Chapter 14
JAX
“Burr's an expert in physical magic,” Amelie says, a note of excitement lacing her tone as we approach the Central Gymnasium, despite the tense mood.
“He was the one who developed the kinetic-redirection techniques we use against clearblood shields.
If anyone can figure out how to bridge the gap between our physical limits and the Ide's power, it's him.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Just the kind of class I wanted for my first day back.”
“At least it'll be interesting,” Ridge says, stretching his large frame. “I'm tired of sitting around feeling like my brain is vibrating. I need to hit something.”
“Amen to that,” Isola murmurs.
The Central Gymnasium is a cavernous space, the high stone ceilings reinforced with ancient wards that have been scorched and blackened by the recent battle.
The air smells of ozone and old sweat. Dozens of darkbloods are already there, forming ranks on the matted floor.
Professor Burr stands on a raised dais at the front, flanked by two other combat instructors who look equally grim.
To Burr's right stands Professor Ellison, a slender woman with her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd like she's mentally noting every weakness.
She was a legend in the shadow-arts sector before the Coven recruited her—rumor says she once spent three weeks living inside a high-ranking clearblood's shadow just to slit his throat from the inside out.
On Burr's left is Professor Vennox, an older man who's been a fixture at Darkbirch for as long as I can remember. He’s still built like a siege engine and his graying beard doesn't hide the intensity of his gaze. He’s the kind of guy who thinks pain is just a feedback loop you haven't learned to ignore yet. I know that from experience.
Burr steps forward. “Enough milling about,” he barks. “Gather in formation by House. We need to assess the internal balance before we begin.”
The training floor becomes a sea of shuffling boots and muffled curses as the student body divides.
At Darkbirch, the Houses aren't just for show or sports rivalries; they’re how we organize the chaos of our blood.
Every darkblood is expected to be an all-rounder—you’re a dead man if you can talk to ghosts but can’t brew a basic coagulant or throw a kinetic punch—but we all have a gravity, a specific flavor of magic that pulls at our blood harder than the others.
I glance toward the northern side of the mats, where the silver banners of House Aethrel hang.
This is the House of Whispers, the House of the Ancestors.
Esme’s territory through and through—and our dad and grandmother’s previously.
If your magic smells like graveyard dirt and ancient secrets, you’re Aethrel.
The word itself means literally “the line that tethers the living to the dead.” Something we all have great experience with now, whether we like it or not.
To our right, the crowd thins out as House Valthera forms up, meaning literally “power over the material world.” This is the Elemental House, the ones who treat the world like a sandbox of fire, wind, and stone.
Ridge and Nyv peel off toward them. They’ve got that restless, high-energy spark that Uncle Edwin can wield like a hammer.
They’re heavy hitters in a siege, the ones who are best at turning the environment into a weapon.
Across the way, Amelie heads toward House Tinctra, the Alchemists, where Mom belonged and where Brynn hides out.
Since Mom told me about Brynn’s “secret” connection to three ancestral spirits, I swear she belongs in House Aethrel.
Either way, they’re the researchers and the potion-brewers, the ones who realize that sometimes the most powerful tactic is preparation or the kind you drink from a vial.
It’s not just mixing herbs; it’s about the science of essence—altering the physical world through refined blood-magic, pills, and tonics.
Speaking of Brynn, she’s still not here. Someone’s gonna get their ass kicked.
Finally, Joseph, Isola and I stomp over to the far end, joining the ranks of House Carnyx.
We’re about flesh-craft: the magic of physics and the body—speed, strength, and raw kinetic redirection.
Chad spent most of his time here. We’re also home to the freaks who are into transmutation and permanent body modification.
Never really been my jam, honestly, though Isola is obsessed with getting body mods.
Pretty sure she’ll be first outside the Grafting door to implant herself with wings or some shit the moment her parents can’t legally stop her.
She’s already drifting toward a cluster of upper-years.
There’s Sael, a senior whose forearms are encased in segmented obsidian plating that hums with stored kinetic energy; he can punch through a reinforced ward without bruising a knuckle.
Beside him, Viora has had her eyes replaced with multifaceted amber lenses, designed to track magical heat signatures through solid stone.
