Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Professor Thorne’s History of the Fall class takes place in the oldest section of Greyson Academy, a circular stone chamber that feels more like a medieval church than a classroom.
The air smells like centuries of dust, old incense, and something faintly metallic that makes my teeth ache.
Vaulted ceilings disappear into darkness above us, and ancient tapestries depicting angelic battles cover the walls in vivid detail—wings torn, blood spilled, faces frozen in eternal agony.
The room is split down the middle—one half bathed in light from tall windows that seem to glow with their own inner radiance, the other perpetually shadowed despite identical windows on both sides.
The temperature difference is noticeable, with the light side feeling warm as summer while the shadow side carries the chill of winter nights.
Guess on which fucking side the Dark Nephilim sit on.
I slide into an empty seat near the back of the shadow section, hoping to remain inconspicuous while my heart hammers against my ribs.
The wooden chair is worn smooth by generations of students, and it creaks ominously under my weight.
Two weeks at Greyson, and I’ve managed to keep a slightly lower profile since starting my training sessions with Bael.
My shadow control has improved—I can actually make them behave like normal Dark Nephilim shadows for short periods now—though maintaining it through entire classes leaves me mentally exhausted and with a persistent headache that throbs behind my temples.
Constantine drops into the seat beside me, his fire-red hair standing out among the predominantly dark-haired shadow students like a flame in a coal mine.
As a Hunter instructor, he doesn’t technically need to attend regular classes, which makes his presence beside me suspicious as hell.
Up close, I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and warm that contrasts sharply with the cold stone around us.
“You’re in my spot again,” he says, amber eyes studying me with an unsettling intensity that makes my skin crawl.
“Didn’t see your name on it,” I reply, though there are plenty of other empty seats in our section. My shadows want to curl defensively around my ankles, but I keep them spread in the casual, relaxed pattern I’ve been practicing.
His mouth quirks upward in what might be amusement. “I like to observe from the shadows. Ironic, for a fire wielder.”
Before I can respond, Professor Thorne sweeps into the room, his silver-streaked beard and flowing black robes giving him a distinctly wizardly appearance.
Unlike most professors who clearly favor one faction, Thorne moves between light and shadow with equal comfort, though rumor has it he was originally light Nephilim before some scandal centuries ago.
His footsteps echo against the stone floor, each step deliberate and measured.
“Today,” his voice resonates through the chamber without apparent effort, seeming to come from the very stones themselves, “we discuss the fundamental schism that shapes our world—the Great Fall and its consequences.”
The light side of the room straightens like soldiers called to attention, students looking appropriately reverent.
Their combined glow brightens slightly, and I have to resist the urge to squint.
The shadow side collectively slouches further, some openly rolling their eyes with the practiced disdain of teenagers forced to sit through yet another lecture about how evil their ancestors supposedly were.
I sense I’m about to get the version of history written by the fucking winners.
“In the beginning,” Thorne continues, pacing the neutral zone between factions with measured steps, “all Nephilim served a singular purpose as guardians of the veil between worlds. Neither light nor dark, but unified in service.”
He gestures with one gnarled hand, and the crystal orb at the center of the room glows with inner fire, projecting images of winged beings that look disturbingly similar to what I see in the mirror when I let my wings out. My stomach clenches with recognition and fear.
“The Fall changed everything,” his tone darkens like storm clouds gathering.
“Those who maintained their sacred purpose became what we now call light Nephilim.” The projection shows radiant figures with white wings that seem to glow from within, their faces serene and beautiful.
“Those who surrendered to darker impulses became corrupted.” The image shifts to darker figures with black wings, their expressions twisted with what the projection suggests is malevolence.
My shadows curl tightly around my feet, responding to my irritation at this obviously biased bullshit narrative. I force them to remain still through sheer willpower, conscious of Constantine’s proximity and the way his amber eyes seem to track every movement.
