With no choice, I carefully release the smallest measure of control, allowing my shadow to extend about a foot beyond my body. I keep it thin, weak—nothing like the living darkness that had protected me in the park, nothing like the power that wants to surge through me like wildfire.
Professor Nyx frowns, clearly unimpressed. “Rather rudimentary control for your age. We’ll need to arrange remedial sessions.”
I exhale slowly as she moves on, my heart still racing. Constantine is still watching me, his expression unreadable but intense.
“You’re holding back,” he murmurs, his voice so quiet it’s barely more than breath against my ear.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply, but my shadows curl defensively around my ankles, betraying my lie.
When class ends an eternity later, I gather my things quickly, eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere and too many curious eyes. As I reach the door, Elara steps directly into my path, her movement smooth and predatory. Her light aura presses against me like a physical force, making my hidden wings itch and burn beneath my skin.
“Your shadows move wrong,” she says, her voice like ice cracking. Up close, her beauty is even more intimidating—too perfect, too bright, like looking directly at the sun. “What are you?”
“Just a transfer student trying not to get lost,” I reply, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack my face.
“Dark Nephilim from birth have better control,” she says, her head tilting in a way that reminds me of a bird of prey studying its next meal. “You move like you’re wearing a costume that doesn’t fit.”
My heart pounds against my ribs so hard I’m sure she can hear it. “Thanks for the feedback. I’ll work on it.”
I push past her, my shadows clinging tight to my heels as I escape into the hallway. The stone corridor feels like a haven compared to the classroom, and I lean against the wall for a moment, breathing hard. I need to be more careful. One slip, and these people will tear my wings off first and ask questions never.
As I round the corner, trying to get my racing pulse under control, I catch a glimpse of a familiar figure watching from the shadows—broad shoulders, green eyes that seem to glow in the darkness like a predator’s.
Bael.
He’s here, just as he promised. Even from a distance, I can feel the pull toward him, that inexplicable connection that makes every cell in my body sing with recognition. But as reassuring as that should be, all I can think is that I’ve walked straight into a nest of vipers, and I have no idea how to survive among them without getting my throat torn out.
Welcome to Greyson Academy. Try not to die on your first fucking day.
Chapter Three
The arena..
The training arena is nothing short of magnificent, in that creepy way only Greyson Academy can pull off. Soaring stone arches frame a circular space the size of a basketball court, with worn marble floors etched with strange symbols that seem to shift and writhe when I’m not looking directly at them. The air smells like centuries of sweat, fear, and something metallic that makes my teeth ache. Tiered seating surrounds the arena like an ancient colosseum, most of it empty for our first-year demonstration class, but I can still feel the weight of invisible eyes watching from the shadows between the stone benches.
I hover near the back of our small group, trying to become invisible while my heart hammers against my ribs like a caged bird. Four days at Greyson, and I’ve managed to keep a relatively low profile, despite Elara’s suspicious glances whenever we cross paths in the halls. Today, though, there’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to run, and nowhere to pretend I belong here.
“Welcome to Practical Power Applications,” announces Professor Winters, a tall woman with silver-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun that doesn’t have a single strand out of place.Her voice echoes off the stone walls with an authority that makes my spine straighten involuntarily. Her shadows move with military precision as she paces the arena, each step clicking against the marble with a predatory rhythm. “This is where theory becomes practice. Today’s session will establish your baseline abilities for future assessment.”
My stomach twists into knots so tight I taste bile. Baseline abilities. Great. Just fucking fantastic.
“Dark Nephilim will demonstrate shadow manipulation,” she continues, her dark eyes scanning our group like she’s cataloguing weapons. “Light Nephilim, light projection, and basic healing. Gifted humans, your primary abilities only.”
Students shuffle into faction groups with the nervous energy of prey animals separating into herds. I reluctantly join the Dark Nephilim cluster, my shadows already restless and wanting to reach out toward the others like they’re seeking kinship. A tall guy with jet-black hair that gleams like obsidian and a perpetual smirk seems to be holding court, his shadows writhing around him like adoring pets.
“Fresh meat,” he says, eyes landing on me with predatory interest. His voice is smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “The human academy transfer, right? This should be entertaining.”
“And you are?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral while my shadows instinctively curl closer to my feet, pressing against my boots like they’re trying to hide.
“Marcus Blackthorn.” He extends his hand dramatically, shadows swirling around his fingers like cigarette smoke given sentience. When he moves, I catch the scent of expensive cologne mixed with something darker—like burnt coffee and winter nights. “Sixth-generation Dark Nephilim. My family’s bloodline traces directly back to Azrael himself.”
I don’t take his hand, and his shadows seem to reach toward mine in disappointment. “Fascinating.”
His eyes narrow at the snub, and his shadow darkens with irritation. “Let me guess—your family couldn’t afford proper training, so you had to slum it with humans until now?”
Before I can respond with something appropriately sarcastic, Professor Winters calls for attention. Her voice cuts through the arena like a blade. “We’ll begin with basic demonstrations. Each of you will show control over his or her primary ability. Dark Nephilim first. Mr. Blackthorn, since you’re so eager to speak, perhaps you’d like to start?”
Marcus saunters to the center of the arena, oozing confidence with every step. His boots click against the marble with arrogant precision. With a casual flick of his wrist, shadows gather around him like he’s conducting a dark orchestra. They form shapes that shift from wolves to ravens to serpents, each creation solid enough that I can hear the whisper of displaced air as they move. It’s impressive, I have to admit, though it makes my own shadows writhe with what feels uncomfortably like envy. His shadows move exactly as he commands, never showing the semi-sentient behavior mine exhibit.
