Page 14

I glide through Heathborne’s grand ballroom like a shadow among stars, each step calculated despite the ridiculous silver gown I’ve squeezed myself into. The clearblood elite swirl around me in their finery, oblivious to the predator in their midst.

I’ve determined it would be foolish to wait for whenever Dayn or Mazrov decide to start my formal “training.” I obviously can’t trust either of them. I can’t play by their schedule—which could very well be a trap. I need to end this, now, and get out.

Thankfully, I learned this very evening presents an interesting opportunity.

Through the crush of perfumed bodies and tinkling crystal, I keep my eyes fixed on the target: Mazrov. The weight of the poison-filled syringe against my thigh reminds me why I’m here.

The ballroom drips with excess—chandeliers that spiral toward the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, tables laden with food no darkblood would ever taste by invitation.

A string quartet plays something classical and tedious in the corner.

I resist the urge to sneer at the display.

Clearbloods and their performances of civility while they torture my kind in the chambers below.

I adjust the thin chain at my neck—a hollow silver pendant that houses a potion granting me temporary glamour. I’ve changed my transfer student persona. To everyone here, I appear as a minor noble from the northern territories. Forgettable. Unimportant. Perfect for my purpose.

Mazrov stands across the room, wearing the formal uniform of Heathborne’s elite guard rather than his usual gray armor.

Even in ceremonial dress, he looks dangerous—rigid posture, alert eyes scanning the crowd.

The experimental subject of the clearbloods’ military program doesn’t get nights off, apparently.

His duty tonight appears to be to blend in while remaining vigilant, watching for threats.

Like me.

I angle my path through the crowd, careful not to move directly toward him.

A waiter passes with drinks, and I take a glass, sipping the bland, fizzy liquid while assessing the security layout.

Two uniformed guards at each entrance. Four plainclothes agents dispersed through the crowd—I identify them by their too-perfect posture and the slight bulge of concealed weapons under their formal wear.

None of them notice me. None of them will until it’s too late.

I place my empty glass on a passing tray and drift toward a cluster of laughing nobles.

I position myself at their periphery, nodding and smiling at appropriate intervals while scanning the room over their shoulders.

Mazrov hasn’t moved from his position near the eastern wall, his gaze methodically sweeping the ballroom.

“And you’re from where again, dear?” A woman with an elaborate feathered headdress suddenly addresses me.

“Northbrook,” I lie smoothly. “My father’s estate borders the Silverwood.”

“Oh! Do you know the Hemsleys?” Her eyes brighten with interest.

“Distantly,” I murmur, then gesture vaguely across the room. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I see an old acquaintance.”

I slip away before she can respond, cutting through the crowd with practiced ease. Each step brings me closer to Mazrov, but never directly. I pause to examine a particularly gaudy ice sculpture, then drift toward the refreshment table, steadily decreasing the distance between us.

My hand slides discreetly to the slit in my gown, fingers brushing against the syringe strapped to my thigh.

The poison inside—a darkblood concoction that leaves no trace—will stop his heart in seconds.

Clean. Silent. By the time anyone notices something is wrong, I’ll be halfway across the ballroom, just another shocked guest witnessing a tragedy.

Twenty feet away now. I pretend to admire a painting on the wall nearby, angling my body so I can watch him from the corner of my eye.

Fifteen feet. I accept another drink, using it as prop and shield.

Ten feet. I engage a tipsy diplomat in brief conversation, smiling emptily at his pompous observations about trade agreements.

Five feet. I’m close enough to spot the barely perceptible earpiece Mazrov wears for communication with the other guards. One moment of distraction is all I need .

As if summoned by my thoughts, a minor commotion erupts across the ballroom—someone’s dropped a tray of glasses. Mazrov’s head turns slightly toward the noise, assessing the threat level.

Now.

I move swiftly, closing the final distance with practiced steps that make no sound despite my formal shoes.

My fingers close around the syringe, pulling it free from its hiding place as I position myself directly behind him.

