“Light Nephilim,” Iris whispers, nodding toward the bright side. Her breath is warm against my ear. “They’re basically angel descendants who think their shit doesn’t stink and their wings don’t molt. And over there—” she gestures to the shadowy tables, “—Dark Nephilim, descended from fallen angels. Your people, technically.”
My people. Right. I scan the Dark Nephilim students, noting their easy command of the shadows around them. Some are casually manipulating darkness between their fingers like play-doh, shaping it into animals or flowers before letting it dissolve. Others have shadows that move slightly out of sync with their bodies, creating an unsettling double-vision effect. A few have what look like wings folded against their backs—not quite corporeal, but visible in the dim light.
I’m so fucking screwed.
Iris leads me to a middle section where the Gifted humans sit—the normal-looking ones who don’t glow or command shadows but still somehow belong in this supernatural circus. “You can sit with your faction if you want, but first-years usually stick together regardless of bloodline.”
“I’ll stay with you,” I say quickly, my voice coming out higher than intended. No way am I testing my shadow control around people who’ve been doing this since they could walk.
We’re about to sit when a girl steps directly into our path, her movement so sudden it’s like she materialized from thin air. She’s startlingly beautiful in a severe, untouchable way—platinum blonde hair pulled into a tight braid that doesn’t have a single strand out of place, ice-blue eyes that seem to see straight through me, and an aura so bright it hurts to look at her directly. The air around her shimmers with heat, and I catch the scent of ozone and something that reminds me of clean snow.
“You’re the new dark one,” she says, her voice carrying just enough to draw attention from nearby tables. It’s musical but cold, like wind chimes made of ice. “Transferring from a human academy? How unusual.”
The shadows at my feet darken instinctively, responding tothe threat in her tone like guard dogs sensing danger. I struggle to keep them from spreading.
“I’m Ash,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and failing. “And you are?”
“Elara Lightbringer, Light Faction Leader.” She says it as if I should be impressed, maybe even genuflect. “Just a friendly warning—we’ve had issues with Dark Nephilim forgetting their place lately. The light watches the shadows, always.”
My shadows curl defensively around my ankles like protective snakes, and I struggle to rein them in before anyone else notices. The urge to let them loose, to show this prissy bitch exactly what kind of shadows she’s dealing with, burns hot in my chest. “Thanks for the welcome wagon. I’ll try not to corrupt anyone with my evil darkness.”
Elara’s perfect features harden, her glow brightening until I have to squint. “Mockery is the lowest form of wit, but I shouldn’t expect better from your kind.”
“And bigotry is the lowest form of intelligence, but here we are,” I snap back, my hands clenching into fists at my sides.
Whispers erupt around us like wildfire. I can feel dozens of eyes on us, the weight of their attention making my skin crawl. Iris tugs at my sleeve urgently, her fingers digging into my arm. “Ash, maybe we should?—”
“Your shadows move strangely,” Elara interrupts, her gaze dropping to my feet where my shadows have begun to swirl in agitated spirals. “Almost like they have a mind of their own. Most Dark Nephilim have better control by your age.”
Ice floods my veins, cold and sharp as winter wind. I force the shadows to still, pulling them back with effort that makes sweat bead on my forehead. “Maybe your light’s just making me nervous.”
Her eyes narrow, and for a moment I swear I see somethingdangerous flash behind all that celestial beauty. “We’ll be watching you, transfer. Something’s not right about you.”
She sweeps away, her light faction falling in behind her like some supernatural Mean Girls squad. Their combined radiance leaves spots dancing in my vision, and the sudden absence of their warmth makes the air feel colder.
“Holy shit,” Iris breathes once they’re out of earshot, her voice shaky. “No one talks to Elara like that. Are you trying to get yourself killed on your first day?”
My hands are shaking so badly I have to shove them in my pockets. “She started it.”
“Yeah, and she’ll finish it too.” Iris pulls me toward an empty table in the corner, her grip firm on my elbow. “Seriously, Ash, be careful. The light faction has direct connections to the Hunters. They can make your life hell—or just make your life end.”
We eat in relative silence after that, though I’m too nauseous to do more than push food around my plate. The mashed potatoes taste like cardboard, and even the supposedly amazing chocolate cake might as well be sawdust. Every few minutes, I catch someone staring at me—whispered conversations stopping when I look their way, suspicious glances from both factions. By the time we return to our room, my back is screaming in pain from keeping my wings bound so tightly, and my head is pounding from the stress of keeping my shadows in check.
“I’m going to shower,” I tell Iris, grabbing my toiletry bag with hands that still haven’t stopped shaking. “Long day.”
“Sure thing!” She says, already changing into pajamas covered in tiny cats.
The bathroom attached to our room is, thankfully, private. I lock the door with trembling fingers, turn on the shower for noise cover, and finally, finally let my wings unfurl.
The relief is instant and excruciating all at once. Glossy black feathers with crimson tips that seem to glow with their own innerfire spread wide, knocking bottles off the shelf with a crash that makes me wince. They’re bigger than I remember—at least twelve feet across when fully extended, with flight feathers that brush the walls of the bathroom. The crimson has definitely spread since my transformation, creeping up from the tips like spilled blood. No wonder my back was killing me.
My shadows celebrate their freedom too, dancing around the bathroom like excited puppies finally let off their leash. They swirl up the walls, across the ceiling, responding to my relief with pure exuberance. They caress my wings with gentle touches, and I can actually feel their affection through my feathers.
“Get it together,” I whisper to them, my voice echoing off the tile walls. “We can’t do this every time I’m stressed, okay?”
The shadows reluctantly settle, though they continue to brush against my skin affectionately like cats demanding attention. I examine my wings in the mirror, fascinated despite my fear. They’re beautiful in a terrifying way—too large, too powerful for someone who was human three days ago. When I flex them, I can feel the strength in them, the potential for flight that makes my heart race with equal parts excitement and terror.
I don’t know how long I stand there, lost in the strange wonder of seeing myself with wings, but eventually a knock at the door sends me into panic mode.
