Page 9 of Darkbirch Academy (Darkbirch Academy #1)

I don’t know how I managed to fall asleep, but somehow I drifted off in the early morning hours. And when I wake, my room feels more… normal. No apparent sign of another presence having been in the room. Everything is in its place, my furniture untouched.

Maybe it was a hallucination?

If so, I hope it won’t be a recurring event. The last thing I need on this mission is unstable senses.

I try to push all thoughts of the night aside as I prepare for the day ahead.

I study the updated class schedule Valerie delivered. I’m pleased to see my first lecture was delayed due to an ill professor. Now I’m not expected at any class until early afternoon… leaving me with hours to slip into the shadows and begin my pursuit of Mazrov.

Twenty paces ahead, Mazrov moves with the fluidity of a predator, his dark-gray armor absorbing the daylight that streams through the vaulted windows.

I keep my steps light, my cipher notebook open as if reviewing class notes while my pen scratches a detailed record of his movements.

Nothing escapes my notice—not the slight tilt of his head when he senses something amiss, not the way he scans each corridor before he turns.

Mazrov appears to maintain loyalty to the guard patrol schedule I studied yesterday with clockwork precision.

At least, so far. Breakfast hall precisely at seven-thirty.

Five-hundred steps from his quarters to the training grounds.

Exactly eighteen minutes in the Hall of Champions before his first patrol.

I’ve been waiting for him to do something interesting.

Like now.

He veers left where he should continue straight, his shoulders squared with purpose.

I duck behind a cluster of students discussing some trivial protective charm homework, using their animated gestures as cover while I scribble in my notebook: 11:42 AM – Eastern corridor deviation.

Deliberate pace suggests destination, not wandering.

I’ve perfected the art of blending in at Heathborne. My unremarkable brown hair is pulled back in a sensible ponytail. My robes are perfectly pressed but not immaculate—trying too hard attracts attention as surely as neglect.

Mazrov pauses at an intersection, and I immediately halt, pretending to examine a notice board plastered with announcements about upcoming dueling competitions and lectures on clearblood combat history. The nonsense they teach here would be laughable if it weren’t so dangerous .

Darkbloods are driven by malevolence. Engaging with them is futile. They must be cleansed or eliminated.

The propaganda makes my blood simmer, but I manage to keep Clara’s face placid, interested only in whether Professor Thornfield’s exam will cover protective or offensive wards.

The corridor Mazrov has chosen fills with the cloying scent of lemon and sage incense, burning in elaborate golden censers hung from the vaulted ceiling.

I wrinkle my nose slightly. Clearbloods and their obsession with purification—as if smoke and herbs could cleanse what lives in the shadows of their own hearts.

The marble floors gleam painfully bright, enchanted to repel even the slightest speck of dust, much like Heathborne itself tries to repel any trace of darkblood influence.

I allow three students and a professor to pass between us before following.

The morning rush provides perfect cover—young clearblood apprentices scurrying to their lessons, carrying stacks of books on counter-curses and combat techniques.

I join their flow, another fish in the academic stream, while keeping Mazrov’s dark-gray silhouette in my peripheral vision.

He moves differently here, I notice. His steps deliberate but somehow more.

.. cautious? My pen moves across the page, creating a cipher only I can read.

To anyone glancing over, it would look like course notes, but each symbol maps his movements, each line chronicles his behavior.

Darkbirch didn’t send me to merely observe routine patrols.

I need to understand why Mazrov—why his entire unit—has been granted special dispensation within Heathborne’s hierarchy.

And why his eyes burn with that unnatural fire.

The crowd thins as we enter the western wing.

Here, the architecture shifts subtly—the ceilings lower, the windows narrower, as if the building itself is holding its breath.

I slide my notebook into an inner pocket of my robes and extract a small crystal lens, a trinket that appears decorative but allows me to observe reflections around corners.

Mazrov stops suddenly, his head cocking slightly. I immediately turn to a water fountain, bending to take a sip while monitoring him through the crystal held casually against my textbook.

“Are the western archives still restricted?” he asks a passing instructor, his voice carrying the edge of command despite the deferential words.

The older man—Professor Caldwell, who teaches Advanced Warding—stiffens slightly. Interesting. “Clearance hasn’t changed, Guardian Mazrov. Third level and below remain sealed except to those with Headmaster Rothmere’s explicit permission.”

Mazrov nods once, dismissively. “Just confirming security protocols.”

I make a mental note: Tension between academic and military branches regarding archive access. Mazrov testing boundaries of authority, using security as pretext.

When the professor leaves, Mazrov remains still for several beats. Too still. I can almost feel the hairs rising on the back of my neck. His posture has shifted, his awareness expanding outward like ripples in a pond. He’s sensing for followers.

I casually open my textbook and walk toward a stone bench beneath a window, sitting down among other students.

