Page 16

T he chamber Dayn has chosen for today’s lesson is the same that he brought me to yesterday, lying deep within Heathborne’s east wing.

I stand in the center of the room, my hands steady despite the quickening of my pulse.

This close to Dayn, my every sense sharpens.

Each of his movements could reveal something crucial, something I can use.

The casual way he observes me tells me he’s either genuinely at ease or putting on a masterful performance.

Either way, I’m here to learn—just not what he thinks.

“Your posture is better than Winters’, Salem,” Dayn remarks. The name still jars me—no more “Miss Winters,” no more pretense. He knows who I am, what I am, yet here we stand, predator and prey uncertain of which is which.

“I’ve been practicing,” I reply, keeping my voice neutral.

Dayn’s amber eyes flicker with that strange internal fire. “Show me a containment ward.”

I don’t know why he’s asking to see this, but I resolve to play along for now.

I extend my hands, palms facing each other.

Between them, a sphere of energy forms—clearblood magic, not my natural affinity, but I’ve become adept at mimicking it.

The sphere pulses with a pale blue light, its surface rippling like disturbed water.

“Adequate,” Dayn says, circling me slowly. Heat radiates from him, and I resist the urge to step back. “But you’re still thinking like a darkblood. You’re trying to command the energy rather than channel it.”

“Force of habit,” I mutter, adjusting my technique. The sphere stabilizes, its light growing steady.

“Habits can kill you in this world, Salem.” His voice drops lower. “Or they can save you, if they’re the right ones.”

I dissolve the energy sphere, letting my hands fall to my sides. “Is that what we’re really here to discuss? Habits?”

Something shifts in his expression. “No. We’re here because you need to understand what you’re facing.” He moves to the chamber door and locks it with a flick of his wrist. The sound of magical wards activating hums through the stone walls. “No interruptions, no surveillance.”

My body tenses, ready for combat. “That’s rather dramatic, Professor.”

“What do you know about dragons, Salem?” he asks, ignoring my comment.

My breathing slows as I stare at him, taken off guard by his question. “I… They’re extinct… Hunted to extinction centuries ago during the Blood Wars.”

In response, Dayn rolls up the sleeves of his formal academic robe, revealing forearms roped with lean muscle and etched with intricate markings that I could have mistaken for tattoos at first glance. But as I watch, the markings begin to burn with dark amber light .

“What are—” I begin, but stop as the temperature in the room increases. The air between us shimmers with heat haze.

“I am the last of my kind, or near enough.” Dayn’s voice lowers, deepens. “The last of those that went into hiding, and watched the world forget.”

My mind races to process his words. Dragons—actual dragons —still exist? The Salem family archives mention them only as ancient enemies, beings of fire and destruction that plagued darkblood covens before the clearbloods rose to power.

“You don’t believe me.” Dayn holds out a hand, palm up. A flame appears, dancing above his skin—not magical fire conjured from the air, but something that seems to emerge from within his flesh itself. “This is what Heathborne wants. Not just my knowledge, but what I am.”

I force myself to breathe evenly, to show no fear. “You’re saying you’re a dragon? A literal, fire-breathing, treasure-hoarding dragon?” I can’t believe I just said that.

“The treasure-hoarding is a stereotype,” he says with unexpected dryness. “But yes, in essence.”

“But… how…?” My voice trails off as I look over his predatory human form, and only now do I recall a detail of one of the ancient stories I heard as a child: dragons shifting between skins, sometimes beast, sometimes man.

Was that one of their actual abilities, or another legend twisted over time into myth? I feel a moment’s hesitation—a primal instinct that urges me to leave, to run, even though it goes against my very nature. I stay rooted, needing to press for more.

“Shapeshifting,” I say, my skepticism barely masking my curiosity. “Is that something you can do? ”

“Perhaps this will suffice?” His eyes flash, the amber darkening to molten gold. His skin ripples, and for a moment, dark scales shimmer across his neck before fading back to human appearance. It’s brief but unmistakable—inhuman, ancient, terrifying.

I swear before I can stop myself. My grandmother’s stories were true. The nightmare creatures that haunted darkblood history aren’t myth.

Dayn’s expression hardens. “I am bound to this place, Salem. To Heathborne. To its purpose.”

“Why would a dragon serve clearbloods?” I ask, my mind still reeling from the fact I’m standing in front of something that should not even exist.

“Not by choice, obviously. They performed a tethering ritual on me fifty years ago. An ancient binding spell that even your coven has forgotten.”

I’ve never heard of such a ritual, but I’m familiar with the concept of binding spells. “What does this binding do?”

“It chains my essence to their purposes. More specifically, it allows them to siphon my power—my innate dragon magic—and channel it through their chosen vessels.”

The pieces click together with horrifying clarity. “Mazrov,” I breathe.

Dayn nods once. “The guard who hunts you is no ordinary clearblood. He’s what they call an Emissary—bound to me through the ritual, given access to draconic power without the inconvenience of actually being a dragon.

” His face is still a controlled mask, but I don’t miss the moment his lip curls slightly in something akin to disgust. “My fire flows through his veins, corrupted and twisted to serve their ends.”

