Page 21

T he eastern service stairwell smells of mildew and forgotten things.

I descend the narrow steps, one hand trailing along the damp stone wall, the other resting on the knife concealed at my hip.

Twenty-three steps down, the ambient magical hum of Heathborne changes pitch, becoming deeper, more primal.

Thirty-seven steps down, and the temperature drops noticeably, my breath forming small clouds in the air.

Fifty-two steps, and I’ve left the academic pretensions of the institute behind.

Down here, beneath layers of stone and enchantment, Heathborne reveals its true nature: a fortress built on secrets, power, and blood.

Dayn waits in the shadows at the bottom, his silhouette barely distinguishable from the darkness except for the amber burn of his eyes. They seem brighter down here, as though feeding off the ancient magic that pulses through the foundation stones.

“You’re late,” he says, not bothering to lower his voice. The thick walls swallow sound, making even whispers feel isolated.

“I was ensuring we weren’t followed.” A partial truth. I also needed those extra minutes to center myself, to firmly reestablish the mental barriers between myself and this asshole.

He doesn’t challenge my explanation, instead turning to face the narrow archway that leads deeper into the underground labyrinth. Enchanted sconces flicker to life as we approach, casting weak, wavering light that somehow makes the darkness beyond them more oppressive rather than less.

I take the map out of my pocket and hand it to him.

“It shows three possible routes to the central chamber,” Dayn says, unfurling the parchment between us. “The western path is shortest but heavily warded. The northern route is longer but designed for supply transport—wider passages, fewer defensive measures.”

I study the faded lines of the map, noting details he hasn’t mentioned. “And the eastern path isn’t marked at all beyond this first junction. Why?”

“Perhaps because it was too difficult to map.” His tone is matter-of-fact, academic. “The eastern tunnels lead directly beneath the original foundation stones, where the dimensional convergence is strongest.”

“Which means that’s exactly where we need to go.” I fold the map decisively. “The Relic of Severance would be kept where the veil between dimensions is thinnest.”

Dayn’s expression shifts subtly—surprise, perhaps, or reluctant respect. “Correct. Though I’m curious how a Salem assassin developed such insight into interdimensional magic.”

“We’re not all just knives in the dark, Professor.” I move past him toward the eastern tunnel entrance, deliberately taking the lead. “Some of us actually study what we fight against.”

The passage narrows almost immediately, the ceiling dropping so low that Dayn has to stoop slightly to avoid scraping his head on the rough stone.

The walls glisten with moisture, and occasional symbols—faded with age but still imbued with lingering power—flicker as we pass.

I recognize some from my Darkbirch training: warning markers, territorial claims, directional indicators.

Others are older, their meanings lost even to darkblood scholars.

We walk in tense silence for several minutes, the only sounds our footsteps and the occasional drip of water from unseen crevices.

The air grows increasingly thick with magical residue, making it harder to breathe normally.

I find myself taking shallow breaths, as much to limit my exposure to whatever enchantments linger here as to manage the stale, ancient air.

Dayn pauses suddenly, and I turn to see him holding up one hand. “Wait.”

I stop, more out of tactical sense than obedience. “What?”

Instead of answering, he walks forward a few steps, then kneels, examining the floor several paces ahead of us. His hand hovers over a seemingly ordinary section of stone, fingers splayed as though feeling for something invisible.

“Pressure trigger,” he finally says. “Connected to a ward line that runs through this entire section.”

I scan the passage, noting the subtle differences in the stone’s coloration where the floor meets the wall. “A clearblood defense system? Or something older?”

“Both.” He rises smoothly. “The original protections have been reinforced, adapted. Tripping this would activate both ancient and modern countermeasures.”

“Lovely.” I step closer, careful to avoid the trigger point he identified. “Can we disarm it?”

“Not without tools and time we don’t have.” He gestures to the narrow ledge along the left wall. “We’ll have to edge around it.”

The ledge is barely six inches wide, slick with moisture, and runs along a section of wall decorated with uncomfortably sharp decorative stonework. I assess it with practiced eyes, calculating risk versus necessity.

“After you, Professor.” I gesture mockingly. “Unless you’d prefer I go first?”

