Page 20

L ibraries are supposed to be sanctuaries of knowledge.

This one feels more like a prison cell with prettier walls.

I trace my finger along the spine of an ancient tome, feeling the crackle of old leather beneath my skin while acutely aware of Dayn’s presence behind me.

The soft glow of enchanted lanterns casts our elongated shadows across the towering shelves of Heathborne’s ancient library, and I can’t decide which I despise more—the musty smell of clearblood propaganda disguised as scholarship or the fact that I need this insufferable man’s help to find what we’re looking for.

“The section on pre-schism artifacts should be this way,” Dayn murmurs, his voice barely audible above the ambient hum of magical preservation wards that keep these precious clearblood relics from crumbling to dust. A fitting metaphor for their entire culture—sustained only by artificial means.

I follow him with deliberate steps, maintaining enough distance to make it clear this is an alliance of necessity, not choice.

My silver tablet dissolved hours ago, its effects still lingering in my system like a bad aftertaste.

It dulls my connection to my blood magic just enough to avoid detection, but also makes me feel half-blind in a place saturated with hostile energy.

“Remind me why we couldn’t just steal the unbinding relic directly?” I ask, scanning the section labels as we pass. “Instead of this scholarly treasure hunt.”

Dayn pauses, turning to face me with that infuriating half-smile that never quite reaches his eyes. They burn amber in the low light, like embers waiting to ignite.

“Because, dear Clara—or should I say Esme?—Heathborne doesn’t keep their most valuable artifacts on display.

The binding rune relics are hidden beyond conventional space.

We need the location cipher.” His tone suggests I’ve asked why water is wet.

“Unless you’ve suddenly developed the ability to phase through dimensional barriers? ”

I narrow my eyes. “I’ve developed plenty of abilities that would surprise you, Professor.”

“I sincerely doubt that.” He turns away, dismissing me with casual cruelty.

The worst part is that he’s right. I can’t just stumble upon an object that exists partially outside normal reality.

The binding rune artifacts—ancient tools from before the blood divide—are our only hope of severing his connection to Mazrov and dismantling Heathborne’s plans for creating an army of Emissaries.

But acknowledging that means admitting I need him, and I’d rather swallow broken glass.

“So, I assume your earlier announcement that I would train under Mazrov was pure bullshit?” I ask.

“It helped catch your attention,” Dayn replies. “Whether it will actually come to fruition remains to be seen… ”

I exhale slowly, willing for patience.

We reach a secluded alcove lined with reading tables. Dayn selects several volumes from a nearby shelf. I watch his hands, noting how the ambient heat around him makes the air shimmer slightly. Another reminder of what he is—something ancient and deadly wearing the costume of a professor.

“Start with these,” he says, placing three texts before me. “Look for references to the Primordial Marks or Ancient Bonds. Anything mentioning convergence points or liminal chambers.”

I pull the nearest book toward me, a weathered tome with faded runic inscriptions along its binding. “You’d think you’d be quicker at following clues than hunting for shadows,” I remark dryly.

His lips curl slightly. “And you’d think you’d stop overanalyzing old paper.”

I roll my eyes and turn my attention to the text. The pages are brittle beneath my fingers, covered in dense academic prose and annotated diagrams of runic configurations. My Darkbirch training included ancient languages, but these symbols predate even the oldest darkblood traditions.

We work in tense silence for nearly an hour. I feel his gaze occasionally flick toward me, assessing my progress or perhaps just monitoring my movements. When our eyes accidentally meet, I pointedly return to my research, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing my discomfort.

“Anything useful?” he eventually asks.

“If you consider three hundred pages of clearblood self-congratulation useful, then yes,” I reply. “Otherwise, no.”

Dayn closes his book with controlled precision. “Let’s try a different approach. We’ll cover more ground if we split up. ”

I raise an eyebrow. “Worried I’ll slow you down, Professor?”

“Worried you’ll miss something critical.” He glances around the vast library space. “Take the eastern stacks. I’ll check the restricted section behind the archivist’s desk.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to get into—” I stop myself, realizing he’s already anticipated my objection.

He slides a small brass key across the table. “Academic privileges. Try not to look so surprised that I’m actually helping you.”

I pocket the key without thanks and rise from the table. “Just remember our agreement. This isn’t about saving your skin—it’s about preventing Heathborne from creating more monsters like Mazrov.”

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. “Careful, Ms. Salem. Your hatred is showing.”

“It never left.” I turn away before he can respond.

