Chapter 3 #2
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 that dances 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.
“Your shadows move wrong,” she says without preamble, her voice softer than her sister’s but no less direct. Up close, I can see gold flecks in her blue eyes, and her skin seems to glow from within.
I keep my expression neutral despite my racing heart. “Excuse me?”
“They respond before you direct them. They anticipate.” Her head tilts slightly, and I catch a whiff of her scent—vanilla and starlight, if starlight had a smell. “Normal shadows are tools. Yours are... something else.”
My mouth goes dry as a bone. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.” She studies me with unsettling intensity, not hostile but curious in a way that might be worse. “Dark Nephilim shadows are extensions of will. Yours act like they have their own will.”
“Maybe you should get your light vision checked,” I say, trying for casual dismissal but hearing the strain in my voice.
She smiles faintly, and the expression transforms her face. “Light sees truth, Ashley Dawn. And there’s something untrue about you.”
Before I can respond with something appropriately defensive, Marcus appears beside us like he’s materialized from the shadows themselves. His shadow deliberately overlaps with mine in a way that feels invasive, like someone touching me without permission.
“Lightbringer, are you trying to convert our new transfer already?” he asks with a false cheerfulness that doesn’t hide the edge in his voice. “I thought your sister claimed that territory.”
Seraphina’s expression cools, her light dimming slightly. “Just making observations, Blackthorn. Something you might try if you spent less time preening.”
She walks away, her light lingering uncomfortably in the hallway like an afterimage burned into my retinas.
“Don’t mind the light brigade,” Marcus says, turning to me with a grin that shows too many teeth. “They think everyone who isn’t them is a potential abomination.”
“Thanks for the interruption,” I say, genuinely relieved despite my wariness of him and his predatory smile.
His grin doesn’t reach his eyes, which remain calculating and cold.
“Don’t thank me yet. Your shadow display was.
.. interesting. Either you’re seriously untrained, or you’re hiding something big.
” He leans closer, his shadows pressing against mine with uncomfortable intimacy. “And I love uncovering secrets.”
Great. Now I have the light Nephilim twins and this shadow asshole suspicious of me. I push past him, keeping my shadows tightly controlled despite their agitation, but I can feel them wanting to lash out.
“I’m an open book,” I lie, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. “Just a normal Dark Nephilim trying to catch up on training.”
His laugh follows me down the hallway, rich and mocking. “No one at Greyson is normal, new girl. But you’re something special. I can tell.”
I hurry away, my shadows huddling close like a frightened animal seeking protection.
This power demonstration has done exactly what I feared—drawn attention I can’t afford from people who could destroy me.
I need to find Bael, need to figure out better control before I give myself away completely and end up as some kind of supernatural lab experiment.
As I round the corner, trying to escape the weight of too many curious stares, I catch a glimpse of Constantine watching from an alcove.
His amber eyes are thoughtful, calculating, and when our gazes meet for just a moment, I see something there that might be recognition.
Great. Add him to the growing list of people suspicious of the fucked-up transfer student.
At this rate, I’ll be exposed as an Ascendant before midterms. And then my first semester at Greyson will also be my last—assuming I live that long.