Special circumstances being that Bael forged documents claiming I’m a Dark Nephilim transfer student rather than what I actually am—whatever the hell that is. An Ascendant, he called me. Hunted and killed on sight, apparently. The kind of creature that makes both light and Dark Nephilim wet themselves with terror.
The guard hands back my papers, his fingers brushing mine for just a moment. I catch a whiff of his cologne mixed with the metallic scent of the booth’s heater. “Main hall for orientation. Don’t wander off the paths.” The way he says it makes my skin crawl. Like there are things lurking in the shadows that would love to get their claws on a wandering student.
The gates creak open with a sound like grinding bones, and I step onto Greyson Academy grounds, feeling like I’m walking into a gothic horror novel written by someone with serious architectural issues. The campus sprawls before me—all weathered stone buildings with leaded glass windows that gleam like watching eyes and gargoyles perched on every available edge. Their carved faces seem to track my movement as I pass beneath them. Mist clings to the ground like ghostly fingers, swirling around my boots as I trudge up the gravel path toward the largest building. Each footstep crunches too loudly in the unnatural quiet.
My shadows are restless today, stretching slightly beyond my feet when I’m not paying attention. They respond to my anxiety like living things, wanting to spread out and explore this new environment. I focus on keeping them close as I climb the worn stone steps, each one polished smooth by centuries of studentfeet. The massive wooden doors are carved with symbols I don’t recognize—swirling patterns that seem to shift and move when I’m not looking directly at them.
Inside, the grand hall soars above me, ceiling lost in darkness despite the massive chandeliers dripping with crystals that cast dancing patterns of light and shadow across the floor. The air smells like old books, beeswax candles, and something faintly metallic that makes my teeth ache. A portrait gallery lines the walls—stern-faced men and women in elaborate frames whose painted eyes seem to track my movements as I approach the reception desk. Their expressions range from merely disapproving to openly hostile, and I swear one of them actually moved.
“Ashley Dawn,” I tell the severe-looking woman whose wire-rimmed glasses hang from a beaded chain around her neck. Her desk is immaculate except for a single computer monitor and a nameplate reading “Mrs. Reeds.” How fucking ominous. “I’m the new transfer.”
She doesn’t look up from her computer, her manicured fingers clicking across the keyboard with mechanical precision. “You’re late.”
“I was attacked by winged shadows and grew wings three days ago,”is a valid excuse, right? Is what I want to say. Instead, I go with: “Traffic was bad.”
She hands me a thick folder without looking up, the papers inside rustling like dead leaves. “Room 307, East Wing. Your roommate will show you around. Classes start tomorrow.” She finally glances up, and something in her expression shifts when her eyes meet mine. It’s subtle, but I catch the slight widening of her pupils, the way her nostrils flare slightly as if she’s scenting the air. “Dark Nephilim quarters are kept dimmer than you may be used to. For comfort.”
“Right, thanks.” I take the folder, trying to look like someonewho totally knows what that means and isn’t freaking out about the fact that she might have sensed something off about me.
Finding my room involves navigating three flights of stairs that seem steeper than they should be, two wrong turns down hallways lined with more unsettling portraits, and a corridor that definitely changes direction when I’m not looking. The walls are lined with dark wood paneling that seems to absorb light, making the flickering gas lamps our only source of illumination. By the time I locate 307, my back is aching from suppressing my wings, and my nerves are completely shot. The pressure of keeping them bound feels like having a constant knot of tension between my shoulder blades. I knock, though it’s supposedly my room too. The sound echoes more than it should in the narrow hallway.
“It’s open!” calls a cheerful voice from inside.
I step into a surprisingly spacious room with two antique four-poster beds draped in deep burgundy curtains, each with its own matching desk and wardrobe. Dark wood paneling lines the walls, and a massive stained-glass window casts jeweled shadows across the polished floor—reds and purples and deep blues that shift as clouds pass overhead. The air smells like lavender and old roses, with an underlying hint of something earthy and wild.
A girl with copper curls that catch the light like spun fire is sprawled across one bed, surrounded by books that look older than the building itself. She sits up when I enter, her green eyes widening slightly as they take me in.
“You must be Ashley! I’m Iris.” She hops up with infectious energy, extending her hand. Her smile is warm and genuine, the first friendly face I’ve seen since arriving. When our fingers touch, her skin is soft and warm, but she tilts her head curiously, like a bird hearing a distant song. “You’re... different.”
I pull my hand away quickly, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Different how?”
“Sorry, boundaries!” She laughs, tapping her temple with onefinger. “Empath. I pick up on emotions and, well, other things sometimes. Don’t worry, I’m not reading your thoughts or anything creepy like that.”
Great. I got the one roommate who can sense I’m lying about fucking everything.
“Just Ash is fine,” I say, dropping my duffel on the empty bed. The mattress is firmer than I expected, and the frame creaks slightly under the weight. “And I’m just... nervous. New place and all that shit.”
Iris nods sympathetically, her curls bouncing. “It’s a lot to take in. Especially transferring from—” she glances at a paper on her desk, “—Blackwood? That’s a human academy, isn’t it?”
My heart stutters like a broken engine. “My family moved around a lot. I’ve been to several schools.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
“Cool! Well, you’re lucky you got me as a roommate. Dark Nephilim can be super intense—all brooding and mysterious, you know? And I requested a single room, so...” She grins, and I notice she has a slight gap between her front teeth that makes her look younger. “Looks like we’re both adjustments for each other.”
I manage a smile, relieved she hasn’t immediately identified me as a fraud. “So what’s the deal with this place? The guard acted like I might burst into flames if I stepped on the wrong patch of grass.”
Iris laughs, the sound bright and musical in the heavy atmosphere of the room. “Greyson takes itself seriously. The oldest supernatural academy in North America, blah blah blah. The rules are pretty strict, but mostly it’s about keeping the different factions from killing each other during lunch.”
“Factions?”
“Light Nephilim, Dark Nephilim, Gifted humans like me, and the occasional crossblood—though those are super rare.” She waves her hand dismissively, bangles jangling on her wrist. “There’s a complete history of war and betrayal that goes back millennia. They’ll bore you to death with it in History of the Fall.”
Before I can ask more questions, a bell tolls somewhere in the building, its deep resonance vibrating through the ancient stones and settling in my bones like an earthquake.
“That’s dinner,” Iris says, jumping up and smoothing down her skirt. “Fair warning—the dining hall is ground zero for faction drama. But the chocolate lava cake is worth risking your life for.”
I follow her through more twisting hallways lined with tapestries that depict battles between winged figures, their eyes seeming to follow our progress. The corridors echo with the sound of our footsteps and distant conversations, punctuated by the occasional slam of a door or burst of laughter. We pass other students heading in the same direction—some glowing with an inner light that makes my eyes water, others wreathed in shadows that seem to move independently of their bodies.
We reach a massive hall with soaring arched ceilings that disappear into the darkness above us and long wooden tables scarred by centuries of use. The smell hits me first—roasted meat, fresh bread, and something sweet that makes my mouth water despite my nerves. Students are already filling in, clearly segregated by type. One side of the room is almost painfully bright, filled with students who seem to glow from within like living candles. Their laughter sounds like silver bells, and even from across the room, I can feel the warmth radiating from their section. The opposite side is cast in shadows despite having the same number of lighting fixtures—shadows that move and dance as if they’re alive.
