Page 39

T he runes on my wrist pulse urgently, responding to the ambient energy still swirling through the chamber. The convergence lights haven’t settled—they continue to rotate, though more slowly now, as if waiting.

“The second unbinding,” Dayn says, approaching me with measured steps. “Are you ready?”

I nod, though truthfully I have no idea what to expect. The first ritual nearly drained me completely, and I can still feel Dayn’s blood coursing through my system, altering my perceptions in subtle ways.

“This one will be... more difficult,” he warns, stopping before me. “The binding to Heathborne is more fundamental than my connection to Mazrov. It’s woven into the very fabric of this place.”

“What do we need to do?” I ask, straightening my shoulders despite my exhaustion.

“The same components, but used differently.” Dayn gestures to the ritual items, which have transformed during the first unbinding. The elder blood has become a crystalline powder, the convergence water now a viscous gel, the darkblood ash reconstituted into a small obsidian dagger.

He picks up the dagger, turning it over in his hands. The blade’s edge seems impossibly sharp.

“The binding was created with sacrifice,” he says, his eyes meeting mine. “The unbinding requires the same.”

My stomach drops. “Meaning?”

“Not death,” he clarifies. “A different kind of sacrifice. Willing surrender.”

Before I can ask what he means, Dayn takes my hand, turning it palm-up. The runes on my wrist pulse in response, matching the rhythm of the convergence lights. His eyes meet mine, amber depths now swirling with gold.

“Your darkblood essence is the key,” he says. “Not your death—your power. Freely given.”

I swallow hard. “And what does that mean for me?”

“It means I need you to surrender a portion of your darkblood abilities—temporarily—to break the final binding.”

The obsidian dagger gleams in his other hand, its edge catching the swirling lights. My instincts scream caution, but something deeper—perhaps influenced by his blood still flowing through me—urges trust.

“How?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

Dayn guides me back to the altar where Mazrov’s body still lies. “Stand across from me,” he instructs, positioning himself at Mazrov’s head. I take my place at his feet, the convergence lights spinning between us.

“Place your hands on the altar,” Dayn says, laying his own palms flat on the stone surface. As I comply, the runes on my wrist flare with sudden heat, spreading up my arm in intricate patterns I’ve never seen before. They mirror those beneath Dayn’s skin, creating a visual resonance between us.

“The convergence point beneath Heathborne is a nexus of power,” Dayn reminds me, his voice taking on that formal cadence again.

“Seven ley lines meeting at a single point—a rare phenomenon that the founders exploited to bind me here. To break that binding, we must disrupt the convergence temporarily.”

He lifts the obsidian dagger, its blade catching the swirling lights. “This will not harm you permanently,” he assures me, though his tone suggests discomfort. “But it will... extract a portion of your essence.”

“And I’m just supposed to trust you on that?” I ask, eyebrow raised despite my racing heart.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “After everything we’ve been through, I’d hope for at least a modicum of trust.”

“Hope springs eternal,” I mutter, but I don’t withdraw my hands.

Dayn begins the incantation, different from the first—this language is sharper, more angular, with sounds that seem to cut the air itself. The convergence lights respond immediately, their rotation accelerating as they contract into a tighter spiral.

With a swift, precise movement, Dayn draws the obsidian dagger across his palm, dark blood welling immediately. He extends his bleeding hand to me, expectation clear in his eyes.

I hesitate only briefly before taking the dagger and mirroring his action, slicing my own palm open with a quick, practiced motion. The pain is sharp but familiar—blood magic often requires such sacrifices.

“Join your hand with mine,” Dayn instructs, holding his bleeding palm above Mazrov’s chest .

I press my bleeding palm against his, our fingers interlacing as our blood mingles.

The sensation is immediate and overwhelming—a rush of power that travels up my arm and spreads throughout my body.

The runes flare brilliantly, no longer just on my wrist but covering both our arms in matching patterns of light.

“Now,” Dayn commands, his voice resonating with power that seems to vibrate in my bones.

I don’t need further instruction. The words come to me unbidden, rising from some deep well of knowledge I didn’t know I possessed.

Perhaps it’s his blood in my system, perhaps it’s something older, more primal.

Whatever the source, I somehow speak alongside him, our voices twining together in a language that predates history.

The convergence lights respond violently, spinning faster until they blur into a solid ring of prismatic energy. The elder blood powder rises from the altar, suspended in the air between us, forming intricate patterns that shift and change with each phrase of the incantation.

I feel a pulling sensation deep in my core, as if something essential is being drawn from me.

It doesn’t hurt exactly, but the sensation is profoundly unsettling—like watching a piece of yourself detach and float away.

Darkblood essence, the fundamental power that makes me who I am, flows out through my palm where it mingles with Dayn’s blood.

The combined essence rises, joining the swirling patterns of elder blood. The convergence gel liquefies, flowing upward against gravity to join the maelstrom of power building above Mazrov’s form.

The chamber begins to shake, stones grinding against each other as the very foundation of Heathborne responds to our ritual. Dust rains from the ceiling, and in the distance, I hear the faint sound of alarm bells—the academy’s magical defenses recognizing the threat.

“Don’t stop,” Dayn urges as I falter momentarily. “We’re nearly there.”

I redouble my efforts, gripping his hand tighter as we continue the incantation. The pull on my essence intensifies, becoming almost painful now. It feels as though I’m being hollowed out, vital parts of me siphoned away to fuel this ancient magic.

Is this what my grandmother warned me about? Is this why she insisted I drink his blood first?

As if in answer, I feel a surge of heat from my stomach—the dragon blood I consumed earlier rising to meet the challenge. It flows through my system, as if countering the draining effect of the ritual, preserving my core self even as my darkblood essence is drawn out.

Understanding dawns. Without his blood to protect me, this ritual might have taken far more than a “portion” of my essence—it might have drained me completely.

The power between us crests like a wave, our joined blood glowing with a light that’s neither amber nor red but something entirely new.

Dayn’s incantation rises to a fever pitch, and I match him word for word, our voices resonating.

The convergence lights spiral inward, converging into a single point of blinding radiance.

“The final words,” Dayn gasps. “Speak them with me.”

Together, we utter the last phrase of the ritual—three words in that ancient language that feel like fire on my tongue.

The light explodes outward, a shockwave of pure power that shatters the remaining ritual components.

Our joined hands are wrenched apart by the force, sending us staggering backward.

The very foundations of Heathborne shake violently. Dust and small stones rain from the ceiling as the convergence point beneath us destabilizes.

I drop to my knees, gasping for breath as I feel my darkblood essence rushing back into me—not diminished, but transformed somehow. As if the dragon blood in my system has altered it, creating something… unfamiliar. I flex my fingers, watching as shadows dance between them with new fluidity.

Across the chamber, Dayn has fallen to all fours, his body wracked with violent tremors. The runes beneath his skin pulse erratically, some fading entirely while others burn brighter than before.

“Dayn,” I call out, struggling to my feet.

His eyes snap to mine—no longer amber but blazing gold, pupils contracted to vertical slits. For a heart-stopping moment, I see something else looking back at me through those eyes—something vast and ancient and decidedly not human.

Then the moment passes, and he slumps forward, catching himself on trembling arms. The runes beneath his skin settle into a steady glow before fading to barely visible traces. When he looks up again, his eyes have returned to their usual amber hue, though flecks of gold still dance in their depths.

“It’s done,” he says, his voice rough with exertion. “The binding is broken.”