My heart skips a beat, and I taste copper where I’ve bitten my tongue. “I wouldn’t know.”
“No?” His shadows suddenly change tactics, becoming whip-like extensions that crack against my barrier with sounds like gunshots. “Word is he’s taken a special interest in you.”
“Maybe he just dislikes Elara as much as everyone else,” I counter, reinforcing my barrier as his attacks intensify with enough force to make my arms ache from the impact.
Marcus’s smirk deepens, showing too many teeth. “Or maybe he recognizes something in you. Something... unusual.”
My shadows flicker with my anxiety, momentarily revealing a gap in my defense like a crack in armor. Marcus immediately exploits it, sending a shadow jab that catches me in the ribs hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. I stumble back, wincing and tasting the metallic flavor of pain.
“Focus, Miss Dawn,” Professor Winters calls from across the room, her voice sharp with disapproval.
“Sorry about that,” Marcus says, not sounding sorry at all. His eyes gleam with satisfaction. “Though your shadows react strangely when you’re emotional. Almost like they have minds of their own.”
He knows. Or at least suspects. The realization hits me like ice water, and I need to be more careful before I give myself away completely.
“Your turn on defense,” I say, eager to change positions and get some distance from his probing questions.
“Not yet,” he refuses, shadows gathering more densely around his hands until they look like living smoke. “I’m curious about something.”
Before I can protest, he launches a significantly more powerful attack—far beyond the “mild offensive techniques” Winters allowed. His shadows form serrated edges that slice toward me with genuine threat, sharp enough that I can hear them cutting through the air.
I react without thinking, my shadows instantly forming defensive spikes that thrust outward to meet his attack. The collision sends a wave of dark energy across the arena that makes the stone floor vibrate beneath our feet, drawingeveryone’s attention. My shadows, responding to the perceived threat, begin to extend further, taking on the semi-sentient patterns I’ve been trying desperately to hide.
Marcus’s eyes widen, a mixture of triumph and genuine surprise in his expression. “I knew it,” he whispers, and his voice carries the satisfaction of someone who’s just won a bet.
With immense effort that makes sweat bead on my forehead, I force my shadows back into normal patterns, but it’s too fucking late. The momentary display was noticed by several students—including a light Nephilim observer who immediately moves toward Professor Winters, pointing in my direction with obvious urgency.
“Enough,” Winters calls, moving toward us with a swift purpose that suggests she’s seen more than I hoped. “That was excessive force, Mr. Blackthorn.”
“Apologies, Professor,” Marcus says smoothly, his shadows retreating with theatrical obedience. “I got carried away with the exercise.”
Her sharp eyes assess me as if she’s trying to read my secrets. “Your defensive reaction was... unusually structured, Miss Dawn. Where did you learn that technique?”
“Instinct,” I manage, hoping I sound casual despite my racing heart and the way my voice wants to shake. “I just reacted.”
Before she can question me further, Constantine appears beside us as if he’s materialized from thin air. His presence radiates enough authority that even Winters defers slightly, her posture shifting to acknowledge his higher rank.
“Impressive reflexes, Miss Dawn,” he says, his tone professional but his eyes communicating something else entirely. “Though perhaps better suited to the advanced combat class than a basic training session.”
My shadows, still agitated from the confrontation, reaches subtly toward his fire energy without my permission.They’re drawn to it in a way I can’t control, like metal filings to a magnet. I watch in horror as a tiny tendril extends toward his hand, only visible to someone specifically looking for it.
Constantine notices. His eyes flick to the shadow connection, then back to my face, expression unreadable but somehow not threatening.
“I’d like to speak with Miss Dawn about her technique,” he tells Winters. “With your permission, I’ll borrow her for the rest of this session.”
Winters hesitates, clearly curious about my shadow display but unwilling to challenge a Hunter instructor. The conflict plays out across her features before authority wins. “Of course, Professor Constantine.”
As he leads me from the arena, I feel Marcus’s eyes boring into my back like physical pressure and hear the whispers of other students following us. The light Nephilim observer is still speaking urgently to Winters, gesturing in my direction with obvious alarm.
Constantine doesn’t speak until we’re in an empty classroom several hallways away from the arena. The space smells like chalk and old wood, and dust motes dance in the pale light filtering through tall windows. He closes the door with deliberate care, then turns to me, arms crossed.
“That was careless,” he says without preamble.
“He provoked me deliberately,” I defend, though I know it’s a weak excuse. My voice sounds defensive even to my own ears.
“Of course he did. And you walked right into it.” Constantine paces the room, fire flickering briefly between his fingers in what I recognize as agitation. The small flames cast dancing shadows on the walls. “Marcus Blackthorn comes from an old bloodline with deep Hunter connections. If he suspects what you are?—”
He stops abruptly, and I freeze like prey that’s just spotted a predator.