I think of Mazrov’s unnatural eyes, the way he moves with predatory grace. “That’s how he damages auras so permanently.” It’s not just clearblood magic—it’s something older, more primordial.

“Correct.” Dayn begins pacing, heat shimmering around him with each step. “Heathborne has been experimenting with this process for decades. Mazrov is merely their most successful specimen—but not their last. They intend to create more.”

My mission parameters shift in my mind like falling dominoes. I came to eliminate Mazrov, to destroy the threat he poses to darkbloods everywhere. But if Heathborne can simply make more like him...

“How many can they bind to you?” I ask, my voice hardening.

“The ritual can support three bonds at once. Mazrov is the only active Emissary now, but they’re preparing two more candidates.” Dayn’s eyes lock onto mine. “Your brother was being evaluated as a potential candidate, by the way.”

The room seems to tilt around me. “Jax? They wanted to turn my brother into?—”

“Into a weapon against his own kind, yes.” Dayn’s voice is merciless. “His darkblood abilities would have made him even more effective than Mazrov. Fortunately, your extraction was successful.”

I struggle to maintain my composure, anger threatening to cloud my judgment. “So I kill Mazrov, and two more take his place. That’s what you’re telling me.”

“Unless you address the source.” Dayn’s gaze bores into mine, challenging me.

“You,” I say flatly. “Without you, there’s no dragon magic to bind. ”

A dangerous smile spreads across his face. “Now you understand.”

“Why tell me this? You realize I’ll report it to my coven.”

“Because, Salem, we find ourselves in a position of mutual interest.” He steps closer, the heat of his body washing over me. “Your people slaughtered mine for years before the clearbloods rose to power.”

I stand my ground, refusing to back away. “Dragons burned us first,” I counter sharply. “You hunted us like cattle. My ancestors have the scars to prove it.”

“Your ancestors were parasites,” he hisses, eyes flashing gold. “Feeding on death and pain.”

A wire tightens in my chest. “Your kind breathed fire on our villages because you enjoyed watching us scream,” I snarl. The temperature in the room rises with our anger, the air between us shimmering.

“We were the guardians of natural order,” Dayn’s voice rises, his academic facade slipping to reveal something ancient and wrathful. “Before your people learned to corrupt it with your blood rituals.”

“We honored the dead,” I spit the words at him. “We gave meaning to mortality while your kind soared above, playing gods.”

We’re inches apart now, the room crackling with tension. My heart hammers against my ribs, adrenaline flooding my system—partly from anger, partly from something else I refuse to acknowledge. His proximity triggers something primal in me, a recognition of power that both repels and attracts.

“And yet,” he says, his voice dropping dangerously low, “ here we stand, the last of the dragons and a daughter of Salem, facing the same enemy.”

I’m suddenly, uncomfortably aware of the heat radiating from his skin, the strange magnetic pull of his presence.

My body responds traitorously, a flush spreading across my skin that has nothing to do with the elevated temperature of the room.

Is this another power of his I’m not aware of?

Is he manipulating me via the runes he stamped on me?

“Temporary alignment of interests doesn’t make us allies.” I try to control the anger in my voice.

“No,” he agrees, his eyes trailing slowly over my face in a way that makes my skin prickle. “But it makes us something far more interesting.”

I step back, needing distance to attempt to calm down, to clear my head. “This changes nothing,” I say after a tense pause. “I have my mission.”

“It changes everything,” Dayn counters. “Your mission was based on incomplete information. You came to eliminate Mazrov, believing him to be the source of the threat. Now you know he’s merely a symptom.”

He’s right, damn him. I need to reevaluate. I exhale. “If what you say is true about the ritual, killing Mazrov alone won’t stop Heathborne,” I say reluctantly.

“No, it won’t.” Dayn returns to his desk, putting welcome space between us. “They’ll simply bind another Emissary to me and continue their work.”

I cross my arms, studying him with a grimace. “And what exactly do you want from me, Professor? I doubt you’re offering yourself as a target.”

“Freedom,” he says simply. “Break the binding ritual, and I’ll ensure Heathborne can never create another Emissary. ”

I narrow my eyes. “And once you’re free? You’ll what—peacefully retire? Somehow I doubt that.”

A smile curves his lips, predatory and ancient. “What I do after is my concern. But I can promise it won’t involve darkbloods. My quarrel was never truly with your kind.”

I don’t trust him—can’t trust him—but the strategic calculation is clear. If Dayn is the source of Heathborne’s power, then he’s the logical primary target. Mazrov becomes secondary.

“I need to think about this,” I say finally.

“Of course.” Dayn glances at the ornate timepiece on the wall. “Our lesson time is nearly up, anyway.”

Some “lesson. ”

My skin feels too tight, too warm as I gather my things. The revelation about dragons, about Dayn himself, has upended everything I thought I knew.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks, his tone returning to that of the formal professor, though something darker lingers in his eyes.

“I’ll be here,” I lie.

As I leave the chamber, my resolve hardens into crystal clarity. Dayn is the key—the source of Heathborne’s experimental threat. He must be eliminated first, then Mazrov.