Page 12 of Darkbirch Academy (Darkbirch Academy #1)

T he combat classroom smells of steel, sweat, and something else—a lingering scorch mark of power that hangs in the air like invisible smoke. I slide into a desk near the back wall, positioning myself with sightlines to all exits.

A part of me has no idea why I’m sitting here.

This nine o’clock class doesn’t clash with any other class in my schedule, but I don’t take directives from strangers in enemy territory.

Another part of me knows perfectly well: I have to find out who left me that note, which possibly this “Professor” may know.

I don’t have time to waste completing my mission, but curiosity—and, frankly, irritation, at this point—can’t let this go.

Plus, the day is still young.

Unlike the opulent Hall of Champions, this room embraces a stark utility.

The walls are bare stone, floor marked with a large circular arena surrounded by tiered seating.

Ancient weapon racks line the perimeter, holding everything from traditional swords to more specialized magical implements.

Each bears signs of actual use—nicks, wear patterns, blood stains not quite scrubbed away.

Not decorative museum pieces like the ones in the hall, but working tools of violence.

I look again at the exits—main double doors behind me, smaller door to the right that likely leads to an equipment room, and what appears to be a private office entrance behind the instructor’s platform.

Two visible security cameras track movement from opposite corners, though I suspect more are hidden.

This room has fewer magical wards than the main halls, presumably because combat magic is practiced here, and interference would be counterproductive.

A tall blonde girl slides into the seat beside me, her uniform crisp and precisely arranged. “You picked a dangerous spot,” she whispers, nodding toward my chosen seat. “Professor Dayn likes to make examples of students who sit in the back.”

“Oh,” I reply, infusing my voice with appropriate nervousness. “I didn’t know. I thought sitting in front would be worse.”

She laughs, a brittle sound. “There is no safe place in this room. I’m Patricia, by the way.” She extends her hand with the entitled confidence of old clearblood money.

“Clara,” I respond, grasping her hand with a grip calibrated to be just shy of confident. “Transfer student.”

“Well, Clara, just a friendly warning—don’t volunteer for anything today. Dayn’s first-day demonstrations tend to end in the infirmary.”

Interesting. I file away this piece of information, mentally adjusting my approach.

If injury is common, it might provide opportunities to slip away and get to Mazrov.

The medical wing would likely have different security protocols than the academic sections.

So long as I wasn’t injured too badly, obviously, which I don’t intend to be.

The room fills quickly, students jostling for what they perceive as safer positions.

The air grows thick with anticipation, conversation dwindling to nervous whispers.

Three minutes before the scheduled start time, the main doors slam shut with enough force to rattle the weapon displays.

No one enters. I scan the room, noting the confusion rippling through the student ranks.

Then I feel it—a wave of heat, rolling across the room like the breath of some massive beast. The temperature spikes several degrees in seconds. Sweat prickles along my hairline as the air begins to shimmer near the instructor’s platform.

He simply appears, as if stepping through an invisible doorway. No magical flash, no theatrical smoke—just absence, then presence. Professor Dayn.

I almost swallow my tongue. It’s… him. The room spikes with intensely unsettling energy, bringing back a rolling wave of déjà vu. The stalker.

The rumors didn’t do him justice. He stands at least six-foot-four, with a frame that manages to be both lean and imposing.

His features carry a sharp, aristocratic precision—high cheekbones, straight nose, jawline that could cut glass, framed by obsidian locks.

But it’s his eyes that arrest my attention.

Even from this distance, they burn with an internal light, shifting between amber and molten gold as he surveys the room.

“Preparation,” he announces, his voice sending an involuntary shiver down my spine, “is the difference between victory and death.”

He wears no armor, just a simple black shirt and tailored pants, yet carries himself with the absolute authority of someone who has no need for protective gear. As he moves forward, I note the inhuman grace of his steps—too smooth, too measured. Not a single wasted motion.

“You entered this room unaware that you were already being tested,” he continues, pacing a tight circle around the central arena.

“The door locked precisely three minutes ago. The temperature rose by twelve degrees. The oxygen content decreased by four percent.” He stops, scanning our faces.

