Page 15

T he corridors of Heathborne grow quieter as night deepens, the sounds of the banquet fading behind me like a bad dream.

I’ve abandoned the silver gown for my customary Heathborne uniform, retrieved from a pre-arranged hiding spot in an unused guest chamber.

The marks on my wrist continue to pulse with uncomfortable heat, visible even in the dim light of the corridor.

I trace one finger over the intricate runes, trying to decipher their meaning.

Whatever magic Professor Dayn used, it hasn’t faded—if anything, the connection feels stronger now, like an invisible tether pulling me through these shadowed halls.

I should be halfway back to the coven by now, reporting my failure and planning our next move against Mazrov. Instead, I find myself lingering, driven by a need to understand what happened. What these marks mean. What Dayn knows about me.

The rational part of my mind screams that this is a trap, that I’m endangering myself and the coven by remaining within these walls. But the marks on my arm tell a different story—this magic has already bound me in ways I don’t understand. Running won’t sever this connection.

As I round a corner into a particularly deserted corridor, the torches along the wall suddenly dim, plunging the space into near-darkness. The temperature increases several degrees. I reach for the knife concealed at my hip, scanning the shadows.

“Your blade won’t help you here, Miss Salem.”

The voice emerges from the darkness behind me.

I spin, weapon already drawn, to find Professor Dayn standing where nothing but empty corridor existed seconds ago.

He’s changed from his formal attire into a simpler dark tunic and pants, but the effect is no less imposing.

If anything, the absence of clearblood finery makes him appear more dangerous—more authentic.

“What did you do to me?” I demand, gesturing with my marked wrist while keeping my knife steady in my other hand.

His amber eyes shift, catching the faint torchlight and reflecting it back with an inhuman glow. “I prevented you from making a catastrophic mistake. You should be thanking me.”

“I’ll send a fruit basket,” I snap. “Now remove these marks.”

A smile ghosts across his face, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. “I can’t. More accurately, I won’t.” He gestures down the corridor. “Walk with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“You already are.” He nods toward my marked wrist. “Those runes have been guiding you toward me since you left the ballroom. Why else would you still be wandering these halls instead of fleeing Heathborne entirely?”

The realization that he’s right sends a chill through me. My feet have been carrying me through the castle without conscious direction, following some invisible pull.

“What have you done to me?” I repeat, hating the tremor that’s crept into my voice.

“Nothing irreversible.” He turns and begins walking away, his movements fluid and soundless. “Come. Unless you’d prefer to remain ignorant of the magic currently working its way through your bloodstream.”

I have choices. I could attack him from behind—but the memory of that searing grip makes my wrist throb in warning.

I could try to escape Heathborne—but without understanding these marks, I’d be bringing an unknown magical influence back to my coven.

Or I could follow him and learn what I’m dealing with.

I choose knowledge.

My knife remains in my hand as I follow him through winding corridors and down a narrow stairwell.

The walls transition from the polished stone of the main castle to rougher, more ancient construction.

We’re heading into the older sections of Heathborne Academy, away from the dormitories and formal classrooms, into spaces few students ever see.

Finally, Dayn stops before a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands. He places his palm against it, murmuring words too low for me to catch. The door swings inward without a sound, revealing a classroom unlike any other in Heathborne.

No ornate furnishings or clearblood emblems here—just bare stone walls lined with shelves of ancient texts and strange artifacts.

A large table dominates the center of the room, its surface carved with symbols similar to those now branded on my wrist. A few chairs are scattered about, and iron sconces hold flames that burn with unnatural steadiness, casting the room in amber light.

“Enter,” Dayn says, standing aside.

I hesitate at the threshold. “Is this where you torture the darkbloods who fail to assassinate your colleagues?”

His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in those inhuman eyes. “If I wanted you dead or imprisoned, Miss Salem, you would already be in the cells beneath us. This is a place of instruction.”

“I didn’t sign up for lessons.”

“Yet here you stand.” He gestures again to the room.

“Your choice, of course. Leave, if you prefer to wonder why those marks will continue to burn when you attempt to harm a certain individual in Heathborne. Wonder why your blood magic might falter at crucial moments. Wonder how much I know about your coven’s movements and your grandmother’s grave. ”

The mention of my grandmother decides me. I enter the room, keeping the table between us. “How do you know about my grandmother?”

Dayn closes the door behind him with a wave of his hand—no physical touch, just pure magical control. The implications aren’t lost on me.

“I know many things about your family, Esme Salem. The question you should be asking is why I haven’t shared that knowledge with my clearblood colleagues.” He moves to the table, his fingers tracing the symbols carved into its surface. “Show me your wrist.”

I don’t move. “Answer my question first.”

His eyes lift to mine, and for a moment, they shift from amber to molten gold, pupils narrowing. “I don’t respond well to demands. A lesson you should learn quickly if we’re to have a productive relationship.”

“We don’t have a relationship.”

“We do now.” He extends his hand across the table. “Your wrist, please.”

The “please” surprises me enough that I find myself moving forward, reluctantly extending my arm across the table. The marks have deepened since I last examined them, the runes more defined, like ancient writing etched into my skin.

Dayn’s fingers are surprisingly gentle as they encircle my wrist, turning it to examine the marks from all angles. Despite the gentleness, heat emanates from his touch—not burning this time, but unnaturally warm, as though his body temperature runs several degrees hotter than a normal human’s.

