Chapter Eleven
“The Vessel servesas a conduit through which Gifted humans access greater power than they could alone.” I read the passage for the fifth time, trying to make sense of the ancient text that seems to shift and blur before my tired eyes. The Shadow Archive’s dim lighting isn’t helping, the enchanted candles casting just enough flickering illumination to read without damaging the fragile pages. The air smells like old parchment, melted wax, and something faintly metallic that makes my nose itch.
After three weeks of nightly research that have left me with permanent dark circles under my eyes, I’ve finally found concrete information about Vessel bonds—one of the three abilities that define Ascendants. The stolen Compendium mentioned my potential to connect with Gifted humans, but provided frustratingly little detail about how these bonds actually work. It’s like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
My shadow scouts alert me to approaching footsteps echoing off stone floors, and I quickly close the book with a soft thud, sliding it beneath a stack of more innocent research materials on medieval architecture. The door opens with its familiar creak,revealing Bael with a leather-bound volume tucked under his arm. Even in the dim candlelight, he moves with a fluid grace that makes my pulse skip.
“Found something interesting?” he asks, noting my guilty expression and the way I’m sitting too straight, like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
“Maybe.” I gesture to my notes scattered across the ancient wooden table. “I’ve been researching Vessel connections. The Compendium mentioned it as an Ascendant trait, but I still don’t understand what it actually fucking means.”
Bael sets his book down with careful precision, the leather binding worn smooth from centuries of handling. He takes the seat opposite me, and the candlelight casts dramatic shadows across his face, highlighting his sharp cheekbones and darkening his eyes to forest green. It’s unfair how he manages to look like a Renaissance painting come to life while I probably resemble a sleep-deprived raccoon after so many late nights.
“Vessel abilities are perhaps the most unique aspect of Ascendants,” he explains, his voice taking on that instructional tone I’ve come to know well. “Normal vessels can bond with one Gifted human, enhancing their natural abilities through energy transfer. Ascendants might bond with multiple Gifted simultaneously.”
I think of Constantine and the strange way my shadows reach for his fire like moths to a flame, the electric pull I feel whenever he’s near. “Is that why my shadows react to Constantine’s abilities? Am I forming a Vessel bond without realizing it?”
Something flickers across Bael’s expression—concern, maybe even jealousy — that makes his jaw clench slightly. “Possibly. The initial stages of Vessel connection often manifest as energy attraction.”
“Great. Another thing I need to hide.” I slump in my chair, exhaustion washing over me like a tide. Between classes, training with Bael, and these midnight research sessions, I’mrunning on fumes and spite. My back aches from hunching over ancient texts, and my eyes burn from straining to read faded script.
“Actually,” Bael says carefully, his voice carrying a note of caution that makes my stomach clench, “you may not need to hide it much longer. Professor Winters has assigned Constantine as your advanced instructor.”
I sit up straight so fast my chair scrapes against the stone floor. “What? Why?”
“Your performance in standard training has been... inconsistent. Winters believes you need specialized attention.” His mouth curves in a humorless smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Constantine volunteered.”
“That’s really good or really bad,” I mutter, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Indeed. Your first session is tomorrow afternoon.” Bael slides a folded paper across the table, the official academy seal pressed into crimson wax. “The east training rooms. Private instruction.”
I scan the official notice, anxiety building with each word written in Professor Winters’ precise handwriting. Private lessons mean more scrutiny, more opportunities to reveal my true nature under Constantine’s knowing amber gaze. But they also mean potential answers about the strange connection between his fire and my shadows.
“He suspects what I am,” I say quietly, my voice barely above a whisper in the sacred silence of the Archive. “He as much as told me after the incident with Marcus.”
“Yet he hasn’t reported you.” Bael taps his fingers thoughtfully on the ancient wood, the sound echoing softly in the circular room. “The Hunter who questions Hunter doctrine. Interesting.”
“Do you think I can trust him?” The question tastes bitter on my tongue, like admitting weakness.
Bael’s expression darkens, shadows gathering around his feetin response to his mood. “I wouldn’t go that far. But his curiosity may work in your favor—for now.”
The candles flicker as if responding to the tension in the room, sending dancing shadows across the painted constellations on the ceiling. My own shadows curl closer around my ankles, sensing my anxiety and offering what comfort they can.
“What if he tries to expose me during training?” I ask, voicing the fear that’s been gnawing at me since reading the notice.
“Then you’ll need to be ready.” Bael’s green eyes meet mine across the table, intense and unwavering. “We’ll spend tonight preparing you for every possibility.”
The next afternoon,I make my way to the east training wing, a newer addition to the academy with reinforced walls designed to withstand magical mishaps. The corridors here smell of fresh mortar and steel, lacking the ancient mustiness that permeates the rest of Greyson. Unlike the grand arena used for group training, these rooms are smaller, more intimate—and more secluded. The place where screams wouldn’t carry.
Room E-7 is at the end of a long corridor, far from the busier training areas. My footsteps echo off polished stone floors that gleam under enchanted lighting. I hesitate outside the heavy oak door, my shadows already reaching curiously toward whatever lies within like eager cats sniffing at a closed room. Taking a deep breath that tastes like nerves and determination, I knock once and enter.
The space is surprisingly beautiful—a circular room with a domed ceiling painted to resemble the night sky, complete with constellations that seem to shift and twinkle when I’m not looking directly at them. Floor-to-ceiling windows line one wall, offering a view of the mist-shrouded mountains beyondGreyson’s grounds. The late afternoon light streams through, casting long golden rectangles across the floor. The floor itself is smooth black stone inlaid with silver sigils I don’t recognize, their meanings lost to my untrained eyes but humming with a latent power that makes my skin tingle.
Constantine stands in the center, dressed in training attire—black pants and a simple gray shirt that does nothing to hide his athletic build or the way his muscles shift as he turns toward me. His fire-red hair is tied back, emphasizing the sharp angles of his face and those amber eyes that seem to see too much.
“Miss Dawn,” he acknowledges, his voice carrying that familiar note of controlled authority. “Thank you for being punctual.”
“Not like I had a fucking choice,” I reply, setting my bag by the door with more force than necessary. “What’s this about?”