One quick jab at the exposed strip of neck between his collar and hairline, and this threat to my kind will be eliminated.

I raise my hand?—

Heat sears across my wrist like a band of molten metal. My fingers spasm involuntarily as pain shoots up my arm. The syringe stays hidden in my palm, but my strike halts mid-motion.

“Attempting assassination at a diplomatic function? How disappointingly crude.”

The voice slides over me like ice water.

I don’t need to turn to know who it belongs to, but I do anyway, meeting the amber-gold eyes of Professor Dayn.

He stands beside me, one hand casually extended to grasp my wrist, his formal attire impeccable.

To any observer, we might be greeting each other, except for the white-hot agony radiating from where his skin touches mine.

“Try harder,” he murmurs, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.

My breath catches. What?

I attempt to twist free, but his grip tightens. The pain intensifies, and I feel something beneath the surface of my skin—a burning sensation that seems to seep into my blood. When he finally releases me, I have to fight to maintain my composure, to not clutch my injured wrist to my chest.

Mazrov turns, his fire-blue eyes narrowing as he notices us. For a heart-stopping moment, I think he recognizes me through the glamour, but his gaze slides away after an assessing look.

“Professor,” he acknowledges with a curt nod. “Is there a problem?”

“None whatsoever,” Dayn replies smoothly. “I was just becoming acquainted with this charming visitor from the north. Though I believe she was about to depart.”

His eyes lock with mine, and the message is clear: leave now or face worse consequences.

I force a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Indeed. The hour grows late.”

As I step away, I glance down at my wrist. Red marks circle it like a bracelet, but these aren’t simple pressure marks from his grip.

They’re runes—ancient symbols that glow faintly beneath my skin with an inner fire.

I pull the sleeve of my gown down to cover them, my mind racing.

These aren’t normal burns; they pulse with magic I don’t recognize.

Nearby guests have begun to watch our interaction with mild curiosity. A few whisper behind jeweled fingers, no doubt wondering about the tension crackling between the professor and the unknown northern noble. I need to maintain my cover and exit before more attention falls on me.

“Until next time, Professor,” I say coldly, inclining my head slightly.

“Oh, I assure you,” he says, his voice carrying an undercurrent of something that sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine, “there will be a next time, Miss Salem. ”

My blood freezes. He knows who I am. My disguise didn’t fool him for a second.

I turn and make my way toward the exit, fighting the urge to run.

My heartbeat pounds in my ears, drowning out the music and chatter.

The pain in my wrist throbs in counterpoint, the runes seeming to tighten with each pulse.

As I pass other guests, I maintain my composed facade, but inside, my mind churns with implications.

Dayn not only recognized me through magical disguise but intervened precisely when I was about to strike. Was he watching me the entire time? And these marks—what magic has he used on me? The burning sensation continues to spread slowly up my arm, not damaging but... claiming.

I push through the massive doors of the ballroom, nodding politely to the guards as I pass.

Only when I’m in the empty corridor do I allow my face to show the fury and confusion roiling within me.

I examine my wrist again. The runes have settled into my skin like a brand, no longer glowing but clearly visible—a circle of intricate symbols I can’t decipher.

The worst part isn’t the pain or even the mysterious marking.

It’s the inexplicable feeling that blooms beneath my anger—a disturbing fascination with the man who just thwarted me.

The way his eyes held mine, the controlled power in his grip, the absolute certainty in his voice.

He’s dangerous in ways I don’t fully understand, and that makes him both my enemy and a puzzle I suddenly, desperately need to solve.

I slip into an alcove where I return my appearance to Clara and tuck the useless syringe back into its hidden pocket.

Tonight’s mission was a failure, but the war is far from over.

Mazrov remains a threat to my coven, and now Professor Dayn has revealed himself as definitely something more than just another clearblood academic.

I touch the marks on my wrist gingerly. They don’t hurt anymore, but they pulse with a strange warmth that connects to something deep inside me. Whatever game Dayn is playing, he’s made a critical mistake by marking me.

He’s made this personal.