“What happens now?” I ask as medical staff approach to treat my injured arm, their hands gentle but efficient.
Constantine’s expression is grim but determined. “We activate contingency plans. Tonight.”
My bound shadows pulse once in confirmation, relaying Bael’s identical message through our connection. Whatever protection the academy once provided has been compromised. The time for hiding, for careful concealment and strategic training, has ended.
The real fucking battle is about to begin.
The crimson ascendant prophecy accelerates whether I'm ready or not.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The medical wingof Greyson Academy smells of antiseptic herbs and ancient healing magic—lavender and sage mingling with the metallic tang of blood-restoration potions — which makes my nose wrinkle. Late afternoon sunlight filters through stained glass windows, casting rainbow patterns across starched white beds arranged in perfect rows like soldiers at attention. The ceiling arches high overhead, wooden beams carved with healing runes that pulse faintly when activated by the healers bustling between patients. Their soft-soled shoes whisper against polished stone floors, and the air hums with contained magic that tastes like hope and desperation.
I sit on the edge of a narrow bed, the starched sheets rough against my legs, watching a silver-haired healer wrap my arm with bandages infused with shadow-resistant healing compounds. Her fingers are gentle but efficient, and she smells like rosemary and old books. The leech wound resists standard treatment, its edges still pulsing with unnatural darkness despite multiple cleansing spells. The pain throbs in time with my heartbeat, a constant reminder of how fucked my situation has become.
“This will take time to heal properly,” the healer says, securing the bandage with a sealing charm that sparkles briefly before settling into the fabric. “Shadow leech venom contains magic-suppressing properties. Most unusual for a student trial.”
She doesn’t say what we’re both thinking—shadow leeches are execution-grade creatures, never used in standard academy assessments. Their presence in the Mirrored Maze confirms what Constantine warned: Malcolm engineered the entire trial as an Ascendant detection system.
Across the medical wing, other injured students receive treatment for less severe wounds. The sound of quiet conversations and gentle magic fills the space, punctuated by occasional winces of pain. Near the entrance, Hunter observers in silver-trimmed uniforms record each injury in crystal tablets, their expressions professionally neutral despite the obvious protocol violations. Among them stands Elara Lightbringer, her perfect features arranged in concerned observation that doesn’t reach her calculating blue eyes.
My bound shadows press flat against the floor beneath my bed like frightened animals, maintaining the most conventional patterns possible despite their agitation. Since the extraction from the Maze, they’ve been unnaturally subdued—sensing the increased scrutiny from all directions like prey that knows it’s being hunted. The pendant against my skin pulses with steady rhythm, working overtime to reorganize any shadow movement into acceptable configurations.
“There,” the healer says, stepping back to assess her work with satisfied efficiency. “Keep the bandage on for at least three days. Return immediately if the darkness spreads beyond the wound site.”
I nod my thanks, carefully rolling down my sleeve to cover the evidence. The fabric feels rough against the fresh bandage. Through my bound shadows, I sense Bael’s distant awarenessfocused intently on my situation, though the academy’s protective wards prevent his direct intervention within the medical wing. The shadow-binding between us pulses with his barely contained fury at Malcolm’s trap and my subsequent injury.
“Dawn,” Constantine approaches my bed, his footsteps measured and professional, though I can see the tension in his shoulders. His expression maintains a professional concern, though his amber eyes communicate deeper worry. “How’s the arm?”
“I’ll live,” I reply, matching his casual tone despite the gravity of our situation and the way my pulse quickens when he’s near. “Though shadow leech venom isn’t exactly standard trial hazard.”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, a muscle jumping near his ear. “Indeed. The unauthorized threat level has been formally reported to the Headmaster. Investigation pending.”
What he doesn’t say—can’t say in this monitored environment—is that any investigation will almost certainly be intercepted and neutralized by Malcolm’s Hunter authority. The specialized observation protocol supersedes standard academy procedure, especially when confirmation of Ascendant abilities has been recorded.
“Team Twelve’s trial participation has been suspended pending review,” Constantine continues, maintaining the formal instructor facade. His voice carries just the right amount of professional concern. “You’re excused from regular classes until medical clearance is received.”
Translation: stay the fuck out of sight while we figure out our next move.
My bound shadows pulse acknowledgment, though they remain carefully controlled under the watchful eyes of Hunter observers whose attention feels like physical weight.
“Miss Lightbringer has requested to speak with you,” Constantine adds, gesturing toward where Seraphina—not Elara—stands near the entrance. Unlike her sister’s obvious hostility, Seraphina’s expression shows analytical curiosity mixed with something that might almost be regret.
“I’d rather not,” I say honestly, too exhausted for another round of Lightbringer manipulation. The thought of dealing with more political bullshit makes my head throb.
Constantine nods understanding. “Rest takes priority. I’ll inform her.”
As he turns to leave, my bound shadows react without conscious direction—a single tendril extending briefly toward him before I can suppress it. The movement lasts less than a second, but it’s enough to catch the attention of a nearby Hunter observer, who immediately makes a notation in his crystal tablet with sharp, decisive strokes.
Constantine notices too, his eyes flicking momentarily to the extending shadow before meeting mine with clear warning. Without breaking stride, he deliberately knocks a tray of healing instruments to the floor with his elbow, creating a loud crash that draws everyone’s attention.
“My apologies,” he says smoothly, bending to help the flustered healer gather the scattered tools. The metal instruments ring against stone like tiny bells. “Clumsy of me.”
The momentary chaos allows my bound shadows to retreat completely, pressing so flat against the floor they barely cast normal darkness. Through the pendant’s connection, I sense Constantine’s calculated intervention—creating the accident specifically to cover my shadow’s involuntary movement.
When order restores, the observer seems to have forgotten the anomaly, his attention now focused on recording the injuries of a light Nephilim student from another team. Constantine finishes helping the healer, then continues toward the entrance, speaking briefly with Seraphina before exiting the medical wing.
For the next hour, I remain on the bed, pretending to restwhile actually studying the room through barely opened eyes. The afternoon light shifts and changes, casting moving shadows that my bound darkness wants to join. The Hunter observers maintain constant surveillance, recording not just injuries but behavioral patterns among the students. I notice they pay particular attention to Dark Nephilim shadow movements, comparing observations in hushed voices and making frequent notations.
