“Cross bloods. Mixed heritage. They’re rare and not fully accepted by either side.” Her voice drops to barely audible, and she glances around nervously. “Like your guardian. Bael, right? Dark Nephilim with vampire blood makes him particularly feared.”
I snap my head toward her, my heart hammering against my ribs. “How do you?—”
“Empath, remember?” She taps her temple with one finger, her expression gentle but knowing. “Don’t worry, I can’t read specific thoughts, just feelings. And you’re terrified of something.” Her eyes soften with genuine concern. “Your secret’s safe with me, whatever it is.”
Before I can respond, a bell tolls from the central tower, its deep resonance vibrating through the stones beneath our feet and settling in my bones like an earthquake warning.
“Time for Shadow Theory,” Iris says, linking her arm through mine. Her touch is warm and grounding in a world that feels increasingly surreal. “You’re in for a treat.”
The classroom is dark and cavernous, with high arched windows covered by heavy velvet drapes that smell like dust and secrets. They let in just enough light to see, creating an atmosphere that feels more like a gothic cathedral than a place of learning. Students file in with the quiet shuffle of feet on stone, light and Dark Nephilim taking opposite sides of the room like opposing armies preparing for battle, with Gifted humans creating a nervous buffer zone between them.
I slide into a seat near the back, keeping my head down andtrying to look invisible. The wooden chair is scarred with decades of carved initials and nervous scratches, and it creaks ominously when I settle into it. The chair next to me remains empty until a tall, brooding guy with fire-red hair that seems to glow even in the dim light drops into it without ceremony. From the wary glances he receives from both factions, I’m guessing he’s not popular with anyone.
“Constantine,” he says without looking at me, his voice rough like he doesn’t use it often. “You’re in my usual spot.”
“Ash,” I reply, studying his profile. He’s got the sharp features of Dark Nephilim, but there’s something else there—a wildness that makes my skin prickle with recognition. “And there are twenty other empty chairs.”
His mouth twitches in what might be amusement. “I like the back corner. Less chance of being called on to demonstrate things I’d rather keep hidden.”
The way he says it makes me wonder what exactly he’s hiding.
Before I can respond, the professor strides in—a severe woman with silver streaks in her dark hair that catch the dim light like moonbeams, and shadows that move too fluidly around her feet to be natural. The temperature in the room drops several degrees with her presence, and the scent of night-blooming jasmine fills the air.
“Welcome to Shadow Theory,” she announces, her voice carrying easily through the vaulted space. “For our new student—” her dark eyes find me immediately, pinning me like a butterfly to a board, “—I am Professor Nyx. Today we’ll discuss the fundamental differences between light and shadow manipulation.”
As she launches into the lecture, my shadows grow restless, stretching toward the artifacts displayed around the room like children reaching for forbidden toys. Ancient-looking objects line the shelves—crystals that pulse with inner darkness, mirrors that reflect things that aren’t there, and weaponsthat seem to absorb light rather than reflect it. I clamp down hard on my shadows, forcing them to stay close with an effort that makes sweat bead on my forehead.
“Shadow, unlike light, has sentience in its rawest form,” Professor Nyx explains, gesturing to a sphere of living darkness that hovers above her palm. “It responds to emotion, intent, and power. Therefore, Dark Nephilim must maintain strict emotional control.”
My pencil rolls toward the edge of my desk, and without thinking, I reach for it—except I don’t. A thin tendril of shadow does, pushing it back toward my hand with gentle precision before I can stop it. The movement is so natural, so instinctive, that for a moment I forget where I am.
Constantine notices immediately. His amber eyes narrow, and he leans slightly away from me, though I catch a hint of something that might be impressed surprise.
“Interesting trick,” he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper.
“Muscle spasm,” I lie, my cheeks burning with embarrassment and fear.
Across the room, a light Nephilim with platinum blonde hair pulled into a severe braid is staring at me with open hostility. Her ice-blue eyes seem to burn with inner fire, and when she leans over to whisper something to her friend, their combined light flares briefly. Both sets of eyes never leave me, and I feel like prey being stalked by predators.
“That’s Elara,” Constantine says under his breath, following my gaze. “Queen bee of the light brigade. She can sense shadow anomalies.”
My stomach drops like a stone. “Is that right?”
“Don’t worry,” he says, though his tone suggests I absolutely should worry. “She hates all Dark Nephilim equally. You’re not special.”
“Lucky fucking me.”
Professor Nyx moves around the room with predatory grace, demonstrating different shadow properties with casual flicks of her wrist. Darkness bends and shapes at her command—forming animals, weapons, even what looks like miniature storms complete with lightning. When she approaches our row, my shadows react to her proximity like iron filings drawn to a magnet, reaching toward her as if they recognize a kindred spirit.
I grip the edges of my desk hard enough to leave indentations in the wood, forcing my shadows back with every ounce of concentration I possess. A bead of sweat rolls down my spine, cold against my heated skin.
“Miss Dawn,” she says, stopping directly in front of me. Her presence is overwhelming—an ancient power that makes the air thick and hard to breathe. “Since you’re new, perhaps you’d like to demonstrate basic shadow extension for the class?”
Every eye turns toward me. The light Nephilim watch with barely concealed disdain, their collective glow brightening with anticipation. The dark ones observe with curiosity mixed with territorial assessment. I remember Bael’s warnings about showing too much ability, about the danger of standing out.
“I—I’m still learning the basics,” I stammer, my voice embarrassingly high.
“Nonsense. All Dark Nephilim can manage basic extension by age five.” She gestures impatiently, her own shadows writhing with barely restrained power. “Just a simple demonstration.”
