“Just curious about some of the stuff Thorne glossed over,” I say, taking a sip of the coffee, which tastes like it was filtered through a gym sock but contains enough caffeine to raise the dead. “Thanks for this, though.”
“Don’t mention it. But seriously, you should come to movie night in the common room later. All this dusty research can’t be good for you.” She squeezes my shoulder with genuine concern, and I feel like shit for lying to her. “You’re starting to look like one of those hermit scholars who forget to eat.”
She heads back downstairs, leaving me to my obsessive hunt through centuries of supernatural politics and prophecy.
I return to the massive tome I’d been examining—a compilation of prophecies and visions recorded by neutral observers over centuries. The leather binding is cracked with age, and the pagessmell like centuries of dust and secrets. Most entries are meaningless to me, but I keep searching for any mention of crimson wings, reading until the ancient script swims before my tired eyes.
As the afternoon wears on, the library gradually empties. The rain intensifies, drumming against the windows and creating a white noise that makes it easy to lose track of time. My shadows stretch lazily across the floor, enjoying the relative freedom when fewer people are around to notice their independence.
I’m about to give up for the day when I spot a reference in the footnotes of a particularly dense text—something about a more detailed account in “Veridian’s Compendium of First Era Prophecies.” I’ve never heard of it, but the note suggests it contains the original, untranslated version of several key prophecies, including one about a “harbinger marked by blood and shadow.”
My heart races, caffeine, and adrenaline mixing in my bloodstream. This could be exactly what I’m looking for.
I check the reference number and head to the far corner of the library, where the oldest texts are kept on towering shelves that reach nearly to the ceiling. The lighting here is dimmer, with only a few enchanted lanterns casting pools of warm light amid the shadows that seem to move independently of their sources. The air is thicker here, heavy with the weight of centuries and secrets.
I scan the shelf markers, finally locating the right section. The book should be... I look up, and my heart sinks. Of course it’s on the top fucking shelf, a good twelve feet above the floor. There’s no ladder in sight, and the rolling steps usually available are nowhere to be found.
“Seriously?” I mutter to the universe at large, which apparently has a twisted sense of humor.
As if responding to my frustration, my shadows suddenly extend upward without conscious direction, climbing the shelves like dark vines until they reach the book I need. Before I can even process what’s happening, they wrap around the ancient tomeand carefully pull it from the shelf with more precision than I’ve ever managed.
“What the—” I gasp as the shadows gently lower the heavy book into my waiting hands like they’re presenting me with a gift.
I didn’t consciously direct them to do that. They acted entirely on their own, responding to my need before I even formulated the command. This is exactly the behavior Bael warned me to suppress, the kind that screams “Ascendant” to anyone paying attention.
I glance around anxiously, but the section appears empty except for dust motes dancing in the lamplight. Clutching the book to my chest, I hurry back to my table, shadows swirling excitedly around my ankles like proud pets showing off a trick.
“Behave,” I whisper to them, and they reluctantly settle, though they continue to pulse slightly with what almost feels like pride at their helpfulness.
The Compendium is written in an ancient language I shouldn’t understand but somehow do—another fucking Ascendant trait, apparently. The pages are fragile as butterfly wings, yellowed with age, and covered in elegant script and intricate illustrations that seem to shimmer with their own inner light. I carefully turn to the section mentioned in the reference, heart pounding when I find what I’m looking for.
A full-page illustration shows a winged figure with wings that fade from black to deep crimson at the tips, exactly like mine. Around the figure, light and shadow swirl in perfect balance, with smaller figures kneeling in a circle that suggests worship or reverence rather than fear. The prophecy itself is written in verse, but the meaning is clear enough: a crimson-winged harbinger will rise when balance falters, uniting the divided realms through bonds of both blood and fire.
“Blood and fire,” I whisper, the words tasting like destiny on my tongue. Could the fire refer to Constantine? Thestrange connection between his fire abilities and my shadows? And blood—Bael’s vampire nature?
I’m so absorbed in the text, in the implications of what I’m reading, that I don’t notice the presence approaching until it’s too late.
“Interesting reading selection.”
I jerk my head up to find Elara Lightbringer standing over my table like an avenging angel, her platinum hair gleaming in the lamplight and her light aura pressing uncomfortably against my shadows like physical pressure. Her ice-blue eyes fix on the open book, then narrow suspiciously.
“Research,” I say, resisting the urge to slam the book closed, which would only look more suspicious than helpful.
“Veridian’s Compendium is restricted for good reason,” she says, her voice carrying the authority of someone used to being obeyed. “Those prophecies have driven many to madness or worse.” Her gaze sharpens like a blade. “How are you even reading it? The original language has been lost for centuries.”
I scramble for an explanation that doesn’t involve admitting I can read dead languages without studying them. “I’m just looking at the illustrations for Thorne’s essay.”
“Really?” Her voice drips with skepticism thick enough to cut. “And what does an illustration of the crimson ascendant have to do with the Fall?”
Shit. She knows exactly what I’m looking at.
I need to get out of this conversation fast. “I was just curious about different depictions of winged beings throughout history. For context.”
As I speak, my anxiety spikes, and my shadows react before I can control them. A tendril reaches out toward another book I’d set aside, pulling it closer to me as if trying to hide the Compendium from view. The movement is subtle but unmistakably independent.
Elara’s eyes widen, and I watch realization dawn across her perfect features. “Your shadows,” she whispers. “They moved without your direction.”
My heart nearly stops, ice flooding my veins. “No, I?—”
