Chapter 2: The Truth Beneath the Wings
Elvas followed Miss Elira down the quiet hallway, his steps heavy, feeling as though weights were chained to his ankles. The harsh stares from earlier clung to him, a persistent, damp sensation that refused to dissipate.
Her office was small and cramped. The shelves sagged under the burden of countless old books, jars filled with strange powders, and exotic trinkets that appeared ancient. The air was pungent—a bitter mix of dust and something sharp, like burnt herbs.
Elira gestured to a chair across from her desk. Her tone was calm, yet undeniably commanding. "Sit, Elvas."
He slumped into the chair, his headphones dangling loosely from one hand. His gaze was fixed on the worn floorboards, as if he hoped the earth might simply swallow him whole.
She settled opposite him, her black robes pooling like spilled ink, shadows gathering at her feet. For a long moment, she simply observed him. Her silence was heavier and more pressing than any lecture could have been.
Finally, she spoke, her voice precise, cutting straight through the tension. "You must learn to defend yourself. If you do not, they will perpetually look down on you."
Elvas's jaw locked. His fingers curled tightly around the plastic of his headphones.
"How?" His voice was low, laced with bitterness. "How can I? Everyone here is inherently stronger than me."
His eyes flicked up, meeting hers. "I possess no power. Never have. It's simply easier to... endure it. To let them push me. That is the only reality I've ever known."
Elira rose slowly, deliberately, like a powerful force preparing to manifest. Her eyes closed—and when they opened, the rich blue was gone. In its place was a pure, glowing white, radiating an otherworldly luminescence.
With a sound like heavy fabric tearing, vast, black-feathered wings erupted from her back, their edges frayed as if forcibly ripped from a higher realm.
Elvas froze, his breath catching in his throat, his eyes wide with shock. Her magnificent form filled the tiny office, consuming the space entirely.
Her voice, now softer but weighted with profound meaning, wrapped around him. "I am Nephilim, Elvas. Half-angel, half-human. But I conceal it."
She glanced briefly at her enormous wings before returning her gaze to him. "I keep them hidden because not everyone accepts what I am."
Elvas swallowed hard, his chest painfully tight. "Why... why are you revealing this to me?"
Elira's laugh was low and caustic, echoing off the cluttered shelves. "Because not everyone is proud of their origin."
"They label me a fallen angel, punished and cast down," she continued, her glowing gaze intensifying. "But sometimes I wonder if the punishment wasn't truly meant for you."
Her words struck him like a physical blow. The image of his mother's face flashed in his mind—the spilled blood, the cold dirt, the moment her life vanished.
His voice cracked with pain, but he forced the explanation out. "My mother bore me with demon blood. That is why they murdered her. And I pay the price every single day. Everyone sees me as nothing more than a curse."
Elira stepped closer, her massive wings folding in slightly. She placed a hand on his shoulder; her touch was cool, yet unwavering. "You are so certain you are powerless, Elvas."
Her tone dropped to a near-reverent whisper. "Perhaps it is time to discard that belief. I sense it—something monumental is coming for you."
A shiver raced down his spine. Confusion mixed with an unfamiliar sensation. Was it fear... or a desperate flicker of hope?
He stood abruptly, clutching his headphones so tightly the cord bit into his palm. "I have class. I must leave now."
He moved toward the door, desperate for fresh air, but her voice sliced through the room once more, sharp and absolute.
"You are far greater than you comprehend, Elvas."
He did not turn. He did not reply. He pushed through the door and stumbled back into the hall, her enigmatic words pursuing his every step like an inescapable shadow.
…
The remainder of the day was a blur of misery. Every class brought the same routine: muttered whispers, hostile sidelong glances, and stifled laughter that always seemed directed at him.
When the final bell rang, Elvas bolted, slipping out before the others. He weaved through the thinning halls. Groups quickly coalesced—werewolf packs roaring with communal laughter, vampires striding together with smug superiority—but never a group for him. He walked in absolute solitude, his backpack heavy, the oppressive weight of his loneliness heavier still.
Avalon's streets were vibrant with sound. Vendors hawked their goods, rowdy werewolf boys roughhoused near the corners, and sleek vampire gangs moved with chilling confidence.
Elvas pulled his hood up and inserted his headphones, blasting music loud enough to cause a stinging ache. Yet, it failed to silence the hollow ache inside his chest.
He cut into a narrow, familiar alley—his shortcut home. High, crumbling brick walls loomed on either side, and the uneven ground was slick with damp stone and the stale smell of discarded trash.
The sky above had already darkened to a foreboding gray, the daylight vanishing rapidly.
Suddenly, his foot snagged on something sharp—a loose stone or perhaps a broken pipe—and he stumbled, colliding hard with the rough brick wall. He threw his hand out to stabilize himself, and a sharp jolt of pain flared across his wrist.
A jagged branch jutting from a pile of debris had sliced his skin.
"Damn it," he hissed, pulling his hand back. Blood quickly welled up, dripping down his palm and splattering onto the cracked pavement.
The sting was immediate but minor. Nothing serious.
Yet, as the crimson droplets soaked into the dirt, a strange, profound sensation stirred within him. His gaze dropped, fixating on the small red stain spreading across the ground. Something pulled at him, subtle but insistent, like a whisper brushing the edge of his consciousness.
His pulse accelerated.
He forced himself to dismiss it. "It's nothing. Just keep moving."
He tore his eyes away and pressed forward, his boots scuffing the stone, the heavy mantle of unease trailing close behind.
Minutes later, his small, dilapidated house appeared, its windows dark, its structure sagging with age. The door groaned as he pushed it open, releasing a draft of stale air.
He tossed his backpack onto the bed with a dull thud that echoed through the emptiness. His movements were mechanical as he retreated to the back room, his shoulders hunched, his body dragging with exhaustion.
...
Back in the alley, where his blood had consecrated the ground, the very air began to shimmer.
A faint, unnatural glow rippled across the dirt, growing softly at first, then intensifying. It pulsed like a silent heartbeat, the sickly light cutting through the pavement cracks.
From the heart of the shimmer, something forcibly manifested.
A book.
Its cover was dark as midnight, bound in shadow, its title etched in burning crimson letters that bled and writhed as if they possessed life.
It hovered momentarily, trembling with unseen, immense power. The air surrounding it began to hiss, and the brick walls of the alley vibrated under its presence.
And then, in a blink, the book vanished.
The alley fell silent once more.