Page 6

T he corridor outside the meeting chamber feels colder than it should, even for the underground levels of our academy.

I walk with measured steps, the rhythmic tap of my boots against stone echoing off walls lined with centuries-old paintings depicting our ancestral victories.

The weight of the mission file in my hands feels disproportionate to its actual size—a slim folder containing what could very well be a death sentence.

Mine or Mazrov’s. I’m determined to ensure it’s the latter.

Torches flicker in iron sconces along the hallway, casting my shadow in multiple directions as I pass. Their flames don’t warm the air; they never have. Our kind prefers the cold—it keeps the mind sharp and reminds us of the grave’s embrace we’ve learned to manipulate rather than fear.

I could have died four times last year alone, on missions less dangerous than this one.

The difference then was I could call on my grandmother’s spirit, draw on our ancestral magic, and fight with the full strength of my darkblood heritage.

This time, I’ll be walking into enemy territory with my power deliberately dimmed, hunting a target specifically designed to destroy me.

Lovely odds. Just how I like them.

The preparation chamber lies at the end of a seldom-used corridor, past the training rooms and armory. Few have clearance to enter it—only those assigned to high-risk covert operations. I’ve been here six times in my life. Two of those missions nearly killed me.

I press my palm against the heavy metal-bound door, feeling the familiar prick as the blood lock takes its sample.

There’s a moment of resistance, then a series of clicks as the ancient mechanisms recognize my bloodline and grant access.

The door swings inward on silent hinges, revealing a chamber bathed in cool blue light.

“Welcome, Esme Salem,” comes the disembodied voice of the room’s guardian spirit. “Your preparation materials have been assembled as requested.”

“Thank you, Keeper,” I respond, stepping inside as the door seals shut behind me.

The chamber is circular, with a central table surrounded by shelves containing everything from weapons to potions to specialized clothing.

The walls are lined with mirrors, enchanted to show different aspects of a person’s appearance—physical, magical, spiritual.

They’ll be essential for ensuring my dark magical nature remains concealed beneath my clearblood disguise.

On the central table lies an array of items carefully arranged around a detailed floor plan of Heathborne Academy. I set down my file and begin to examine what Corvin has prepared for me .

First, the identity documents. The cover is thorough—academic records from a minor magical academy in the western territories, recommendation letters bearing forged signatures from respected clearblood scholars, and a detailed background history.

According to these papers, I am now Clara Winters, a promising young researcher specializing in protective enchantments, seeking to complete my advanced studies under Heathborne’s renowned faculty.

“Clara Winters,” I test the name aloud, tasting its falseness.

“Orphaned at sixteen, raised by scholars, graduated with honors.” A lifetime of fabricated achievements and tragic background laid out in meticulous detail.

Enough truth woven through the lies to make it believable—I did lose my father at a young age, after all, just not in the way these documents claim.

Next to the documentation are two small wooden cases.

One contains a pile of silver tablets, each engraved with complex runes that shimmer under the blue light.

These will be my greatest vulnerability and protection simultaneously—masking my darkblood nature while cutting me off from a significant portion of my power.

The second wooden case is marked by a label that reads “counter-suppression” and contains a pile of white tablets.

A note next to this case informs me that these tablets will reverse the effects of the silver tablets. Useful, in case of an emergency.

Beside the wooden cases sits a collection of weapons disguised as academic tools.

A fountain pen with a removable cap revealing a slender poisoned needle.

A ceremonial letter opener that doubles as a throwing knife.

A researcher’s magnifying glass with edges sharp enough to sever an artery.

An ornate bookmark that unfolds into a garrote wire. And other useful weapons.

“Subtle,” I murmur appreciatively, testing the weight of the pen in my hand.

More practical items follow—like clothing in the Heathborne style, predominantly in their preferred colors of navy and silver.

Cipher notebooks with hidden compartments.

A collection of innocuous-looking vials labeled as health supplements that actually contain various potions—healing, strength enhancement, glamour, and one particularly nasty concoction that can melt internal organs if ingested.

At the far end of the table sits a small, unassuming silver compact mirror.

I recognize it immediately as a communication device.

When opened under specific conditions, it will create a momentary connection to its twin, held by my handler back at Darkbirch.

A note informs me it’s for emergency use only—each activation risks detection by Heathborne’s magical surveillance.

I spread out the floor plans, studying the layout of what will soon be my hunting ground.

I’ve never had to examine it in this much detail before.

Heathborne Academy is massive—a sprawling castle complex with multiple wings, underground facilities, and heavily warded walls.

The dormitories are in the east wing, research laboratories in the north, classrooms scattered throughout.

Administrative offices occupy the central tower.

“Where are you hiding, Mazrov?” I murmur, fingers tracing potential locations. Security headquarters? Research labs? Private quarters?

A notation on the map catches my eye—a section marked with a warning symbol. “Restricted access. Protection in effect.” That’s interesting. Whatever they’re hiding there might be worth investigating.

I look up from the papers at the nearest mirror, studying my reflection.

My pale skin and black hair could pass for a clearblood’s with minimal adjustments; I might dye or glamour my hair brown.

My eyes are the problem—they carry the distinctive storm-cloud gray of the Salem bloodline, with the subtle red flecks that mark me as a practitioner of blood magic.

The silver tablets will hide those magical markers, but I’ll need glamour or colored lenses as an additional precaution. On the shelf beside me, I find a small case containing lenses that will turn my eyes a more clearblood-appropriate blue.

I step back from the table, taking a deep breath as I center myself. Before I go any further with preparations, there’s something I need to do.

“Grandmother,” I whisper, closing my eyes and reaching for that familiar connection. “I need your guidance.”

The air grows colder around me as I channel a small amount of my blood essence, opening the pathway between worlds. The torches dim slightly, and I feel the distinctive prickle along my spine that signals a spirit’s approach.

