**Chapter 4** Jax's pallid visage haunts my thoughts as I traverse the labyrinthine woods toward Darkbirch Academy. The phrase "Council meeting" echoes ominously in my mind—a harbinger of trouble lurking just beyond tomorrow. The elders likely require time to prepare their labyrinth of revelations, but I, too, am in desperate need of rest—six precious hours of oblivion beckon me like a siren’s call. As I emerge from the final curtain of trees, Darkbirch Academy looms ahead—a dark sin that has never shown the slightest inclination to repent. Its jagged silhouette slices into the night sky, its black stones bleeding into the stars above. In contrast to Heathborne’s gleaming façades and sanctimonious pretenses, Darkbirch stands naked, unapologetic in its ruthless legacy—a spellbound relic of power, grand and gothic, pulsating with life. This monolith doesn’t merely occupy the land; it possesses it. It is neither welcoming nor safe. But, gods above, it is breathtaking. The grounds surrounding the academy are untamed, deliberately treacherous. Thorned vines slither up the eastern wall like predatory serpents, twitching in response to my passing. Bone-white trees, their branches stripped bare, line the pathways like silent watchmen, their bark smooth and unyielding, roots thirsting for more than just water. Crossing beneath an arched entrance inscribed with glowing runes—wards gleaming faintly beneath the moonlight—I feel the hum stir deep within my bones, a familiar and keen sensation. The academy, vast in its dark expanse, knows its own kind, and it certainly recognizes me. Most dormitories cling to the main structure, a parade of uniform stone sheltered behind the towering central spire. But I reside in solitude—by design and by fate—in a shadowy turret tucked away in the northwest wing. Tradition dictates that private rooms are reserved for those deemed sufficiently... accomplished or perilous enough to warrant isolation during the nocturnal hours when our kind's energy pulsates dangerously. My placement here is less a privilege and more a mark of necessity. I ascend a narrow stone staircase that winds upward through walls ensnared by velvety ivy, leading me to my secluded turret. The air is shadow-kissed and somber, suffused with the scents of charred incense, ancient tomes, and the faint undercurrent of ozone—fragrances woven into my existence since I first set foot within these hallowed halls. In a world that seeks to extinguish those of our bloodline, every darkblood youth undergoes a grueling minimum of three years in specialized combat training as they reach the threshold of twenty, following their fundamental education. Darkbirch is far more than an academy; it is a war machine, adorned with the bones of an educational institution—a crucible for various covens, particularly the smaller ones that lack the resources for such rigorous programs. We may be fewer than the clearbloods, but we possess a cunning intellect and do not shy away when the blood runs thick. A solitary lantern flickers outside my door, its rose-gold flame defying the night wind. As I grasp the iron handle, a ripple passes through the wards behind it, acknowledging my presence. Stepping inside, I take in the stillness and cooler air enveloping the chamber. My sanctuary is simple by design: bookshelves overflowing with grimoires and dried herbs, a selection of favored weapons poised neatly against the wall, and a bed more practical than cozy. Yet, the view from my window—a glimpse of the sprawling, wild woods below—captures my heart. The protective glyphs etched into the glass glimmer with moonlight, steeped in magic. It may not be much, but it is mine. It is a refuge—free from the judgments of who I am. I sleep like a stone until the afternoon sun reaches its zenith, undisturbed by class bells. Everyone of importance knows I’ve been out on a mission. Just as I begin to wash off the remnants of slumber in a steaming shower, my pager buzzes on the bathroom counter, beleaguering my carefully cultivated peace. Corvin's name flares up—always to the point. "Council meeting. One hour. Don't be late." No frills, no theater—no ominous delivery crows fluttering at the window, no wispy trails of smoke spelling out my name. Just a terse message crackling on plastic like a relic from a bygone era. Even in a world steeped in magic, the mundane manages to cling charmingly to life. I dress swiftly, choosing black pants and tall boots, accompanied by a crimson tunic—the garb of a senior, devoid of unnecessary flair. Function is the only requirement. I twist my hair into a practical bun before slipping out of my quarters through a seldom-used secondary door, descending into a narrow stairwell that spirals down into the academy's depths. The hallways are nearly deserted as I weave my way through the west wing. Most students are confined to their classes, leaving the vaulted corridors eerily silent, save for the soft echo of my footsteps against the obsidian floor. I pass the Transmutation Hall, where muffled cries and faint, wavering moans seep through the dense oak door. The sound is familiar—an unsettling blend of agony and resignation, raw and ritualistic. Professor Sylth conducts a class on advanced body manipulation today—not for the faint of heart, no quick remedies, but rather long-term modifications. Not far off, the pungent odor of blood and sulfur wafts from the Alchemical Studies chamber. Glimpses of Professor Morrigan's gravelly voice pierce the air as she illustrates the method for extracting essence from living specimens. A student's nervous laughter suddenly halts, replaced by a collective gasp as events take a turn—be it catastrophic or fortuitous remains unclear. The underground passage leading to the council chamber stretches past the Stimulus Annex, where the advanced students hone their ability to turn sensation into spellcraft—pleasure, pain, and all that lies in