Chapter 3
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.
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 of will 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.
She approaches 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.”