“That was...” I search for words to describe the sensation of traveling through pure darkness while wrapped in his arms.
“Disorienting the first time,” he finishes, stepping back, though our shadows remain connected, reluctant to separate like lovers being torn apart. “You’ll get used to it.”
I set my bag down, the weight of the stolen Compendium a reminder of how badly I’ve just escalated my situation. “She knows, doesn’t she? Elara suspects what I am.”
“She suspects, but doesn’t know for certain.” Bael moves to the window, looking out at the rain-drenched academy grounds where lightning occasionally illuminates the gargoyles perched on every surface. “But she will report her suspicions to both the light faction elders and the Hunters.”
“What do we do?” I ask, fear finally catching up to me now that the adrenaline is fading and leaving me shaky.
He turns back to me, his expression unreadable in the dim light cast by the painted stars overhead. “We speed up your training. And I tell you what you need to know about the crimson ascendant prophecy—before someone else does.”
My shadows stir excitedly at his words, reaching toward him as if eager for the knowledge he possesses. His own shadows respond, extending to meet mine halfway, creating a bridge of darkness between us that feels like a promise.
“Start with why Elara called you ‘the fallen guardian,’“ I say,watching our shadows dance together in the space between us. “And then tell me everything about these crimson wings and what they mean.”
As the rain pounds against the windows and thunder rumbles overhead like the academy itself is angry, Bael nods slowly, his shadows fully merging with mine in a gesture that feels like a vow sealed in darkness.
"It begins with the original Fall," he says, "and a prophecy that both light and shadow have feared since the beginning of our kind."
Chapter Eight
The combat trainingarena glitters with early morning frost, its stone floor slick and treacherous despite the enchanted braziers burning in each corner like captured suns. The flames cast dancing shadows against the ancient stones, and their heat creates pockets of warmth that contrast with the winter chill seeping through the walls. Tall, arched windows let in the pale winter sunlight, creating pools of gold against the weathered stone walls. The air smells of sweat, magic, and the faint metallic tang of blood from previous training sessions—a reminder that this isn’t just practice, but preparation for actual violence.
Professor Winters stands in the center of the room, her silver-streaked hair pulled back severely enough to stretch the skin at her temples. Dark Nephilim shadows coil around her feet like obedient snakes, moving with a precision that makes my own restless shadows seem chaotic by comparison. “Advanced shadow manipulation,” she announces to our small group, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “Today you’ll learn defensive applications beyond basic extension.”
I try to look attentive while simultaneously fighting exhaustion that feels like lead in my bones. Between late-night trainingwith Bael, research sessions with the stolen Compendium, and maintaining constant vigilance around Elara, I’m running on fumes and spite. A week has passed since the library confrontation, and while she hasn’t made any direct moves against me, her watchful presence follows me everywhere like a cold spotlight. I can feel her eyes on me even when she’s not in sight, waiting for me to fuck up.
“Pair up,” Winters commands with military precision. “You’ll take turns creating shadow barriers against mild offensive techniques.”
Before I can look for a neutral partner—preferably someone who won’t try to murder me—Marcus Blackthorn materializes at my side, his trademark smirk firmly in place. His presence makes my skin crawl, and my shadows instinctively recoil from his like they can sense his intentions.
“Partners, transfer student?” His voice drips with false friendliness.
I suppress a groan. “Lucky fucking me.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, shadows already swirling around his hands eagerly like they’re excited to cause damage. “I’ll go easy on you. Wouldn’t want to trigger another... unusual display.”
My stomach drops like I’ve swallowed ice. Has he noticed something off about my shadows too? I’ve been so focused on Elara and the light Nephilim that I’ve neglected to consider I might face scrutiny from my supposed own kind as well.
“Miss Dawn, Mr. Blackthorn,” Professor Winters nods approvingly. “Begin.”
I take a defensive position first, planting my feet on the cold stone while Marcus prepares his offensive shadow cast. Around us, other pairs are already engaged, their shadows clashing in displays of dark energy that create sounds like silk being torn and thunder rolling. From the observation deck above, I spot Constantine watching, his amber eyes tracking the various demonstrationswith a professional assessment that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
“Ready?” Marcus asks, not waiting for my answer before launching a tendril of shadow toward my face with casual violence.
I react instinctively, pulling my shadows up as a barrier. The collision creates a satisfying thud that reverberates through the arena and up my arms.
“Not bad,” he concedes, immediately sending two more shadow strikes from different angles with increased speed. “For a transfer student.”
I block both, finding a rhythm to the exercise that feels almost natural. This isn’t so difficult. My shadows are naturally protective; I just need to direct that instinct with precision rather than letting them do whatever the hell they want.
“You know,” Marcus says conversationally as we continue, his tone light despite the violence of his attacks, “everyone’s talking about your little library incident with Elara Lightbringer.”
My concentration wavers slightly, and one of his shadows clips my shoulder. “Nothing to talk about. She was being her usual charming self.”
He launches a more complex attack, his shadows splitting into multiple tendrils that strike simultaneously from angles that should be impossible. I block most, though one grazes my shoulder hard enough to sting.
“Interesting that the fallen guardian intervened,” he continues, watching my reaction closely with predatory intensity. “Bael rarely involves himself in student affairs.”