The eastern stacks rise before me like a labyrinth of knowledge, each shelf stretching from floor to ceiling with narrow ladders providing access to the highest volumes. I climb one, running my fingers along dusty spines, searching for anything related to binding runes.

Alone with my thoughts, I allow myself to acknowledge the bitter truth: I’m trapped in this alliance with a man I’d gladly kill at the first opportunity.

A man who represents everything my family has fought against. Yet here I am, dependent on his knowledge, his connections within Heathborne, his understanding of the binding magic that created the first Emissary.

I find a promising volume tucked between larger tomes, its spine marked with symbols similar to those in my briefing materials.

The text inside is dense, written in an archaic form that requires my full concentration to decipher.

Most of it discusses theoretical applications of binding magic, but a passage near the middle catches my attention:

“The convergence of both blood lines through ancient bonds creates a threshold neither living nor dead. Such vessels become pathways between realms, accessible only through the Relic of Severance.”

I trace the accompanying diagram with my finger. This could be it—a reference to the unbinding ritual and the artifact we need. I memorize the page and continue searching, finding scattered references that begin forming a cohesive picture.

When I return to our meeting point, Dayn is already waiting, a shadow of impatience crossing his features.

“Did you actually find something useful, or were you just hiding from me?” he asks.

I slide my discoveries across the table. “References to the Relic of Severance. Multiple sources pointing to a common location.”

His eyes scan the pages quickly, his expression shifting from skepticism to approval. “This confirms what I found. The relic is kept in a dimensional fold accessed through the academy’s foundation stones.”

“You mean the tunnels beneath Heathborne.” The realization hits me with unpleasant clarity. “Where security is tightest.”

“Where magical currents are strongest,” he replies. “The academy was built over an ancient convergence point. The founders weren’t just being symbolic—they were harnessing power. ”

I process this information, mentally calculating the risks. “So, we need to access these tunnels, find the specific location where the dimensional fold opens, and extract the relic without alerting Heathborne’s security or triggering any protective enchantments.”

“Simple, isn’t it?” Dayn’s sardonic tone matches my own thoughts.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re enjoying this?” I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

“Because you assume I enjoy everything that causes you discomfort.” He gathers the books, returning them to their proper places with meticulous care. “A flattering but incorrect assumption.”

Before I can respond, the distant sound of footsteps echoes through the library. The night custodian—or worse, a security patrol. Dayn reacts instantly, extinguishing the nearby lantern and pulling me into a shadowed alcove between two tall bookcases.

The sudden darkness is complete, and I find myself pressed uncomfortably close to him, feeling the unnatural heat that radiates from his skin.

His hand on my arm is firm but not painful, a silent command to remain still.

I hate that my body automatically complies, trained to recognize tactical necessities even when they involve unwanted proximity.

We stand frozen as the footsteps grow louder, then pass directly in front of our hiding place. Through the narrow gap between shelves, I glimpse a robed figure carrying an enchanted lantern, its blue light casting eerie shadows as it moves deeper into the library.

“Just the archivist,” Dayn whispers, his breath warm against my ear. “But we’ve stayed too long. ”

I step away from him the moment the danger passes, creating distance between us. “We have what we need anyway. The tunnels beneath Heathborne, a dimensional fold, and the Relic of Severance.”

“Not quite all we need.” Dayn pulls a folded parchment from inside his coat. “This is a partial map of the underground network. Incomplete, but better than wandering blindly.”

I take the map, studying its faded lines and cryptic annotations. “And you just happened to have this?”

“I’ve been planning this extraction for longer than you’ve been infiltrating Heathborne, Ms. Salem.” His tone is measured, almost clinical. “Procuring that map is something I was comfortable doing in advance.”

The implication that I’m somehow less prepared than him stings, but I swallow my retort. The map is genuinely useful, showing paths I wouldn’t have known existed.

“We should go,” I say instead. “Separately. You first, then me after five minutes.”

Dayn nods once, a curt acknowledgment of the tactical wisdom. “Meet at the eastern service stairwell in twenty minutes. It leads directly to the lower levels.”

“I know where it is.” I fold the map carefully and slip it into my pocket.

He pauses, studying me with an intensity that makes me want to look away. “I know you resent needing my help, Esme. But remember—I need yours equally. Neither of us survives this alone.”

With that uncomfortable truth hanging between us, he turns and disappears into the shadows of the library, leaving me alone with ancient books and the weight of our unlikely alliance .

I count to three hundred in my head before following, moving silently through the darkened aisles toward the exit, the map of Heathborne’s underground tunnels a tangible reminder of what comes next—a dangerous descent into the literal and figurative foundations of everything I’m fighting against.