between. Today's lesson pulses with an intensity that sends ripples across my consciousness. I can feel the thick waves of energy battering at the edges of my mind. Riona staggers out, her cocoa-brown hair damp, caramel eyes glazed with disorientation. Leaning against the wall, breathless and trembling, she spots me and gasps, "Oh, hey, Es!" before staggering back into whatever electric torment demanded her retreat. I find myself at the ancient doors of the council chamber just as the clock tower tolls the hour. The carvings adorning the doors depict our forebears in sweeping scenes of ritual and dominance—scenes etched in reverence, not humility. I trace my fingertip along the pattern of the blood lock, pressing my palm against it. The massive doors swing open silently, revealing the circular chamber within, thick with the essence of centuries-old magic. I slide into my designated seat at the long oak table, scanning the faces that comprise our coven’s leadership council, their expressions lined with concern as ancient tomes lie before them like silent witnesses. They surely haven’t summoned me here to commend my recent extraction mission. Old Warden Blythe sits with her spine perfectly aligned, silver-streaked hair pulled back so tightly it appears painful. Adjacent, Director Reinhardt’s fingers drum an erratic beat on the weathered parchment spread before him. The others adopt that peculiar stillness that accompanies age and authority; they command attention without the need to fidget. Standing at the head of the table, Corvin’s tall figure casts a looming shadow across the ancient wood. "Salem," he begins, "thank you for joining us." A simple nod is my only response, my expression carefully masking any emotion. The air in the room grows denser, charged with the weight of unseen magic. "We have a situation," Corvin continues, pressing his palms flat against the table. "One that requires your... particular talents." Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I brace myself. My "particular talents" often imply the necessity for elimination, extraction of information, or appropriating something of value. The Salem family has long served as the covert hands of the coven, skilled in espionage, reconnaissance, and targeted sabotage; my brother and cousins typically handle those while I shoulder the assignments that call for a creative form of brutality. My younger sister, Brynn, however, remains an enigma—still a first-year, lost amidst the shadows of our lineage. While she treats the library as a sacred haven, she perceives every mission as a personal affront. The brutal truth of Darkbirch is relentless; it doesn't entertain softness. Hence the moniker many have come to embrace: Darkbitch. "You've identified a threat," Corvin goes on, lowering his voice, "one unlike any we've encountered before." "What are we dealing with?" I prompt. I catch sight of Director Reinhardt poring over a file across the table—images of my ailing brother in the infirmary, accompanied by his full medical records. "We prefer to refrain from speculation," Corvin replies, caution lacing his tone. "But your brother’s condition is—” “Unprecedented,” Warden Blythe interjects, her voice cracking like brittle leaves. “It seems this ‘Mazrov’ not only inflicts damage upon the body—he attacks the aura itself." An icy dread unfurls in the pit of my stomach. "How is that possible?" I ask, bewilderment creeping into my voice. I know our auras—our very essence can be drained or obstructed, but actual damage? That defies the natural order, doesn’t it? Corvin runs a hand through his graying hair, frustration palpable. "We’re uncertain. According to your mother’s account, your brother described a feeling of... burning deep within himself, as if his magic were being consumed—reduced to ash. If that is true and he endured whatever Mazrov inflicted for too long, it stands to reason he could face complete aural collapse. Total destruction of his magical essence." "We’ve never documented anything like this," Elder Farrow speaks, his voice unwavering despite his age. "Not in all our recorded history." "And you suspect this... Mazrov... to be a clearblood?" My frown deepens. “We can only speculate,” Corvin admits. “But he is certainly representative of their evolution—a weapon in the making.” Of course. The clearbloods have always been drawn toward creating abominations that violate the natural order. They fear our ties to death and blood magic even as they conveniently overlook the carnage that their 'immaculate' magic has wrought. “So what’s the plan?” I inquire, already anticipating the answer. “Capture? Interrogation?” Corvin and Elder Farrow share a grave glance, and I realize my suspicion is confirmed. "Elimination," he states flatly. "Mazrov’s capacity to damage darkbloods’ auras poses an existential threat to us. We simply cannot allow such a weapon to remain in clearblood hands." I lean back in my chair, arms crossed. “And you need me to get close enough to kill him.” "Precisely," Corvin nods in affirmation. "You will infiltrate Heathborne as a transfer student." A sharp laugh bursts forth involuntarily. “A transfer student? I’m a senior, Corvin." "Heathborne Academy accepts advanced practitioners up to the age of twenty-five," Director Reinhardt interjects, leaning closer. "Your cover will be that of a specialized researcher in protective enchantments, seeking to complete your education under their faculty.” I tap the table, my nail glimmering against the wood. "And once I'm embedded?" "You will discern Mazrov’s true identity, glean insights about this aura-damaging capability, and eliminate him before he can be unleashed against us," Corvin lays out the plan, his tone insistent. The council nods in solemn agreement; the gravity of the request coils around me. This isn’t merely another mission—this is the most perilous undertaking I’ve ever faced. If Mazrov can inflict irreversible