“A shadow lock,” he explains, gesturing for me to enter first. “Only those with shadow manipulation abilities can open it.”
Beyond lies a small circular room with a domed ceilingpainted with celestial constellations that actually twinkle like real stars. The walls are lined with bookshelves containing volumes far older than those in the main library, their bindings cracked and faded. The air here is different—thicker, almost alive with power that makes my skin tingle. A single window of clear glass looks out over the darkened academy grounds, revealing the twisted spires and gargoyles that watch over sleeping students.
“The Shadow Archive,” Bael says as I gaze around in wonder, my mouth falling open. “Reserved for advanced Dark Nephilim research. Few know of its existence.”
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, the tension in my shoulders already easing in this shadow-rich environment. The room feels alive, welcoming, like it’s been waiting for me.
“And private,” he adds, his voice softer now. “You can release your wings here safely. The room is warded against light intrusion.”
The relief that floods through me is almost painful. Without waiting for further permission, I let my wings unfurl, gasping at the release of pressure that’s been building all day. They spread to their full span, nearly touching the walls on either side, the faint crimson tips catching the starlight from above like they’re on fire. The sensation is incredible—like finally being able to breathe after holding my breath for hours.
My shadows celebrate too, dancing up the walls and across the ceiling with pure joy, intermingling with the painted stars and causing them to flicker more brightly. They move like living things, expressing the happiness I feel at finally being able to stretch my wings.
Bael watches with an expression I can’t quite read—something between fascination and something deeper, more personal. His eyes track the movement of my wings with an intensity that makes my skin flush.
“The crimson is spreading,” he notes, stepping closerto examine my wings. His proximity makes my pulse skip, and I catch his scent again—dark and masculine and utterly distracting. “It was just at the very tips before.”
I crane my neck, trying to see. The crimson has indeed crept higher up my feathers, like blood slowly spreading through black silk. “Is that bad?”
“It’s significant,” he says cryptically, his fingers hovering just above my wing membrane without quite touching. “There are prophecies about crimson-winged Ascendants.”
Of course there fucking are. “Let me guess—they all end with me getting killed in some horrific way?”
He actually smiles at that, a brief flash of white teeth in the darkness that transforms his entire face. “Not all of them. Some speak of significant change, of balance restored.”
“That’s reassuring,” I say dryly, though my shadows betray my anxiety, huddling closer around my feet like protective pets. “So what now? More hiding, more pretending I’m something I’m not?”
“For now, yes.” His expression turns serious again, all traces of that devastating smile disappearing. “But I’ll help you. Starting tonight, we train.”
And train we do. For the next two hours, Bael teaches me shadow control techniques—how to move them with deliberate commands rather than emotional responses, how to make them mimic normal Dark Nephilim patterns. It’s exhausting, like trying to consciously control your breathing when it’s normally automatic. My head pounds with the effort, and sweat beads on my forehead despite the cool air.
He’s a patient teacher, though demanding. When my shadow slips back into its natural behavior, he corrects me gently but firmly. When I get frustrated, he shows me breathing techniques to center myself. And when I finally manage to make my shadows move in the stilted, controlled way of normal Dark Nephilim for afull minute, the approval in his eyes makes my chest warm with pride.
By the time we finish, I’m mentally drained but have made some progress. My shadows still want to move independently, but I can override that instinct for short periods.
“You’re a quick study,” Bael says as I reluctantly bind my wings again, the process as painful as always. “Keep practicing these techniques daily.”
“Wait,” I say as he moves toward the door, panic fluttering in my chest. “I still have questions. About us. About what you said in the park—about waiting for me to be born, about some kind of connection between us.”
His expression shutters immediately, walls slamming down behind his eyes. “Another time.”
“No,” I step between him and the door, my heart hammering. “I deserve answers. What did you mean by feeling something when we touched? Why are you really helping me?”
He’s suddenly very close, his shadows intertwining with mine in a way that sends electricity up my spine like lightning. This close, I can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, can feel the coolness radiating from his skin. “You’re not ready for that conversation.”
“Try me,” I challenge, refusing to back down despite the way his proximity makes my thoughts scatter.
For a moment, I think he might actually explain. His eyes search my face, and something vulnerable flickers behind his usual mask. Then his head snaps toward the door, shadows alerting him to something I can’t yet sense.
“Someone’s coming,” he whispers, his voice urgent. “A light presence.”
Before I can respond, he steps into the deepest shadow in the corner of the room and simply disappears—not hiding, but gone,using shadow-walking in a way I’ve only read about. The air where he stood shimmers for a moment, then settles.
I quickly check that my wings are fully bound, wincing at the sharp pain, then grab a random book from the shelf to justify my presence. My hands are shaking, and I can still smell his scent lingering in the air. Seconds later, the door opens, revealing Seraphina Lightbringer, her light aura pushing against the shadow-rich atmosphere of the room like an unwelcome sunrise.
“I thought I sensed shadow activity here,” she says, her eyes narrowing as she takes in my disheveled appearance and flushed cheeks. “This area is restricted to advanced students.”
I hold up the book I grabbed, trying to look casual despite my racing heart. “Research paper. Professor Nyx gave me special permission.”
