Everyone’s spooked. The dark Nephilim section looks like a crowd of people trying very hard not to move.
Headmaster Blackwood approaches the podium with the unhurried precision of someone who’s been doing this for centuries. Silver-white hair catching the torchlight, ancient face revealing nothing, robes bearing the combined faction emblems in embroidered silver and gold.
The symbols are supposed to represent unity. Right now they look more like a reminder of who holds the keys to this particular zoo.
“Welcome to the new term.” His voice hits every corner of the hall without effort — magically amplified, the kind of voice that expects silence and gets it. “Before classes commence, I must announce several important changes to academy protocols.”
The hall goes quiet so fast you could hear a feather hit stone.
“The Academy Council, in conjunction with the Hunter Oversight Committee, has implemented new regulations for the standardization of magical instruction.” He pauses just long enough for the euphemism to settle into the silence like poison into water.
Standardization. The word tastes like antiseptic.
“These changes ensure proper classification and appropriate educational placement for all students.”
Classification. Placement. Control dressed in academic language. Bureaucracy with teeth and a budget.
“All students will undergo comprehensive ability assessment according to faction-specific protocols.” Another measured pause. “Beginning with dark Nephilim shadow practitioners.”
Of course we’re first.
We’re always fucking first when it comes to restrictions and registries and being treated like we’re one bad day away from destroying civilization. The light Nephilim never seem to need standardization. Nobody’s demanding that Elara Lightbringer register her maximum ability limits in triplicate.
“All dark Nephilim students must register their shadow abilities within three days.” Blackwood’s gaze sweeps our section like a searchlight over a prison yard, slow and deliberate. “Registration includes mandatory classification in three categories: basic extension, construct creation, and manipulation capacity.”
This is so much worse than what Iris described.
They’re not just watching anymore — they’re building a comprehensive database of every dark Nephilim student’s maximum capabilities. Creating neat little boxes for each of us. And once those boxes exist on paper, anyone who demonstrates abilities outside their documented parameters lights up like a flare in the dark.
One slip. One moment where my shadows do something the file says they can’t. That’s all it takes.
“Students must demonstrate maximum ability limits for official documentation.” He hits maximum like a judge bringing down a gavel. “Faculty evaluators and Hunter specialists will oversee all demonstrations to ensure accurate classification.”
Maximum limits. They want us to show everything we’ve got so they can draw a line and wait for someone to cross it. Show too little now, and every future demonstration that exceeds your classification triggers an investigation. Show too much, and you flag yourself on the spot.
I catch Constantine’s eye across the hall. He sits among the faculty with the practiced ease of someone who belongs there, but I know the barely perceptible head shake he gives me.
Don’t react. Don’t stand out. Don’t give them a single thing they can use.
“Registration schedules will be posted in dormitory common rooms by noon today. Questions may be directed to faction advisors. Classes will proceed on standard schedule during the registration period.”
The assembly dissolves into whispered chaos. I sit still for an extra beat, letting the noise crash over me — hundreds of voices, the scrape of benches on stone, the rustle of faction uniforms — while I breathe through the tightness in my chest and force my shadows to remain absolutely motionless.
“Well, that’s completely fucked,” Marcus mutters, his usual swagger replaced by something uncomfortably close to genuine fear. He’s gripping the edge of the bench hard enough to whiten his knuckles. “Maximum ability demonstration? They might as well just hand out questionnaires asking who’s been hiding advanced capabilities.”
“Just paperwork,” I say, standing on legs that feel less solid than I’d like. “We all registered our abilities when we enrolled anyway.”
“Not like this.” His eyes dart toward a nearby Hunter whose pale attention hasn’t shifted from our section once during the entire assembly. “Not with specialists watching and recording equipment and classification parameters. This is different, Ash, and you know it.”
I do know it. I just can’t afford to let that knowledge show on my face.
First period Shadow Studies feels like walking into an ambush.
The classroom has been completely rearranged since last term. Student desks repositioned into a semicircle facing a raised demonstration platform I’ve never seen before. Detection devices gleaming from every corner like silver eyes. Two unfamiliar Hunters stationed at a side table loaded with crystal recording equipment.
They don’t introduce themselves. They don’t need to. Their silver badges and flat, evaluating stares communicate everything — they’re here to document, to measure, to catch.
Constantine stands at the front, impeccable in faculty robes, radiating nothing but calm professional authority. Not a single tell in his posture suggests he’s anything other than a dedicated professor beginning a new term.