“Child,” comes my grandmother’s voice. “You seek to walk among our enemies.”

I open my eyes to see her translucent form standing before me, her silver-streaked hair in its traditional braids, her posture as regal in death as I imagine it was in life. Here she chooses to manifest herself fully, unlike in the graveyard earlier, and I am grateful for that at this moment.

“The council has assigned me to eliminate a threat,” I explain. “One who can permanently damage our auras. ”

Her ghostly features sharpen with concern. “Such power violates the natural order. It must not be allowed to spread.”

“That’s why I’m going,” I say. “But I’ll need to take these.” I gesture to the silver tablets. “I’ll be cut off from you and the ancestors for days.”

Grandmother Esther’s spirit drifts closer, her form flickering slightly in the blue light. “You have never relied solely on our power, Esme. Your strength comes from within as much as from your bloodline.”

“But your guidance?—”

“Will remain with you, even when you cannot hear my voice,” she interrupts. “Trust what I have taught you. Trust your instincts.”

Her spectral hand reaches out, hovering just above my cheek in the closest approximation of a touch that her current form allows. “You carry the Salem blood. It will not fail you, even when disguised.”

I nod, drawing strength from her confidence. “I’ll succeed, Grandma. I always do.”

“Be cautious,” she warns. “The clearbloods may appear weaker for their disconnection from death, but they have developed other magics to compensate. Do not underestimate them.”

“I won’t,” I promise. “I’ll be back before the next full moon.”

She smiles, her form already beginning to fade. “I will be watching from beyond the veil, child. Make your ancestors proud.”

With that, she’s gone, leaving behind only a lingering chill in the air and the faint scent of grave soil that always accompanies her manifestations. I take a moment to compose myself, knowing it may be at least a week before I can speak with her again.

I turn back to the table and pick up one of the silver tablets, examining it closely. Small enough to swallow easily, yet powerful enough to fundamentally alter how my magic presents itself to others. I should test its effects now, to be prepared.

“Recording vitals and magical signature before tablet consumption,” announces the Keeper’s voice as magical sensors activate around the room.

I place the tablet on my tongue, grimacing at its metallic taste as it dissolves.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then a wave of coldness spreads from my center outward, different from the comfortable chill of death magic—this is an emptiness, a sudden absence where my connection to ancestral power should be.

I gasp, steadying myself against the table as my knees weaken momentarily. The mirrors around the room shimmer and adjust, showing me the change as it happens. My magical aura, normally a deep crimson shot through with threads of silver, shifts and pales to a clearblood’s typical blue-white.

“Fascinating,” I murmur, straightening up and approaching one of the mirrors.

The physical discomfort passes quickly, but the sense of disconnection remains.

I can still access my personal reserves of magic, but the wellspring of power I usually draw from my bloodline is muffled, as if behind a thick wall.

I attempt a simple blood magic spell, pricking my finger and attempting to form the droplet into a small sentinel bird—a trick I’ve been able to do since childhood. The blood rises sluggishly, forming only a crude approximation of a bird before collapsing back into a formless drop.

“Magical capacity reduced by approximately forty percent,” the Keeper informs me. “Darkblood signature successfully masked. Detectable power now registers as standard clearblood classification.”

Not ideal, but workable. I’ll need to rely more on my physical skills and intelligence than magical nature. Fortunately, I’ve never been one to depend solely on power when cunning will suffice.

I turn to the collection of clearblood clothing, selecting a tailored navy jacket and matching skirt that fits the Heathborne aesthetic while allowing enough freedom of movement for combat if necessary.

The fabric is enchanted to resist minor spells and staining—practical for both a student and an assassin.

I try on the colored lenses next, blinking as they settle into place. My reflection now shows a young woman with clear blue eyes, dressed in scholarly attire, with nothing to suggest her darkblood heritage. Clara Winters looks back at me—ambitious, intelligent, and utterly fabricated.

“Perfect,” I say, satisfied with the transformation. “A model clearblood student.”

I return to the documents, continuing to memorize details of my cover identity as the tablet’s effects wear on.

By morning, I’ll know Clara Winters better than she would know herself, if she existed.

Every fictional achievement, every fake relationship, every forged credential must become as familiar to me as my own history.

The weight of the mission settles more firmly on my shoulders as the reality of what I’m about to do sinks in.

Infiltrating Heathborne isn’t just dangerous—it’s potentially suicidal.

If they discover my true nature, I’ll face the kind of execution that clearbloods reserve for darkbloods: prolonged, public, and designed to destroy not just my body but my spirit’s ability to transition peacefully.

And yet, failure isn’t an option. If this Mazrov truly has developed a way to permanently damage darkblood auras, he represents an existential threat to everyone I care about.

My brother, my mother, the rest of my remaining family, my entire coven—all vulnerable to a weapon that could strip away the very essence of who we are.

I gather the documents and begin arranging them in the slim briefcase provided for Clara Winters’ academic materials. My fingers brush over the small scrap of notes I’ve made—vulnerabilities to look for, potential allies, emergency extraction protocols.

In the polished window across the room, I catch a glimpse of my reflection. With my back straight and my gaze determined, I look every inch the confident clearblood scholar. No one would guess at the darkness flowing through my veins or the lethal intentions behind my carefully constructed smile.

I nod to myself, a silent affirmation of my readiness for what’s to come.

The mission is clear, the stakes understood, and the path forward set.

In three days, I’ll walk through Heathborne’s gates as one of them.

And then, when the moment is right, I’ll show them exactly who I really am—the last face their precious Mazrov will ever see.

The clearbloods think they’ve created the perfect weapon against my kind. They’re about to learn they’ve merely provided the perfect target for mine.