damage on darkbloods' auras, he possesses the capacity to render our entire coven powerless. "What about my magical signature?" I ask. "They’ll certainly have detection systems in place to identify darkbloods." Corvin gestures toward Elder Reed, our expert on concealment and disguises. The old woman produces a small wooden box from beneath the table and slides it toward me. "Inside are silver tablets," she explains, her voice earnest yet gentle. "You will need to consume one daily, plus two prior to your arrival, to help your body adjust. They will temporarily alter your magical signature to resemble a clearblood’s. The effect lasts roughly twenty-four hours per tablet." Cautiously, I open the box, the tablets inside shimmering with an unnaturally vibrant glow. The intricate magic emanates from them, an intoxicating menace. "There are... side effects," Elder Reed adds, her expression softening. "You will experience a moderate dampening of your natural abilities—this will also impact your responsiveness to tablets and potions. Your connection to spirits will be nearly severed while you are under their influence." The last pronouncement stings. A substantial part of my power lies in my ability to summon spirits, particularly my grandmother. Without that tether, I would be functioning at a mere sixty percent of my potential. "So I’m expected to wander into the heart of our enemy’s lair, underpowered, to assassinate someone who could annihilate what magic remains within me," I summarize, not even attempting to contain the dry edge of sarcasm in my voice. “A thrilling prospect.” "You won't be entirely without resources," Corvin assures, unfazed by my retorts. "We have prepared documents, contact protocols, and emergency extraction plans. You will retain limited communication with us, and we will position assets near Heathborne who can offer assistance when necessary." "And when does this all begin?" I inquire. "Three days," Corvin confirms. "We'll integrate you this coming Monday, the start of their mid-semester. You’ll require tomorrow and the day after to solidify your cover and adapt to the effects of the tablets before stepping into enemy territory." Nodding, I mentally inventory what I need to prepare—disguised weapons, potions masquerading as medicinal supplements, communication devices that will circumvent Heathborne’s protective wards, especially after my recent successful extraction of Jax. "There’s one more detail to address," Warden Blythe declares, her ancient eyes locking on mine. "Due to our suspicions that Mazrov’s abilities are still developing and evolving—" "I need to act swiftly," I interject, understanding the urgency. "Before he reaches full power." "Precisely," Corvin concedes. "This is why we've selected you for this mission, Salem. You possess the… decisive nature we require." A euphemistic way of saying I’m the most willing to shed blood without hesitation. Fair enough. "You grasp the stakes," Elder Farrow remarks, not a question but a pronouncement. "If this technology or magical capacity proliferates among the clearbloods, they could methodically obliterate us—all darkbloods, everywhere." I comprehend the stakes fully. This battle isn’t merely for territory or resources—it’s a fight against extinction. The council’s sometimes maddening caution doesn’t matter; I refuse to allow some clearblood weaponsmith to threaten my family or our people. "I will require everything we have on Heathborne’s security protocols," I assert, tacitly accepting the mission. "And full access to the armory." Corvin nods, "Already arranged. Report to the preparation chamber after this meeting. You will find the complete briefing package waiting there." As council members gather their items, signaling the close of formalities, Elder Reed gently brushes a gnarled hand against my arm. "Be cautious, child," she whispers, her eyes filled with an urgency that pierces through the solemnity. "More than just your life depends on your success." I offer her a smile that barely conceals the tumult within. “When have I ever failed to tread carefully, Elder Reed?” Her silence speaks volumes, a squeeze of my arm conveying more than any words could. I grasp her concern—this mission is unique; I'll plunge into enemy territory with dwindling powers, stalking a target whose capabilities are extraordinary, with minimal backup. The risks are insurmountable. But so am I. As council members file out, Corvin lingers, his silhouette cast against the floating lights. "Esme," he begins quietly. “There’s something else you ought to understand." I remain still, scrutinizing his expression. "This decision wasn't made unanimously," he admits, his tone holding an uncharacteristic weight. "Some believed we should pursue capture instead of assassination. Others argued a team should be sent, not a single operative." “But you overruled them,” I interject, realization dawning. His nod is solemn. "A team raises detection risks. And regarding capture…” His eyes harden, revealing an unsettling truth. “We cannot afford to bring this kind of danger into our domain until we fully comprehend it.” Standing, I tuck the file beneath my arm. “I won’t fail you, Corvin. I’ve never let you down.” “I know,” he concedes, and for a fleeting moment, an unspoken concern flits across his usually stoic demeanor. “This is why it had to be you.” As I exit, the heaviness of this mission settles onto my shoulders, a mantle of consequence. In three days, I will slip into the heart of enemy territory, cloaked in deceit, dared to play a role where the line between life and death blurs. Yet beneath that imposing weight is a vengeful thrill—a whisper of dark anticipation. Let Mazrov and his flame-filled eyes come for me. I will unveil the wrath that follows when a Salem is threatened. My grandmother, Esther, always insisted I had a talent for eradicating dangers permanently. It is time to prove her right.