Just another clearblood apprentice struggling with theory before midday practical lessons.

My heart maintains its steady rhythm through years of training.

Esme Salem might break into a cold sweat at this moment, but Clara Winters has nothing to hide.

Mazrov continues down the corridor. I exhale softly, counting to sixty before gathering my things and following.

We enter a section of Heathborne I’ve never visited—the archival passages that connect the western teaching wing to the central keep.

The latter is the heart of the clearblood stronghold, a towering structure that houses vital research facilities and the council chambers where the academy’s most influential leaders supposedly convene.

Based on the map Corvin provided me, it appears the only way to access it is via the west wing.

Mazrov moves with greater caution now, his footsteps barely audible against the stone floor.

The passage narrows, and maintaining distance becomes challenging.

I pause at one of the paintings on the wall, pretending to study it while watching his reflection in a decorative mirror positioned at the end of the hall—another stroke of luck.

Or perhaps not luck at all. Grandmother Esther always says our ancestors guide our steps when we walk dangerous paths.

He approaches a door—heavy oak banded with iron, marked with symbols that make my vision blur slightly when I try to focus on them. Warding runes, old ones, designed to discourage attention rather than actively repel. Clever. Most would walk past without noticing the door at all.

I draw a quick sketch of the symbols in my notebook, my hand moving from memory rather than direct observation. Mazrov glances over his shoulder, scanning the corridor, and I’m already absorbed in tracing a finger over a nearby stone carving, a new student appreciating Heathborne’s architecture .

His fingers hover over the door’s surface, not quite touching it.

Is he... feeling for something? The air shimmers slightly, like heat rising from summer-baked stones.

Magic, subtle but potent, ripples outward.

I resist the instinct to throw up protective wards of my own.

Clara Winters wouldn’t sense the energy, wouldn’t know to shield herself from its probing tendrils.

The lock clicks open without Mazrov inserting a key. Interesting. Very interesting.

He slips inside, the door shutting soundlessly behind him. I count his footsteps as they fade—seventeen before they’re swallowed completely by whatever lies beyond.

I approach the door cautiously, not touching it but studying the warding runes more directly now.

My heart beats a steady rhythm against my ribs.

This is what I came for—whatever lies beyond this threshold matters enough to warrant Mazrov’s deliberate deviation from routine, matters enough for subtle but powerful concealment magic.

The sound of voices from the main corridor forces me to retreat. Two guardians in matching gray armor round the corner, their conversation cutting off abruptly when they spot me.

The taller one nods toward the main hall. “This section isn’t meant for general student access.”

“Oh!” I press a hand to my mouth, eyes widening. “I’m so sorry. I thought it was only restricted after hours, and... I mean, there weren’t any signs... I’m simply fascinated by pre-founding-era architecture.”

“Return to the public areas,” the second guardian says, not unkindly but firmly .

I nod, gathering my books with flustered movements. “Of course. Sorry to disturb you.”

As I walk away, I listen for their next moves. They position themselves on either side of the door Mazrov entered. Guards, then. Whatever lies beyond is significant enough to warrant protection but not important enough to keep permanently staffed.

Or perhaps they only arrive when someone accesses the room.

For some reason, there don’t appear to be security cameras in the immediate vicinity. I wonder why.

I make my way back to the crowded main hall, processing what I’ve learned.

Mazrov has access to a warded archive room that requires special clearance.

He appears to check this room at irregular intervals, breaking from his routine to do so.

Two guardians arrive to stand watch when he accesses the room.

The pieces don’t form a complete picture yet, but they’re beginning to align.

I find a quiet alcove near the Hall of Champions, where sunlight pours through a massive circular window whose stained glass depicts the founding of Heathborne.

My pen moves across the page of my notebook, making sure I’ve properly recorded every detail while it’s fresh in my mind.

The rune configurations, the guard positions, the professor’s reaction to Mazrov’s question about archive access.

Small pieces that Darkbirch can use to understand what Heathborne is hiding.

Something tickles at the back of my mind—a memory of something I learned in Darkbirch about clearblood research into blood magic.

Their desperate attempts to understand our power while condemning its use.

Could that room contain forbidden knowledge?

Texts on darkblood practices that Heathborne’s leadership studies in secret while publicly denouncing them?

The irony would be delicious, if not so dangerous.

I close my notebook and tuck it away. Today’s surveillance has been productive, but I need to maintain my cover. I have a Protective Theory class in a few minutes, and Clara Winters never misses lectures. I stand, straightening my robes, adjusting my glasses once more.

For now, I’ll continue my role as the perfect clearblood student. But tonight, when darkness falls and the academy grows quiet, Esme Salem will pay that locked door another visit.

After all, locks have never been much of an obstacle for me. And I’m very curious to see what secrets the clearbloods are trying so hard to hide.