“The divide might have remained a simple matter of ideology,” Thorne continues, his voice taking on the measured cadence of someone who’s told this story a thousand times, “if not for the emergence of dangerous abominations that threatened the very fabric of our world.”
The projection changes to show a winged figure with a strange crimson aura surrounding it like spilled blood. My blood runs cold, ice flooding my veins as recognition hits me like a physical blow.
“When light and dark bloodlines mixed, the resulting offspring occasionally manifested dual natures—beings capable of wielding both light and shadow, while also forming unnatural connections with Gifted humans. These abominations, called Ascendants, destabilized the careful balance between realms.”
My shadows instinctively withdraws, pressing flat against me as if trying to hide from view. The effort of maintaining control while hearing myself described as a fucking abomination makes my head pound with renewed intensity, and I taste copper where I’ve bitten my tongue.
“The light Nephilim, recognizing the threat, formed an alliance with human Hunters to identify and eliminate these dangerous anomalies,” Thorne explains with a clinical detachment that makes my skin crawl. “This Great Purge restored balance and established the faction system we maintain today.”
Beside me, Constantine shifts slightly, the movement subtle but somehow significant. When I glance over through my peripheral vision, his expression is unreadable, but there’s tension in the line of his jaw and the way his hands rest too carefully on his desk.
“Ascendants possessed several identifying characteristics,” Thorne continues, and I force myself to breathe normally despite the way my lungs feel like they’re constricting.
“Wings with unique coloration, often bearing marks or patterns unlike pure bloodlines. Living shadows that responded to emotion rather than direct will. The ability to form Vessel bonds with multiple Gifted humans simultaneously.”
It takes every ounce of control not to react as he essentially reads off a fucking checklist of my traits. My shadows are practically nonexistent now, huddling so close to my body they’re nearly invisible, like a frightened animal trying to disappear.
“While Ascendants have been largely eliminated through careful bloodline management and vigilant monitoring, vigilance remains necessary,” Thorne concludes with the satisfaction of someone discussing a successfully completed extermination.
“The last confirmed Ascendant was destroyed over seventy years ago, though unconfirmed reports surface occasionally.”
The light students look smugly satisfied, their collective glow brightening with what seems like pride. The dark ones mostly look bored, having heard this version of history their entire lives. I try to maintain the same expression of mild disinterest while internally screaming.
“Questions before we move to faction-specific developments after the Fall?” Thorne asks, his gaze sweeping the room.
A light Nephilim student with perfectly styled blonde hair raises her hand eagerly. “Is it true Ascendants could command others through their shadows?”
“Some historical accounts suggest such abilities,” Thorne acknowledges with the tone of someone discussing theoretical possibilities rather than describing real people who were murdered. “The gift of command was particularly feared, as it could potentially override free will.”
Great. Add mind control to my résumé of abominations.
“Were all Ascendants evil?” asks another student, this time from the shadow section. His voice carries genuine curiosity rather than the sneering superiority of the light students.
Thorne considers this, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Historical records indicate most Ascendants eventually succumbed to madness as their dual natures conflicted. Whether this constitutes ‘evil’ is perhaps philosophical rather than historical.”
“Seems convenient,” Constantine speaks up unexpectedly beside me, his voice cutting through the classroom like a blade. “The very beings who threatened the light Nephilim’s power structure were universally deemed ‘unstable’ and eliminated.”
A ripple of surprise runs through the classroom like an electric current. Students turn in their seats to stare at him, and I can practically taste the tension in the air. Thorne raises an eyebrow, his expression shifting from professorial to something more guarded.
“An interesting perspective, Professor Constantine. The Hunter archives might offer unique insights than our academic records.”
“They might,” Constantine agrees mildly, but there’s steel beneath his casual tone. “History has many versions, depending on who’s telling the story.”
The tension in the room thickens like smoke, making the air feel heavy and oppressive. I stare straight ahead, afraid to look at Constantine, afraid my face might reveal too much. Why would a Hunter instructor question the official narrative about Ascendants? Is this some kind of test?