Chapter 2: Whispers of Power
Elvas followed Miss Elira down the quiet hall, his steps dragging like weights chained to his ankles. The stares from earlier still clung to him, heavy and damp, refusing to let go.
Her office was small, crowded with shelves sagging under the weight of old books, jars filled with strange powders, and trinkets that seemed older than the school itself. The air carried a bitter tang—dust mixed with something sharper, like burnt herbs.
Elira gestured to a chair across from her desk. Her tone was calm, though it left no room for argument. "Sit, Elvas."
He dropped into the chair, his headphones dangling loosely from one hand, his eyes fixed on the worn floorboards as if they could swallow him whole.
She settled opposite him, her black robes pooling like spilled ink, the shadows gathering at her feet. For a long moment she simply studied him, her silence pressing against him harder than words ever could.
Finally, she spoke. Her voice was precise, cutting straight through the quiet.
"You need to stand up for yourself. If you don't, they'll keep looking down on you."
Elvas's jaw clenched. His fingers curled tightly around the plastic of his headphones.
"How?" His voice was low, almost bitter. "Stand up how? Everyone's stronger than me."
His eyes flicked up, catching hers. "I don't have any power. Never have. It's easier to just… take it. Let them push me around. That's all I've ever known."
Elira rose slowly, deliberately, like a predator deciding whether to strike. Her eyes slid shut—and when they opened, the blue was gone. In its place was pure white, glowing with an otherworldly light.
With a sound like feathers tearing through the air, wings erupted from her back—vast, black-feathered, their edges frayed as if ripped from heaven itself.
Elvas froze, breath caught in his throat, his eyes wide. The sight of her filled the tiny office, swallowing the space whole.
Her voice, softer now but heavy with meaning, wrapped around him like chains. "I'm Nephilim, Elvas. Half-angel, half-human. But I hide it."
She glanced over her shoulder at her wings, then back at him. "I keep them tucked away because not everyone accepts what I am."
Elvas swallowed hard, his chest tight. "Why… why are you telling me this?"
Elira's laugh was low, bitter, echoing off the cluttered shelves. "Because not everyone likes what they are."
"They call me a fallen angel, punished and cast down." Her glowing gaze sharpened. "But sometimes I think the punishment wasn't mine. Sometimes I think it was meant for you."
Her words struck like a blow. His mother's face flashed in his mind—the blood, the dirt, the moment her body went limp.
His voice cracked, but he forced the words out. "My mother gave birth to me with demon blood. That's why they killed her. And now I pay for it every single day. Everyone sees me as cursed."
Elira stepped closer, her wings folding in slightly. She placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch cold but steady. "You're so sure you have no power, Elvas."
Her tone dropped to something softer, almost reverent. "But maybe it's time you stopped believing that. I feel it—something great is coming for you."
A shiver crawled down his spine. Doubt tangled with something unfamiliar. Fear… or was it hope?
He rose abruptly, gripping his headphones so tightly the cord dug into his palm. "I've got class. I should go."
He moved toward the door, desperate for air, but her voice cut across the room again, sharp and unyielding.
"You're more than you think, Elvas."
He didn't turn. Didn't answer. He pushed through the door and stepped back into the hall, her words dogging his every step like a shadow he couldn't outrun.
…
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Every class was the same: muttered whispers, sidelong glances, stifled laughter that always seemed aimed at him.
When the final bell rang, Elvas slipped out before the others, weaving through the thinning halls. Groups formed quickly—packs of werewolves roaring with laughter, vampires striding together with smug confidence—but none of them for him. He walked alone, his backpack heavy against his shoulder, solitude pressing down heavier still.
Avalon's streets were alive with sound. Merchants shouted at passersby, werewolf boys roughhoused at the corners, and vampires moved sleekly in packs, their red eyes gleaming with superiority.
Elvas tugged his hood up, headphones in place, blasting music loud enough to sting. Still, it couldn't drown the ache inside his chest.
He cut into a narrow alley, the shortcut home he'd walked a hundred times before. The walls on either side loomed high, brick crumbling, the ground uneven beneath his boots. The smell of damp stone and trash clung to the air.
The sky above had darkened to gray, daylight fading too fast.
Then his foot caught on something jagged—a stone, maybe a broken pipe—and he stumbled, slamming into the rough wall. His hand shot out to steady himself, and pain flared sharp across his wrist.
A branch jutting from a pile of debris had sliced his skin.
He hissed, pulling his hand back. Blood welled quickly, dripping down his palm before splattering onto the cracked pavement.
"Damn it," he muttered, shaking his hand. The sting was sharp but shallow. Nothing serious.
Yet as the droplets sank into the ground, a strange sensation stirred in him. His gaze dropped, locking on the small red stain spreading across the dirt. Something pulled at him, subtle but insistent, like a whisper brushing against the edges of his mind.
His pulse quickened.
He forced himself to shake it off. "Nothing's here. Just keep moving."
He tore his eyes away and pressed forward, boots scuffing against stone, the weight of unease following him.
Minutes later, his small, rundown house came into view, its windows dark, its walls sagging with age. The door groaned as he pushed it open, stale air rolling out to meet him.
He tossed his backpack onto the bed with a dull thud, the sound echoing through the emptiness. His movements were mechanical as he slipped into the back room, shoulders hunched, exhaustion dragging at his body.
.
.
Back in the alley, where his blood had fallen, the air began to shift.
A faint shimmer rippled across the ground, glowing softly at first, then stronger—unnatural, wrong. The glow pulsed like a heartbeat, light cutting through the cracks in the dirt.
From it, something forced its way into being.
A book.
Dark as midnight, its cover bound in shadows, the title etched in burning crimson letters that bled and writhed as if alive.
It hovered there for a moment, trembling with unseen power. The air around it hissed, the walls of the alley vibrating under its presence.
And then It vanished.
The alley fell silent once more.