“Binding runes,” he explains, tracing one symbol with his index finger. Where he touches, the mark flares briefly with golden light. “Ancient magic, predating the division between darkbloods and clearbloods. These particular ones create a restriction bond.”

“You’ve enslaved me?” I try to jerk my arm away, but his grip tightens just enough to hold me still.

“If I wanted a slave, I’d choose someone less argumentative.” His tone remains even, almost academic. “These runes don’t control you. They only prevent specific actions—like killing certain members of Heathborne’s staff. ”

“Mazrov,” I say flatly.

Dayn inclines his head. “Correct.”

“Why do you care if I eliminate him? He’s just a clearblood experiment, a disposable guard.”

“And your solution is a clumsy assassination attempt at a public event?” He releases my wrist with a dismissive gesture. “If I hadn’t intervened, you’d be in chains right now, undergoing interrogation.”

My ego prickles. He talks as if I’ve never successfully assassinated anyone before, and I needed his intervention. As if I need him to control the situation. He’s like an assassin’s version of a cockblock.

“Kieran Mazrov may look like a simple guard,” he continues, “but he’s more valuable to Heathborne than you perhaps realize. His death would have brought a level of scrutiny down upon your coven that you are not prepared to handle.”

The certainty in his voice gives me pause. “You talk like you care what happens to my coven.”

“I care about… balance.” He moves away from the table, selecting a heavy tome from one of the shelves. “The clearbloods’ crusade against your kind disrupts ancient equilibriums. Their experiments with Mazrov and others like him are... concerning.”

He places the book on the table between us, opening it to reveal pages covered in symbols matching those on my wrist. “Your attempt tonight was doomed from the start. Not because of any failure in your skills—which are considerable—but because your approach was fundamentally flawed.”

“So you decided to mark me instead of just telling me this?” I snap.

“Would you have listened?” His eyebrow arches slightly. “ Or would you have dismissed me as another clearblood protecting his own?”

He has a point, though I’m not about to admit it. “And what exactly do you propose now?”

“Training.” He taps the open book. “These runes don’t just restrict—they also enhance. Your darkblood magic has raw power, but it lacks refinement. Precision. I can teach you methods that will make tonight’s crude assassination attempt look like a child’s game.”

I stare at him, trying to read past that impassive face to whatever lies beneath. “Why would you teach a darkblood how to be a more efficient killer?”

“As I said—balance.” His eyes meet mine across the table. “And because you intrigue me, Esme Salem. Not many would have infiltrated tonight’s gathering with such confidence. Fewer still would remain standing here, questioning me, after being discovered.”

There’s something in his gaze that sends an unwelcome heat through my body, entirely different from the burning of the runes. I force myself to look away, down at the ancient text.

“And if I refuse your... training?”

“The runes remain either way. But without proper instruction, they’ll continue to interfere with your magic in unpredictable ways.

” He closes the book with a decisive snap.

“More importantly, you’ll miss an opportunity to learn about Mazrov and the other experiments Heathborne is conducting—information your coven desperately needs. ”

He’s offering me exactly what I came for, wrapped in terms that make it sound like he’s doing me a favor. The strategic part of my mind recognizes the value of an inside source at Heathborne. The suspicious part wonders what he gains from this arrangement.

“What’s your price?” I ask bluntly.

For the first time, something like genuine amusement crosses his features. “Direct. I appreciate that.” He leans forward slightly, his presence suddenly filling the room despite the minimal movement. “I require assistance with matters that require... a darkblood’s unique perspective.”

“You want me to spy for you?”

“Think of it as an exchange of information beneficial to both parties.” He straightens. “Your coven seeks to understand and counter the clearbloods’ newest weapons. I seek to ensure… certain lines of magical experimentation are not crossed. Our interests align more than you realize.”

The rational choice would be to leave, to return to my coven and find another way to deal with Mazrov and the mysterious marks.

But something keeps me rooted in place—curiosity, yes, but also a strange recognition.

The way Dayn speaks of balance, of ancient magics that predate the blood divisions.

.. it echoes to stories my grandmother once whispered to me, so long ago I hardly remember.

“One session,” I say finally. “I’ll try one session, and then decide if this arrangement has merit.”

Dayn nods once, his expression unchanging though something like satisfaction flickers in those inhuman eyes.

“Tomorrow night. Same hour.” He moves toward the door, which swings open at his approach.

“And Salem? Next time you attempt to enter Heathborne, use the eastern passage behind the groundskeeper’s shed.

The wards there are weaker, and the guard rotation leaves a ninety-second gap every hour. ”

He’s giving me infiltration advice for a fortress he supposedly serves. The contradiction only deepens my curiosity about what—or who—Professor Dayn really is.

“You will learn,” he says as I pass him at the doorway, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that nonetheless carries an undeniable command. “And next time, you won’t falter.”

Our eyes meet in the dim light of the corridor, and for a heartbeat, I glimpse something ancient and powerful shifting beneath his human facade. The marks on my wrist pulse in response, a warm current that travels up my arm and settles somewhere deep in my chest.

“We’ll see who’s teaching whom, Professor,” I reply, injecting as much defiance into my tone as I can muster.

His lips curve in the barest suggestion of a smile. “Indeed we will.”

As I turn away and head back through the darkened corridors, I’m acutely aware of his gaze following me.

The stone walls of Heathborne seem to close in around me, whispering of secrets and dangers I’m only beginning to understand.

Yet mingled with the apprehension is a treacherous thrill of anticipation.

Whatever game we’ve begun tonight, I intend to win it. Even if victory means learning to play by his rules—for now.