Then there’s Marcus, who’s put shards along his shins for reasons known only to him. Makes his kicks… memorable.
Isola looks at the students with a probably unhealthy hunger, the aesthetic piercings in her nose and ears glinting in the harsh gym light. Me, I’m happy with what the gene pool gave me, thanks.
Years ago, we used to have a fifth house: House Bestyx.
It specialized in magical beasts and supernatural creatures—everything from taming feral shadow-hounds that prowl the ley lines to negotiating with the more…
prickly vampire clans. It was where the true monster-whisperers lived, the ones who got off on smells like wet fur and sulfur.
But the house eventually wound down. Somehow, Darkbirch never had enough students wanting to specialize in that.
The subject was folded back into the general curriculum, and now, everyone gets a heavy dose of Beast Lore whether they want it or not. In our world, it’s necessary.
“Look at them,” Dad’s voice suddenly rumbles in my mind, a dark, analytical current. “Aethel is thin. The breach took its toll on our spirit-seers.”
I scan our ranks. He’s right. The House of Spirits looks depleted, hollowed out by the loss of older wardens who died defending the coven’s weak eastern boundary.
And, to me, it always feels thinner without Esme in it.
I hope that dragon she’s locked in a dysfunctional marriage with brings her back soon. Feels like an age since I saw her.
Professor Burr walks along the front of the combined formation, his boots echoing. His gaze sweeps across us, his eyes lingering on each House.
“The power you now harbor is ancient and volatile,” he begins, clasping his hands behind his back. “An Ide is not a pet, nor is it a tool. It is a conscious entity with its own will, its own desire, its own hunger. Some of you have already begun to feel it stirring.”
He paces the front line, stopping occasionally to study a face. Several students shift under his scrutiny.
“The Ides were once living beings like ourselves. Their consciousness has been preserved beyond death, beyond even the ancestral grid. They exist in a state of pure will, and now they exist within you.” He taps his temple.
“They will push you. They will demand expression. And if you cannot control the flow of their power through your body, your vessel, you will come undone.”
I swallow. Sounds… like a great time.
A ripple of unease passes through the ranks. I can feel my father's presence sharpening, focusing on Burr's words with an intensity that makes the back of my neck prickle.
“Today, we begin integration training,” Burr continues. “The goal is not to suppress your Ide, but to establish boundaries. Think of it as learning to dance with a partner who is both stronger and more experienced than you are.”
Professor Vennox steps forward, his voice a gravelly rumble. “Most of you have been taught that magic flows from three primary sources: blood essence, ancestral connection, and natural energy lines. Your Ide adds a fourth dimension to this equation—one that amplifies all others.”
“But this amplification comes at a cost,” Professor Ellison adds, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd. “The Ide's power is filtered through your physical form. Your body is the bottleneck. Push too hard, too fast, and you'll rupture something vital.”
I cast a sharp look at Joe, hoping he hasn’t already done permanent damage to himself.
Burr nods. “Which is why we begin with control exercises. Pair up within your Houses. We'll start with basic defensive stances and work our way up to controlled offensive maneuvers.”
The gymnasium fills with the shuffle of feet as students begin to pair off. Joseph catches my eye across the mat and jerks his chin in a silent question. I nod, moving toward him.
“Not so fast,” Burr calls out. The crowd freezes. “I want to demonstrate something first. Salem, Vargas—front and center.”
Great. Of course he picks me.
I step forward, feeling the eyes of every student on me. Joseph moves up beside me, his frame tense with anticipation.
“Salem has just returned to us,” Burr announces to the room. “His connection with his Ide should thus, in theory, be more tenuous. Vargas, on the other hand, has already begun to integrate, even before any lessons—as some of you may have witnessed at breakfast.”
Joseph's shoulders straighten slightly at the acknowledgment.
“That provides an interesting contrast,” Burr says simply. “You will spar. Salem, I want you to rely solely on your own abilities for the three minutes. Vargas, you are free to draw on your Ide's knowledge, but try to exercise restraint. The goal is control, not destruction.”
Comforting.
“Not exactly fair,” my father murmurs inside my head.
I ignore the voice, rolling my shoulders to loosen them. “Okay. Ready when you are, Professor.”
“Begin,” Burr commands, stepping back.