When he finishes with a flourish that would make a Broadway actor jealous, he bows dramatically. Several female students actually applaud, their giggles echoing off the stone walls.
“Well executed, Mr. Blackthorn, though perhaps more theatrical than necessary,” Professor Winters says dryly, making notes on her tablet with sharp taps. “Miss Evernight, you’re next.”
One by one, Dark Nephilim students show their shadow abilities. Some create weapons that gleam like liquid darkness; others focus on stealth techniques, making parts of their bodies fade into shadow until they look like living smoke. I observe carefully, trying to understand what “normal” shadow manipulation looks like while my own shadows press restlessly against my skin.
Unlike my shadows, which feel alive and responsive to my emotions like a faithful pet, theirs are simply tools—extensions ofwill rather than semi-independent entities that seem to have opinions about everything. The difference is subtle but critical, and it makes sweat bead between my shoulder blades where my hidden wings ache to be free.
“Miss Dawn.”
My name echoes through the arena like a death sentence, and suddenly every eye is on me. The weight of their attention makes my skin crawl. I trudge to the center, my footsteps sounding unnaturally loud in the sudden silence, heart hammering against my ribs so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it. Bael’s warnings ring in my ears like church bells:Don’t show your full power. Basic manipulation only. Nothing that would mark you as different.
I take a deep breath that tastes like dust and old stone, and extend my awareness to my shadows, silently pleading with them to behave. Just be normal for five fucking minutes. Please.
I begin with simple extension, allowing my shadow to stretch across the floor—nothing fancy, just basic shit I’ve seen others do. The marble is cold beneath my feet, and I can feel the ancient symbols etched into the stone thrumming with some kind of dormant power. So far, so good. Then, I attempt to form a basic shape, concentrating on creating a shadow sphere above my palm.
The shadows respond eagerly—too eagerly. The sphere forms instantly, more solid and substantial than the other students’ creations, dense enough that it blocks out light like a miniature black hole. I can feel its weight, its substance, its desire to grow larger. I quickly diffuse it, trying to make it wispier, less cohesive, but the damage is done.
From the corner of my eye, I notice Elara and another light Nephilim girl watching intently from the sidelines, their heads tilted in identical expressions of suspicion like matching bookends of judgment. Their combined light makes my skin prickle with discomfort.
Next, I try shadow movement, the way Marcus made his formations shift and change. This is trickier, like trying to herd cats made of darkness. My shadows want to move on their own, reaching toward interesting objects or people without my direction. They’re drawn to Constantine in the back corner, to Professor Winters’ powerful aura, to the ancient symbols carved into the floor. I force them to follow a simple pattern, fighting their natural inclination to swirl and dance and explore.
“Is that all, Miss Dawn?” Professor Winters asks, frowning. Her voice carries disappointment that makes my cheeks burn. “Perhaps something a bit more... substantial?”
Marcus snickers from the sidelines, the sound sharp and mocking. “Maybe she can make a shadow bunny next.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, embarrassment, and anger warring in my chest. Fine. I’ll give them a little more, just enough to shut his smug ass up.
I focus on gathering shadows around my hands, feeling their eagerness to please, their desire to show off. I form them into curved blades extending from my wrists—a basic shadow weapon according to our textbook. The shadows leap to comply with an enthusiasm that should terrify me, solidifying instantly into gleaming obsidian crescents that look far more lethal than the smoky approximations other students created. They’re beautiful in a deadly way, sharp enough that I can feel the air parting around their edges.
Whispers ripple through the audience like wind through dead leaves. I can hear fragments: “—never seen shadows that solid—” “—looks real enough to cut—” “—something wrong with?—”
I quickly disperse the blades, but it’s too late. I’ve shown too much control in some ways, not enough in others, and everyone fucking noticed.
“Interesting technique,” Professor Winters says, studying me with a newfound interest that makes my skin crawl. Sheapproaches closer, and I can smell her perfume—something expensive mixed with the ozone scent that clings to powerful magic users. “Your shadows respond quite... readily. Yet your formations lack the finesse I would expect from someone with such raw power. How long did you say you’ve been practicing?”
“Not long,” I reply vaguely, my mouth dry as desert sand. “My family moved around a lot.”
“Hmm.” She makes a note on her tablet, each tap sounding like a nail in my coffin. “We’ll need to arrange additional training to address these inconsistencies.”
I retreat to the sidelines, avoiding eye contact with the other Dark Nephilim students whose stares I can feel burning into my back. Marcus is smirking, clearly enjoying my discomfort like it’s his favorite entertainment.
“That was weird as fuck,” he whispers as I pass, his breath warm against my ear and smelling like mint and danger. “Your shadows move like they’re alive.”
“Just nervous,” I mutter, but my shadows curl defensively around my ankles, betraying my lie.
The light Nephilim demonstrations begin next, filling the arena with brilliant displays that make my eyes water and my shadows recoil. The temperature in the room seems to rise several degrees, and the air becomes thick with the scent of ozone and something clean that reminds me of snow. Most create concentrated beams or shields of light, while a few show minor healing by closing minor cuts on volunteers’ arms with touches that glow like miniature suns.
The platinum-haired girl who was watching me steps forward when called, her movements graceful as a dancer’s. “Seraphina Lightbringer,” Professor Winters announces. Elara’s sister, based on the last name and similar features, though where Elara is all sharp edges and cold hostility, this one seems warmer somehow.
Seraphina is all graceful confidence as she summons light thatdances between her palms like liquid sunshine made tangible. Unlike her sister’s harsh brilliance that feels like staring into a spotlight, Seraphina’s light is somehow softer, more nuanced, like candlelight compared to a flood lamp. She shapes it into a globe that floats above the arena, casting gentle illumination that makes everyone look more beautiful—everyone except the Dark Nephilim, whose shadows deepen in response like they’re trying to hide.
My own shadows retreat, pressing flat against the floor as if trying to disappear entirely. The discomfort is immediate and overwhelming, a prickling sensation across my skin that intensifies as her light grows stronger. It’s like being slowly cooked under a heat lamp, and my hidden wings ache in response.
When she finishes, Seraphina’s eyes find mine across the arena. Instead of the open hostility Elara shows, her expression is curious, analytical, like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve.
The Gifted human demonstrations are last, and they’re a relief after the overwhelming light display. Iris creates empathic projections that allow others to briefly feel what she feels—a strange tingling sensation of connected consciousness that makes the air shimmer. Others display telekinesis, elemental manipulation, or enhanced physical abilities, all refreshingly human in their limitations.
As class ends, I try to slip out quickly, but Seraphina intercepts me at the door like she’s been waiting for this moment. Her light aura brushes uncomfortably against my shadows, making them recoil as if they’ve been burned.
