I stepped over the threshold of Heathborne Academy with the deliberate caution of someone stepping into enemy territory, pretending to belong in a world where I clearly did not. The grand entrance hall unfurled before me like an exaggerated display of wealth and privilege, woven from the fantasies of clearbloods. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, splashing vibrant hues across marble floors that likely cost more than a year's worth of sustenance for my entire coven. I mustered a careful smile, rehearsed for this moment, a façade of innocence veiling the truth of my existence. A meticulous administrator, her hair pulled into a tight bun that seemed to impede any chance of movement in her neck, approached me with clipboard clutched tightly as if it held not mere schedules, but the very fate of the academy. Her smile was a professionally plastic mask as she scrutinized my forged documents. “Miss Clara Winters,” she intoned with the enthusiasm of a vending machine dispensing information. “Welcome to Heathborne. We’re thrilled to have a transfer of your caliber join us mid-semester.” I dipped my head, affecting a modest demeanor, even though my insides roiled at her words. “I’m honored to be accepted.” The phrase tasted like ashes upon my tongue. In her hands, she presented a hefty, leather-bound student manual, its weight reminiscent of a small child. “This contains everything about our conduct, schedules, and illustrious history. We expect you to have it memorized by the end of the week.” Of course they did. Clearbloods and their incessant reverence for rules, as though inscribing them could tame the chaos lying just beneath the surface. Meanwhile, I had already gleaned their security protocols from Corvin’s intel. The rest was just an annoying bundle of clearblood arrogance, bound in expensive leather. “Thank you,” I murmured, clutching the manual to my chest as if it were a treasure. “I’ll study it thoroughly.” “See that you do.” She gestured imperiously toward the sweeping staircase. “Your orientation will begin in ten minutes in the Hall of Champions. Don’t be late.” I allowed a brief internal eye roll, watching her click away in her sensible heels. The Hall of Champions. It couldn’t be more obvious if they had put up neon signs proclaiming their superiority. I merged with the tide of students flowing up the marble staircase, keeping a meticulous distance. My disguise didn’t merely involve my physical appearance; it was woven into how I carried myself—slightly hunched, gaze downcast, every step marked with hesitation. The antithesis of any Salem woman. Hallways of Heathborne were a bizarre blend of medieval grandeur and modern surveillance. Ancient stone walls soared to vaulted ceilings, but every corner bore the burden of security cameras hiding behind ornamental gargoyles. The last time I roamed these halls, I hadn’t noticed them. Magical wards shimmered almost undetectably along doorframes—detection spells that would scream alarms if I dared approach without the protection of silver tablets. I suspected those were newcomers as well. “Watch it.” A tall, auburn-haired boy snapped as I accidentally brushed against his arm. The silver crest on his lapel marked him as part of the elite clearblood families. He’d probably never experienced an ounce of discomfort in his privileged life. “Sorry,” I whispered, allowing my disguise to swallow me. The impulse to slip a paralysis tablet into his water flask flickered through me, but I quelled it. Petty revenge had no place in my greater plan. I was after something much more significant. As I entered the Hall of Champions, I anticipated just the kind of pompous atmosphere the name suggested. The massive chamber unfurled before me, walls lined with oil portraits of clearblood heroes, each face frozen in expressions of smug self-satisfaction. Below their painted visages, glass cases displayed “artifacts of significance,” mostly weapons wielded against my kind. My gaze darted around, identifying three exits, two security cameras, and a panic button cleverly masquerading as an ornamental rosette near the podium. I mentally plotted the fastest escape routes: seven seconds to the side door, twelve to the main entrance, eighteen to a smaller exit behind the podium. Always know your exits—a fundamental rule of infiltration taught by Darkbirch. A cluster of first-years congregated at the center, wide-eyed and enraptured as a tour guide launched into a monotone lecture about “the sacred duty of protecting magical integrity.” I drifted closer among them, mirroring their awe while crafting imaginative curses for every ancestors they idolized. “The Purification Crusade of 1746 marked a critical turning point in our relentless battle against corruption,” the guide proclaimed, gesturing toward a gory painting depicting darkbloods herded for execution. “Under Grand Purifier Hartwell, the southern territories were liberated of dangerous influence.” Liberated. That clinical term only served to sugarcoat genocide. Their “liberation” eradicated three entire darkblood families, including my father’s cousins. Fury bubbled within me, threatening to shatter the carefully sculpted mask I wore, but I swallowed it down like bitter medicine. Focus on the mission. This was why I had come. Mazrov—the clearblood's most lethal weapon against my people. Heathborne’s golden boy. A disturbance near the entrance seized my attention. Students parted, forming a path for a group entering the hall. The atmosphere shifted instantaneously—conversations halted, heads turned, and an electric tension crackled in the air. Even the tour guide’s drone fell silent as her expression morphed from boredom to reverent alertness. And there he was. Mazrov moved with a blend of military precision and effortless grace, dark-gray armor absorbing the light around him like a gaping void. The reflective metal shield obscuring the upper half of his face could not conceal what made him truly unnerving—those eyes. Bright blue, glowing with an inner flame that hinted at something other than humanity. He scanned the room, and I quickly diverted my gaze, not daring to lock eyes with him. Don’t draw attention. Don’t stand out. Just another starry-eyed clearblood student idolizing their hero. “As I was saying,” the tour guide resumed, her voice betraying a higher pitch, “Heathborne Academy prides itself on training the next generation of protectors. And speaking of protectors—” she gestured towards Mazrov, her admiration barely concealed, “—we are honored to have Senior Guard Kieran Mazrov observing today’s orientation.” Excitement radiated from the students surrounding me. One girl actually sighed. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to roll my eyes audibly. I dared another glance. Kieran Mazrov. Up close, he was even more imposing than the rumors conveyed. He stood stock still, unnaturally so, as if conserving energy, a hand resting lightly on the hilt of a blade that was anything but standard issue—a metal with an odd iridescence, whispering of enchantment. How many darkbloods had fallen beneath that steel? How many lives had he hunted down with those blazing eyes? Then, for an unbearable moment, his striking gaze fell directly on me. I maintained a neutral expression, my heart racing in my throat. The silver tablet I had swallowed would camouflage me, but there was something in the depth of his stare that felt… objective. Piercing, as if he sensed that I did not belong. In an instant, he resumed his surveillance of the room, and I exhaled slowly, fighting to regain my composure. I would have to stay vigilant. For all I knew, he possessed enhanced senses. As the tour dragged on, I kept him in my periphery, studying how he navigated the space—calm and collected, always positioning himself with his back to a wall, eyes roving across entrances. He radiated vigilance, exuding confidence in his domain. But this was no longer solely his domain. This was my hunting ground too. I ran through my plan once more in my mind, checking each step methodically. Get settled. Gain trust. Find a way to isolate Mazrov. Strike without leaving traces (if that was even possible). Exit amid the ensuing mayhem. Simple enough, except for the minor detail of eliminating perhaps the most dangerous clearblood hunting my kind. Finally, the tour guide released us with a directive to proceed to the dining hall for a welcome luncheon. As the throng dispersed, I lingered, feigning admiration for a particularly grotesque painting while covertly observing Mazrov’s reflection in its glossy surface. He conversed briefly with a senior administrator, posture regal but not subservient—a wolf masquerading as a guard dog. Yet, I hailed from a lineage of wolf hunters. As I tucked a stray hair behind my ear, a furtive smile crept to my lips. Grandmother had always said that every mission should be approached with joy at its core. The joy of purpose. The joy of vengeance. And I intended to relish every heartbeat of this hunt until I brought down the clearbloods’ prized weapon, nestled right beneath their self-important, deluded noses.