Page 24

T he next ingredient we need to collect is apparently in the infirmary.

At night, it smells like death masked by disinfectant—a poor disguise, in my opinion.

I follow Dayn silently down the sanitized corridor, my footsteps soundless on the polished floor, keeping my distance from him.

I’m still unsettled from the way he looked at my blood.

It seems he’s uniquely able to sense my signature even through my suppression tablets.

I try to focus. We’re in this place now for someone else’s blood. And this task requires precision—stealing blood from the very leaders who would execute me if they knew my true identity. I find a certain poetry in that.

“The blood repository is in the eastern wing,” Dayn murmurs, his voice barely audible. “Past the treatment rooms.”

I nod, not bothering to ask how he knows the layout so intimately. Now I know dragons hoard knowledge like treasures, and Dayn apparently has centuries of collection behind him.

The white walls of the infirmary seem to glow under the dim emergency lighting. Clearblood aesthetics—everything bleached and scrubbed of character. I prefer the shadows, the honest darkness that doesn’t pretend to be something it’s not.

“Wait.” Dayn extends an arm, blocking my path.

Around the corner, a night nurse shuffles through papers at her station, yawning widely. Her aura pulses with exhaustion—an easy target for suggestion, if I had full access to my abilities. Instead, I watch as Dayn steps forward, subtly adjusting his posture to appear more human, more approachable.

“Excuse me,” he says, his voice transformed into something warm and solicitous. “I’ve been asked to review some treatment protocols for tomorrow’s combat training.”

The nurse blinks sleepily. “Professor Dayn? It’s nearly midnight.”

“Which is why I’d prefer not to disturb anyone else.” He offers a thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and I note how easily he lies. “The eastern repository should have what I need.”

I hang back, adopting the meek posture of the scholarship student I’m supposed to be. Clara Winters, timid and forgettable. The nurse’s eyes slide over me without interest.

“I suppose that’s fine,” she says finally. “The night healer is attending an emergency in the dormitories—lightning practice gone wrong. Should be back within the hour.”

“We won’t be long,” Dayn assures her, already moving past .

Once we’re beyond her view, I catch up to Dayn, keeping my voice low. “That was almost too easy.”

“Clearbloods trust authority without question,” he replies, something like contempt coloring his tone. “It’s their greatest weakness.”

“And what’s yours, Professor?” I can’t help asking.

His amber eyes flick to me, momentarily bright as molten gold. “Curiosity, perhaps. A dangerous trait for both our kinds.”

We reach a set of double doors marked with medical runes—protection and preservation symbols that glow faintly blue.

The blood repository lies beyond, housing samples from every senior staff member.

Monthly donations, Dayn had explained, part of Heathborne’s emergency protocols for healing high-value personnel.

Dayn studies the wards with clinical detachment. “These are basic preservation enchantments, not security measures. They’re designed to maintain the samples, not prevent theft.”

“They never anticipated someone would want to steal blood,” I observe.

“Why would they? Blood magic is a darkblood practice.” His fingers trace the air just above the runes. “To clearbloods, blood is merely... medical material.”

I watch as he manipulates the wards, his fingertips leaving trails of heat in the air that distort the magical signatures without disrupting them. It’s elegant work, I’ll admit—not destroying the protections but temporarily convincing them we’re authorized personnel.

“Your turn,” he says after a moment. “The door requires physical access.”

I reach for the lock, a standard mechanism rather than a magical one. This, at least, is familiar territory. I extract a thin metal tool from my sleeve and work it into the keyhole. After a few moments, it clicks open.

The repository beyond is a compact room lined with refrigerated cabinets. Each drawer bears a name and designation, organized with military precision. The clinical chill raises goosebumps on my arms.

“We need blood from someone with true authority,” Dayn says, scanning the labels. “Not merely a teacher—someone whose essence carries the weight of Heathborne itself.”

“The Headmaster,” I suggest.

Dayn shakes his head. “Too obvious if it goes missing. We need someone senior but not irreplaceable.”

His fingers stop at a drawer labeled “Archmage Levon, Combat Arts Division.”