“And not one of you noticed all three changes.”

A cold certainty settles in my stomach. I had noticed the door and the heat, but not the oxygen shift. A potential weakness in my perception he’s already identified.

“Combat is not about strength,” Dayn says, rolling up his sleeves with deliberate precision. “It is about awareness. Control. Anticipation.” With each word, he moves closer to the student section. “Without these, you are merely waiting to die.”

The scent emanating from him reminds me of hot metal and ozone—like lightning striking stone. It’s not unpleasant, but distinctly inhuman.

His gaze sweeps the room once more, and for a heart-stopping moment, it locks onto mine.

Something flickers across his expression—the slightest narrowing of eyes, the barest hint of a frown.

Recognition? Suspicion? Before I can analyze it further, he turns away, directing his attention to a muscular boy in the front row.

“You. Stand. ”

The student scrambles to his feet, visibly trembling.

“Attack me,” Dayn orders, stepping into the center of the arena.

“Sir?” The boy’s voice cracks.

“You heard me. Attack. Use whatever means you have at your disposal.”

The student hesitates, then lunges forward with a clumsy right hook. Dayn doesn’t appear to move at all, yet suddenly the boy is flat on his back, gasping for air.

“Predictable. Telegraphed. Weak.” Dayn doesn’t even look at the fallen student as he addresses the class. “Your first mistake is believing you can win. Your second is showing your intention before you act.”

He gestures, and the boy rises into the air, suspended by invisible force, then deposited back in his seat.

“Magic,” Dayn continues, “is a tool, not a solution. Reliance on magical ability creates weakness.” I’m unsure if it’s my imagination, but his voice seems to carry an edge of personal bitterness. “When magic fails—and it will fail—what remains is the body, the mind, and the will to survive.”

As he speaks, I study his movements, looking for tells that might reveal his true nature. My files mentioned nothing about a Professor Dayn—Corvin’s intelligence was incomplete. And Dayn… definitely represents an unknown variable in my mission parameters.

What the hell is he?

“Today,” he announces, “we will assess your baseline capabilities. One by one, you will demonstrate your current combat form. Magical and physical abilities both.”

He begins calling students forward alphabetically.

Each demonstration follows the same pattern—a brief display of combat skills, followed by increasingly impossible tasks designed to push them to failure.

Dayn’s critiques are surgical, exposing weaknesses with brutal efficiency.

Some students leave the arena in tears, others with injuries, all of them shaken.

As the demonstrations continue, I feel his attention returning to me periodically, like the heat of a spotlight passing over my skin. Each time, I keep my expression neutral, my posture unremarkable. But somehow, I have the uncanny sense that he sees through it.

“Winters,” he finally calls, and the name feels wrong in his mouth, almost as if he knows it’s not truly mine. “Your turn.”

I rise, adopting the slightly uncoordinated movements of someone with basic combat training but little practical experience. As I step into the arena, the air around Dayn seems to distort, heat waves rising from his skin.

“Your file says you transferred from Westlake Academy,” he states, circling me with predatory assessment. “Known for theoretical rather than practical education. Let’s see what bad habits we need to correct.”

I perform exactly as Clara Winters should—competent basic forms, but nothing exceptional. I deliberately leave openings in my stance, telegraph my movements just enough to appear untested. All the while, I feel his eyes boring into me, seeking something beneath the surface.

“Your foundation is weak,” he announces, stopping directly behind me. His proximity sends an involuntary shiver across my skin. Heat radiates from him like a furnace. “Your body knows what to do, but your mind hesitates.”

Without warning, his hand closes around my wrist, turning my arm to expose the inside of my forearm. His touch burns—not excruciatingly, but like stepping too close to an open flame. For one terrifying moment, I think he’s searching for the darkblood marking hidden beneath my glamour.

“Interesting,” he murmurs, too low for anyone else to hear. “You favor your right side despite being naturally left-handed. A deliberate choice, or compensation for injury?”

My heart hammers against my ribs. The file created for Clara Winters says nothing about handedness. This observation comes purely from his own analysis of my movements—movements I thought I had controlled perfectly.

“Old training habit,” I respond, keeping my voice steady.