“The what now?”
“A story for another time.” He dismisses the question with agesture that brooks no argument. “What matters is that I’ve watched over your ancestors, waiting for another Ascendant to emerge.”
I study his profile, the sharp angles softened by moonlight that makes him look almost ethereal. “That’s a long time to wait.”
“Immortality provides patience,” he says simply, but I catch a hint of weariness in his voice that speaks of centuries of loneliness.
Another question burns at the back of my mind, one I’ve been afraid to ask since the night of my transformation. “In the park, when you touched me... what was that? You said something about a mate bond, but then refused to explain.”
His shadows react instantly, reaching toward mine before he visibly reins them in with an effort that makes the muscles in his neck tense. “You’re not ready for that conversation.”
“I think turning into a supernatural being with wings and living shadows qualifies me for the full disclosure package,” I counter, frustration making my voice sharper than intended.
He rises in one fluid motion, shadows gathering around him like a cloak of living darkness. “Another night. We’ve done enough for today.”
As he turns to leave, frustration spikes through me like lightning, and my shadows react without conscious direction, shooting out to wrap around his wrist before I can stop them. We both freeze, startled by the contact that neither of us initiated.
The sensation is electric, a current of energy passing between us where our shadows connect that makes my entire body tingle with awareness. His eyes widen slightly, then darken to the color of a forest at midnight as he looks at me. For a moment, I think he might close the distance between us, might finally give me answers to the questions burning in my chest.
Instead, he gently disentangles his shadows from mine, though they seem reluctant to separate, clinging to each other likeopposing magnets fighting natural law. The loss of contact leaves me feeling strangely bereft.
“You’re learning faster than I expected,” he says, his voice rougher than before, like he’s fighting for control. “Tomorrow night, same time. We’ll work on shadow concealment techniques.”
Before I can respond, he steps into the deepest shadow in the corner of the room and simply vanishes, leaving me alone with the moonlight and the lingering sensation of our shadows’ connection like an echo in my bones.
I stare at my hands, watching my shadows curl around my fingers like living ink that responds to my every emotion. What the fuck just happened? That moment of connection felt significant in ways I don’t fully understand, like touching a live wire that lights up parts of me I didn’t know existed.
As I make my way back to my room through the silent, sleeping academy, my bare feet silent on cold stone floors, I can’t stop thinking about the look in Bael’s eyes when our shadows touched—recognition, desire, and something that looked almost like fear.
Whatever this connection between us is, it’s getting stronger. And I have a feeling it’s going to complicate everything.
Chapter Six
Professor Thorne’sHistory of the Fall class takes place in the oldest section of Greyson Academy, a circular stone chamber that feels more like a medieval church than a classroom. The air smells like centuries of dust, old incense, and something faintly metallic that makes my teeth ache. Vaulted ceilings disappear into darkness above us, and ancient tapestries depicting angelic battles cover the walls in vivid detail—wings torn, blood spilled, faces frozen in eternal agony.
The room is split down the middle—one half bathed in light from tall windows that seem to glow with their own inner radiance, the other perpetually shadowed despite identical windows on both sides. The temperature difference is noticeable, with the light side feeling warm as summer while the shadow side carries the chill of winter nights.
Guess on which fucking side the Dark Nephilim sit on.
I slide into an empty seat near the back of the shadow section, hoping to remain inconspicuous while my heart hammers against my ribs. The wooden chair is worn smooth by generations of students, and it creaks ominously under my weight. Two weeks at Greyson, and I’ve managed to keep a slightly lower profile sincestarting my training sessions with Bael. My shadow control has improved—I can actually make them behave like normal Dark Nephilim shadows for short periods now—though maintaining it through entire classes leaves me mentally exhausted and with a persistent headache that throbs behind my temples.
Constantine drops into the seat beside me, his fire-red hair standing out among the predominantly dark-haired shadow students like a flame in a coal mine. As a Hunter instructor, he doesn’t technically need to attend regular classes, which makes his presence beside me suspicious as hell. Up close, I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and warm that contrasts sharply with the cold stone around us.
“You’re in my spot again,” he says, amber eyes studying me with an unsettling intensity that makes my skin crawl.
“Didn’t see your name on it,” I reply, though there are plenty of other empty seats in our section. My shadows want to curl defensively around my ankles, but I keep them spread in the casual, relaxed pattern I’ve been practicing.
His mouth quirks upward in what might be amusement. “I like to observe from the shadows. Ironic, for a fire wielder.”
Before I can respond, Professor Thorne sweeps into the room, his silver-streaked beard and flowing black robes giving him a distinctly wizardly appearance. Unlike most professors who clearly favor one faction, Thorne moves between light and shadow with equal comfort, though rumor has it he was originally light Nephilim before some scandal centuries ago. His footsteps echo against the stone floor, each step deliberate and measured.
“Today,” his voice resonates through the chamber without apparent effort, seeming to come from the very stones themselves, “we discuss the fundamental schism that shapes our world—the Great Fall and its consequences.”
The light side of the room straightens like soldiers called to attention, students looking appropriately reverent. Their combined glow brightens slightly, and I have to resist the urge to squint. The shadow side collectively slouches further, some openly rolling their eyes with the practiced disdain of teenagers forced to sit through yet another lecture about how evil their ancestors supposedly were. I sense I’m about to get the version of history written by the fucking winners.
“In the beginning,” Thorne continues, pacing the neutral zone between factions with measured steps, “all Nephilim served a singular purpose as guardians of the veil between worlds. Neither light nor dark, but unified in service.”
He gestures with one gnarled hand, and the crystal orb at the center of the room glows with inner fire, projecting images of winged beings that look disturbingly similar to what I see in the mirror when I let my wings out. My stomach clenches with recognition and fear.