“Perfect,” he murmurs. “An elder with battle experience. His blood will carry both authority and power.”

The drawer is sealed with additional wards—more serious than those on the door. These will detect tampering, and I doubt Dayn’s heat trick will work here.

“I need to use my magic,” I say quietly. “Stand watch.”

Dayn moves to the door without argument, his back to me. It’s a small gesture of trust—or perhaps just pragmatism. Either way, I take advantage of the moment.

My full darkblood powers are suppressed, but I hope I’m able to tap into them enough to pull this off. I close my eyes and try to sink as deeply into them as I can.

My senses expand, the world suddenly sharper, deeper, more alive, as I relax into my natural state. I can feel the pulse of death and life in everything around me—including the preserved blood in the drawers .

Working quickly, I draw a bead of my own blood from the cut I got earlier. I smear it across the ward on the drawer, whispering, “Blood recognizes blood.”

My grandmother’s teaching echoes in my mind. Magic isn’t about domination—it’s about recognition. Everything contains life and death; we merely need to speak to the parts that understand us.

The ward shimmers, recognizing a kindred essence—not in my clearblood disguise, but in the fundamental nature of blood itself. It doesn’t break, but bends, allowing me access without triggering the alarm.

Inside the drawer, neat rows of vials filled with dark crimson liquid sit in temperature-controlled slots. Each bears a date and batch number. I select the most recent one, sliding it carefully into a padded case that Dayn hands me.

As I close the drawer, I sense him watching me.

“Impressive,” he says. “Few darkbloods master blood recognition so young.”

The world dulls around me as I slip out of my natural state. “I’d think fewer dragons recognize darkblood techniques by name.”

His expression remains neutral, but something flickers in his eyes. “As I told you, I’ve lived a long time.”

Before I can respond, footsteps echo in the corridor outside—too heavy for the night nurse. Dayn moves swiftly, pulling me behind one of the cabinets. I’m acutely aware of the vial of elder blood in my pocket, pressed between us.

“...don’t care what protocol states,” a male voice carries through the door. “After that incident in the greenhouse, we’re checking all secure areas. ”

I curse. Mazrov. Again. His voice unmistakable even through the door.

“The wards haven’t been triggered,” a second voice responds. “And the night healer would have?—”

“The night healer is dealing with three first-years who thought midnight lightning practice was a good idea,” Mazrov snaps. “Check. Every. Room.”

The door handle turns. I hold my breath, feeling Dayn’s heartbeat against my shoulder—steady as a metronome. His hand moves to my waist, fingers splayed across my lower back. For one alarming moment, I think he’s going to use me as a shield or distraction.

Instead, he whispers a single word in a language I don’t recognize. The temperature in the room plummets suddenly, frost forming on the cabinets. The lights flicker and die.

The door opens, and Mazrov’s silhouette appears, backlit from the hallway.

“Power fluctuation,” the second voice says. “The refrigeration units must be overloading the circuit.”

Mazrov steps inside, his hand moving to the weapon at his belt. His eyes—unnaturally blue and blazing—scan the darkness. For a terrifying moment, his gaze passes over our hiding spot.

“These samples can’t be allowed to thaw,” he says finally. “Get maintenance up here immediately.”

The door closes. Their footsteps retreat down the hallway.

I release my breath.

“That was close,” Dayn whispers, finally stepping away from me. The loss of his heat is almost shocking in the frozen air. “We need to leave before maintenance arrives.”

As we slip out of the repository, carefully reclosing the door and resetting the wards, I can’t shake the uneasiness of our earlier exchange.

“You’re keeping more secrets than you’re sharing,” I accuse him quietly.

He turns, his amber eyes momentarily flaring gold. “Every dragon has scales they don’t show, Esme,” he says, his voice low. “Just as every witch has spells she keeps unspoken.”

We exit through an emergency door, the cool night air a relief after the sterile chill of the infirmary. The vial of elder blood sits heavy in my pocket—another piece of Dayn’s mysterious ritual acquired, another step across whatever this chessboard is.

And with each step, I’m less and less sure who’s truly in control.