Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The first day.
I stare at the gargoyle perched above my dorm room window, convinced it’s been watching me all morning with its carved stone eyes.
Its weathered features seem to shift in the dim light, and I swear its mouth has moved from a neutral expression to something that looks distinctly disapproving.
Greyson Academy’s Gothic architecture gives major haunted boarding school vibes, all weathered stone that smells like centuries of rain and iron fixtures that belong in a horror movie, not an educational institution.
The metal tastes bitter on my tongue when the wind carries its scent through my cracked window.
Four days since my world imploded in that park, and I still feel like I’m dreaming. Or having a fucking nightmare that I can’t wake up from, complete with wings that ache between my shoulder blades and shadows that follow me like loyal pets.
A soft knock interrupts my brooding. My roommate, Iris, pokes her head in, her copper curls catching the dim morning light filtering through the stained glass in jeweled fragments of red and gold. Her smile is bright enough to chase away some of the gloom clinging to the ancient stones.
“Ready for the grand tour?” she asks with a cheerfulness too bright for the medieval dungeon aesthetic surrounding us.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I mutter, grabbing my leather jacket from the foot of my bed.
The weight between my shoulder blades is a constant reminder of what I’m hiding—wings folded so tightly against my spine that every movement sends sharp pains shooting down my back.
Bael showed me how to retract them, but they still ache like a phantom limb, demanding to be stretched and freed.
Iris chatters as we navigate the winding hallways, her voice echoing off stone walls lined with portraits whose eyes seem to track our movement.
She points out important landmarks with the enthusiasm of someone who actually enjoys this place.
“That’s Professor Winters’ office—avoid at all costs unless summoned.
The east wing is off-limits to first-years.
Oh, and never go into the north tower after midnight. ”
“Let me guess,” I say dryly, my breath visible in the perpetually cold air. “It’s haunted?”
She gives me a strange look, her green eyes wide with something that might be amusement or concern. “No, that’s when the light Nephilim conduct their rituals. Dark Nephilim aren’t welcome.”
Right. The whole supernatural hierarchy thing I’m still trying to wrap my head around while pretending I belong here.
We step into a massive courtyard where ancient cobblestones glisten with morning dew, and students cluster in obvious social groups like some fucked-up version of high school cafeteria politics.
The air smells like wet stone and fallen leaves, with an underlying current of ozone that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
Iris points them out like she’s giving a wildlife tour at the world’s most dangerous zoo.
“Those are the Gifted humans—like me,” she explains, gesturing to a group of normal-looking students sitting on weathered benches near a fountain that gurgles with water dark as ink.
“We each have one ability. Mine’s empathy, which is why I got stuck with the transfer student.
” She winks to show she’s joking, but there’s truth behind her teasing tone.
“And those?” I ask, pointing to a group radiating so much light they’re practically glowing, their combined radiance making my eyes water even from this distance. The air around them shimmers with heat waves, and I catch the scent of something clean and sharp, like lightning.
“Light Nephilim. They’re descended from angels who stayed loyal during the Fall. Super righteous, super judgmental.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “They mainly stick to healing and protection magic, but don’t let that fool you—they can fry you to ash if they want to.”
My eyes drift to the opposite side of the courtyard, where students draped in darker colors lounge in the shadows of ancient oak trees whose gnarled branches block out most of the sky.
Their presence feels heavier somehow, more substantial, like they’re taking up more space than they physically should.
The shadows around them move independently, creating patterns that hurt to look at directly.
“Dark Nephilim,” Iris confirms, following my gaze. “Descended from fallen angels. They manipulate shadows; some can dream walk, others have death-related abilities. The light ones call them abominations.”
I swallow hard, tasting copper and fear, conscious of my own shadows curling around my ankles like nervous cats seeking comfort. “They don’t get along, I take it?”
Iris snorts, the sound sharp in the quiet courtyard. “That’s putting it mildly. There’s been war between them for millennia. Greyson is one of the few places with a truce, and even here, it’s tense as fuck. The light ones work with Hunters to track down and eliminate ‘corrupted’ dark ones.”
Great. I’m trying to hide among people who actively hunt what I am, while pretending to be something I’m not, with powers I barely understand.
“What about those?” I ask, nodding toward a small group that seems to float between the factions, neither fully in light nor shadow.
“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 and trying 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 weapons that 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.”
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.