My heart stutters like a broken engine. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Most Dark Nephilim’s shadows become more pronounced during discussions of the Fall—defensive posturing, essentially.” His amber eyes study me intently, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “Yours did the opposite. They practically vanished.”
I force a casual shrug, though my shoulders feel stiff as boards. “Maybe I’m just weird.”
“Maybe.” He doesn’t sound convinced, and the way he’s looking at me makes my skin crawl with awareness. “The restricted section of the library has more balanced accounts of that period, if historical accuracy interests you.”
Is he... helping me?The thought is so unexpected it throws me off balance. “I thought the restricted section was off-limits to first-years.”
He pulls a small key from his pocket and places it on my notebook with a soft clink of metal against paper. The key is old, ornate, and feels warm to the touch when I pick it up. “Faculty privilege. Return it by tomorrow.”
Before I can ask why he’s giving me access—whether this is a trap or genuine help—he walks away, leaving me staring at the key in confusion. His footsteps echo down the corridor until the sound fades into the general noise of the academy.
That night,after curfew when the academy settles into the kind of silence that feels alive, I slip out of my room and make my way to the library. The stone floors are cold against my bare feet, and every shadow seems to hide potential threats. The restricted section occupies the entire west wing of the third floor, sealed behind ornate iron gates that look like they could keep out an army. The key Constantine gave me turns smoothly in the lock with a soft click that seems unnaturally loud in the silence.
Unlike the main library with its imposing grandeur, the restricted section feels intimate and secretive, with lower ceilings and narrow aisles between towering shelves that seem to lean inward like they’re listening. The air smells of leather, dust, and something metallic I can’t identify—maybe old blood, maybe just the scent of ancient metal fixtures. No windows here—just wall sconces holding enchanted flames that burn without heat or smoke, casting dancing shadows that make the narrow spaces feel alive.
I follow the classification system to the section on Nephilim bloodlines, my shadows acting as extra sets of eyes, alerting me to any movement or presence. The books here are older, more fragile, their bindings cracked with age. After some searching through volumes that smell like centuries, I find what I’m looking for—a collection of leather-bound journals written by a “neutral observer” during the period after the Fall.
Settling into a reading nook carved into the stone wall, I open the first volume, my shadows providing additional light to see the faded script that looks like it was written with a quill pen. The leather binding is soft with age, and the pages whisper as I turn them.
The account presents a drastically different perspective than Thorne’s lecture. According to these journals, Ascendants weren’t inherently unstable but were systematically hunted because of their potential to bridge the divide between factions. Theypossessed the unique ability to form vessel bonds with Gifted humans, channeling energy to enhance their natural abilities—not control them, but empower them.
Most interestingly, the journals mention a prophecy about a crimson-winged Ascendant who would “restore balance to the divided realms”—which explains why both light Nephilim and Hunters were particularly vigilant about eliminating any Ascendant with unusual wing coloration. The crimson wasn’t a mark of corruption; it was a sign of potential.
I’m so absorbed in reading that I almost miss the soft footsteps approaching, barely audible against the stone floor. My shadows alert me just in time, a chill of warning running down my spine, and I quickly close the journal, slipping it back onto the shelf as I fade into the darkest corner of the alcove.
Seraphina Lightbringer glides past my hiding spot like she’s floating rather than walking, a gentle glow emanating from her skin that pushes against the surrounding shadows.What the fuck is she doing here after curfew?I hold perfectly still, shadows pulled tight against me until I’m barely more than a darker patch of darkness, barely breathing.
She pauses near where I’d been reading, her head tilting as if sensing something. The light radiating from her skin brightens slightly, and I feel its warmth like an uncomfortable pressure against my hidden form. For a heart-stopping moment, I think she’s going to turn directly toward me. Then she continues on her way, her footsteps soft as whispers, disappearing into another section.
I wait until I’m sure she’s gone, counting my heartbeats until the silence feels safe again, before slipping out of the restricted section. I lock it behind me with hands that shake slightly and hurry back to my room, mind spinning with everything I’ve learned.
I’m not just a random anomaly—I’m somethingspecifically feared and systematically eliminated. And if the crimson spreading on my wings means what I think it does, I’m potentially connected to a prophecy that terrifies those in power enough to commit genocide.
No wonder Bael has been so protective, so secretive. He’s not just guarding an Ascendant; he’s guarding a potential catalyst for change that both factions have killed to prevent.
As I slip back into my room, careful not to wake Iris, who sleeps peacefully in her bed, my shadows curl around me protectively like living armor. For the first time since my transformation, I feel something beyond fear and confusion burning in my chest.
I feel purpose.
They tried to erase my kind from history, painting us as abominations to justify genocide. But here I am anyway—living, breathing proof that they failed. And as the crimson continues to spread across my wings, I’m beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, that’s not an accident.
Maybe it’s exactly what this fucked-up world needs.
Chapter Seven
The rain hasn’t stoppedfor three days straight, turning Greyson Academy into something out of a gothic horror film. Water streams down the leaded glass windows in endless rivulets that catch the gray light and fracture it into dancing patterns across the stone floors. Thunder occasionally shakes the ancient stones, making the very bones of the building groan in response. The constant downpour has driven everyone inside, making the library more crowded than usual, even on a Saturday. The air smells like wet stone, old books, and the ozone scent that clings to the building after lightning strikes.
I’ve claimed a secluded corner table on the third floor, surrounded by stacks of books Constantine’s key helped me access before I returned it with reluctant thanks. My research has become something of an obsession since the History of the Fall class, consuming my thoughts like a fever. If I’m potentially this “crimson-winged harbinger” mentioned in the journals, I need to know exactly what that means—and what kind of target it makes me.
The problem is finding concrete information that isn’t complete bullshit. Most references are frustratingly vague orclearly biased against Ascendants, written by people who wanted us dead rather than understood. I’ve been reading for hours, eyes burning from strain and lack of sleep, my vision blurring as I struggle through yet another text written in some ancient language I shouldn’t be able to read.
“You look like you’re planning a murder,” Iris says, appearing suddenly beside my table with two steaming cups that smell like salvation. “I brought coffee. Or what passes for it in this medieval torture chamber?”
I quickly slide a book with a rather obvious image of winged beings under a stack of papers, hoping she didn’t catch the illustration of what looks suspiciously like me. “Just researching for Thorne’s essay.”
She sets a cup in front of me, eyebrow raised skeptically. The coffee is hot enough to burn my tongue, but the caffeine hit is immediate and desperately needed. “For three days straight? Even the light faction overachievers take breaks.” She glances at my scattered notes, and I resist the urge to cover them with my arms. “What’s got you so obsessed anyway?”
