence draw nearer. The lock yields, and I throw myself inside, slamming the door shut. My breath comes in short gasps as I press my back against the solid oak, listening intently for any sound from the corridor.

Nothing. No footsteps, no breathing, no scratch of claws or rustle of clothing. Just a heavy silence that presses against my ears like cotton.

I slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, my knees drawn up to my chest. This doesn’t make sense.

Why would something follow me but not confront me?

If Heathborne suspected my true identity, they wouldn’t send some shadow creature to stalk me—they’d have guards breaking down my door this very moment.

The silence stretches, becoming almost more unnerving than active pursuit would be. I force myself to breathe deeply, to think clearly. Perhaps it was merely a senior guardian on night patrol? But that doesn’t explain the unnatural height, the strange quality of movement.

A soft whisper of sound breaks the silence—paper sliding against wood. I freeze, watching as a small folded note appears beneath my door, pushed through the crack beneath the door with slow deliberation.

I stare at the cream-colored paper, my pulse hammering in my throat. The note sits there, innocent yet threatening in its unexplained presence. I wait another full minute, straining to hear any sound from the corridor. Nothing.

With careful movements, I reach for the note, unfolding it to reveal elegant, slanted handwriting:

“Attend combat class 9:00 AM tomorrow with Professor Dayn. ”

No signature. No explanation. Just a directive that raises more questions than it answers.

I feel a prickle of annoyance, spring up, and yank open the door, half-expecting to confront the mysterious stalker—but the hallway stretches empty in both directions, silent and still as a tomb.

The shadows between the enchanted lanterns seem deeper than they should be, but there’s no trace of the person that followed me.