A flicker of something—irritation? amusement?—crosses his features. “Age before beauty? How conventional of you.”

Before I can reply, he’s moving, pressing his back against the wall and sidling along the narrow ledge with surprising grace for a man his size.

I note the way he navigates the tight space, adjusting his weight distribution with each step, and reluctantly file it away as another piece of evidence that “Professor Dayn” is far more than the academic persona he presents.

When he reaches the other side, he turns to watch my crossing.

I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me struggle, so I move with deliberate precision, calling on years of Darkbirch training.

My foot slips once on a particularly damp section, but I recover instantly, my body responding before conscious thought can interfere.

“I suppose you’re here to admire the dark as well as the danger?” I quip as I reach the safe side, noticing his steady gaze .

His lips quirk into something almost like a smile. “I admire efficiency, though I doubt you’d surrender your penchant for theatrics.”

Our eyes meet briefly in the dim light, a moment of mutual challenge that feels oddly like recognition. I break contact first, turning to face the continuation of the passage. The tunnel splits here, branching into three narrower corridors that all curve away into darkness.

“The map didn’t show this junction,” I observe, pulling it from my pocket to confirm.

“As I said—incomplete.” Dayn studies the three options with narrowed eyes. “We need the path that follows the original foundation line.” He lays his palm flat against the central passage’s entrance, closing his eyes briefly. “This one. I believe the stones here are part of the original structure.”

We continue deeper, the passage gradually sloping downward.

The enchanted sconces grow fewer, the darkness between them stretching longer, until we’re walking through pools of weak light separated by intervals of complete blackness.

During one such dark stretch, my foot catches on something—a loose stone, perhaps—and I stumble forward.

Dayn’s hand shoots out, catching my arm before I can fall. His grip is firm, his palm radiating that unnatural heat that seems to be his constant state. I pull away as soon as I’m steady, resenting both the assistance and my momentary vulnerability.

“Thanks,” I mutter, before I realize what I’m saying.

He doesn’t acknowledge it, already moving forward again. “There should be a chamber ahead. According to the oldest records, it served as a ritual space before Heathborne was even constructed. ”

“The perfect place to hide an artifact of primordial magic.” I follow, keeping a more careful eye on my footing.

The passage widens suddenly, opening into a circular chamber perhaps twenty feet in diameter.

Unlike the crude tunnels, this space shows signs of deliberate craftsmanship—smooth walls inlaid with complex patterns of metal and stone, a vaulted ceiling from which hang dormant crystal fixtures, and a floor laid out in concentric circles of alternating materials.

“Well, this certainly looks like somewhere important,” I remark, taking in the ancient grandeur.

Dayn moves to the center of the room, his expression more animated than I’ve ever seen it.

“This is a convergence chamber. One of the oldest in existence.” He turns slowly, examining the walls with the intensity of a scholar discovering a long-lost text.

“The patterns here predate the blood divide. They’re pure binding magic, the original form. ”

I remain near the entrance, scanning for threats rather than academic curiosities. “Fascinating history lesson, but we’re here for the relic, not a tour of magical archaeology.”

He shoots me a look of genuine irritation. “Understanding this chamber is essential to finding the relic. These patterns aren’t decorative—they’re functional. They create and maintain the dimensional fold where the Relic of Severance is hidden.”

Before I can respond, a low rumble shakes the chamber. Dust drifts down from the ceiling, and the metal inlays in the walls begin to glow with a pale blue light.

“What did you do?” I demand, hand going to my knife.

“Nothing.” Dayn moves away from the center, eyes tracking the spreading glow. “The chamber is reacting to our presence. It’s defensive.”

The rumbling intensifies, and sections of the floor begin to shift, stones rising and falling in a complex pattern. The air fills with a high-pitched whine that sets my teeth on edge, and I feel the distinct signature of powerful magic building around us.

“We need to leave,” I say, already backing toward the entrance. “Now.”

Dayn doesn’t move, his eyes fixed on the changing patterns in the floor. “No. This is part of the access sequence. The chamber is testing us.”

“Testing or trying to kill us?” The entrance behind me suddenly seals itself, stone flowing like liquid to close the passage. “Dayn!”