“Stop trying to command them. Feel them.”
“That’s very Zen and completely unhelpful.”
He sighs, the sound rough with exasperation. “Close your eyes.”
I hesitate, feeling oddly vulnerable at the thought of being blind while he’s so close. Then I comply, darkness flooding my vision and making every other sense sharper—the sound of his breathing, the subtle shift of air as he moves, the intoxicating scent of his skin.
“Your shadows respond to emotion because they’re connected to your essence,” his voice comes from directly behind me now, making me jump slightly. I can feel the warmth of his breath against the back of my neck, raising goosebumps along my arms. “But they can respond to thought just as readily if you train them.”
I feel his presence circling me; the floorboards creak softly under his weight. His shadows brush against mine, creating a tingling sensation like static electricity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
“Picture your shadows as extensions of your nervous system,” he continues, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. “Every tendril connected directly to your mind.”
I try to visualize it—my shadows not as separate entities but as additional limbs, connected to my brain like arms or legs. The concept feels strange but oddly right, like remembering something I’d forgotten.
“Now,” his voice is closer again, “reach out with your mind and touch the mirror.”
I concentrate, picturing a shadow extension reaching toward the mirror wall, feeling it as if it were my finger stretching across the distance. The effort makes my head ache, but to my surprise, I sense the cool, smooth surface of the glass through the shadow like an actual touch.
“Open your eyes,” Bael commands softly.
I do and gasp. A single shadow tendril extends from me to the mirror, perfectly straight and controlled, touching the glass exactly where I intended. It moves when I mentally direct it, tracing a pattern across the mirror’s surface like a dark finger painting.
“I did it!” I can’t keep the excitement from my voice, grinning like an idiot at my reflection in the mirror.
“It’s a start,” Bael acknowledges, but I catch something that might be approval in his tone. “Now try moving something.”
My gaze falls on a pencil someone left on the windowsill, probably decades ago based on the dust coating it. I focus on my shadow connection, extending it toward the pencil and wrapping around it like invisible fingers. It takes intense concentration that makes sweat bead on my forehead, but I lift it a few inches, then roll it across the sill with painstaking care.
“Better,” Bael says, and I’m surprised to hear definite approval in his voice now. “Again. The book this time.”
For the next hour, he puts me through increasingly challenging exercises—moving objects that get progressively heavier, creating specific shadow formations like weapons and shields, maintaining multiple shadow extensions simultaneously while he calls out rapid-fire commands. It’s mentally exhausting but effective, like doing CrossFit for my brain. By focusing on shadows as extended body parts rather than separate entities, I gain precision I never had before.
My shirt clings to my back with sweat, and my legs shake with exhaustion from the concentration required.
“Enough,” he finally says when I’m swaying slightly from exertion, catching myself against the ballet barre. “You’ve made good progress.”
I sink down onto the floor, leaning against the mirror wall and letting the cool glass soothe my overheated skin. “It’s still notperfect. In class, I’ll have to maintain this concentration while also answering questions and pretending to be normal.”
“It will become more natural with practice.” He sits beside me, his shoulder almost but not quite touching mine. I can feel the heat radiating from his body, and his scent surrounds me like a dark embrace. “You have a natural aptitude.”
“Lucky fucking me,” I mutter, though secretly I’m pleased by the rare compliment from Mr. Stoic and Mysterious.
We sit in silence for a moment, our shadows mingling on the floor between us like lovers’ hands intertwining. The sensation is strangely intimate, like holding hands but more... fundamental. More connected to who I am at my core.
“Can I ask you something?” I say finally.
He inclines his head slightly, which I take as permission.
“How did you become my guardian? You said you’ve been watching my family for generations, but why you specifically?” I turn to study his profile, noting the way moonlight catches the sharp angle of his jaw.
His expression remains neutral, but his shadows momentarily still, betraying his discomfort with the question.
“Your bloodline has produced Ascendants since the First Fall,” he says carefully, his voice taking on a formal tone that suggests he’s told this story before. “After the purges began, those of us who opposed the slaughter arranged protection for certain families with the potential.”
“There are others like me?” Hope flares in my chest at the thought that I’m not alone in this.
“There were. Few remain now.” His eyes fix on the moonlight patterns on the floor, and something painful flickers across his features. “I was assigned to your family eight generations ago, after proving myself trustworthy to the Shadow Council.”
