Page 10 of Beasts of Shadows #1

The Hag and Apep

(Power plays, curses, and yet another generational fallout) .

To secure influence over the Nile Valley, Calea allied herself with Apep—chaos serpent, river god, and her fourth official consort.

The match was strategic, not sentimental.

But Apep, though formidable, was deeply unpopular among the local pantheon.

During an annual purification rite, he was symbolically—and magically—expelled from the Nile.

Complicating matters further, Apep was rumored to be in secret alliance with Thantos, Calea’s father and former lover.

(Yes, the implications are disturbing.) Rather than risk a joint rebellion, Calea took preemptive action: she sealed Apep within the Book of the Dead, binding his essence to its pages.

Despite his imprisonment, Apep left behind a legacy. From his line came Set, the Egyptian god of disorder and storms. Set and Calea had a brief but volatile liaison—unsurprisingly, it ended poorly.

Their union produced Kronos.

Calea, ever the strategist, later convinced Kronos to castrate his own father—continuing a long tradition of divine betrayal and cyclical vengeance.

—Reema

P.S. This myth tends to resurface when discussing cursed bloodlines or the misuse of prophecy. File accordingly.

∞∞∞

The halls of Van Ritten smell like disinfectant and blood.

Not fresh blood, but old—baked into the stone, clotted in the cracks. Sanitized but never really gone.

I drag my boots across the polished floor, trying not to look too closely at the streaks that might be rust. Or worse.

It’s time to get our schedules. I search the hall for a familiar face. Cat, or Stella, or any other first year that has…

Well, maybe not a friendly face. But at least one that hasn’t tried to kill me.

But none are nearby. Cat’s in the back with the Ws, and who knows where my roommates are.

The orientation hall is freezing, all gray brick and harsh angles.

Rows of bleary-eyed students in standard-issue academic uniform—maroon blazer and navy dress pants.

I tug at my stand-up collar, feeling like I’m at some posh military prep school, instead of a college.

Whoever designed these must be the same loser who created marching band attire.

At least the get-up is missing all the pomp and circumstance.

I don’t know what I’d do if I had to wear a hat.

I secured my braids back into a low bun before orientation—tight, neat, no room for weakness.

There’s no regulation on how we should wear our hair, although it seems most women have gone for a similar low-maintenance style.

It’s the only thing I have full control over in this place, so I make it count.

Every loop pinned down with precision. Edges smoothed, not soft.

It looks regal, which is what I was going for. Maybe, if I look like someone who won’t break, the gods will hesitate before trying.

When it’s my turn, I step forward on shaky legs.

The woman manning the desk is the same from the assessment.

She’s traded out her guard ensemble to match the rest of us.

The only thing setting her apart, as Genier explained yesterday, are the varying symbols on her blazer.

Over her left breast is a broken spearhead, marking her as a warrior cadet (mine is the Eye of Providence), and a gold star, meaning she’s ranked within the top twenty of her class.

Mid-tier students wear a black star, and the bottom twenty, like myself, have nothing.

Colored cuffs on your sleeve indicate year. Freshmen have no color. Sophomores wear silver cuffs, juniors wear gold, and seniors wear white.

This woman wears gold.

I offer my name, as everyone else has done. I expect the same cold shoulder that those before me received, but instead, she glances up with sparkling eyes.

“You’re Cat and Cody’s cousin.”

I wince.

“Does everyone know them?”

“Probably not as intimately as I know Cat. She’s my girlfriend.” She offers a palm. “Bri Ruiz. But to answer your question, most people are familiar with the Wyatt siblings. Their mother’s on the Board of Directors.”

Someone behind me scoffs.

“No wonder you showed up yesterday morning unscathed.” I peer over my shoulder, dimly recognizing a boy from my tour group. He watches me with accusation in his eyes. “Everyone else had to earn their spot, but your aunt bought you a place.”

While I flinch, Bri remains steely-eyed.

“Nari earned her place here like everyone else.” She passes me a gray ascot. “She just has to keep it.”

“What’s this for?”

“Probationary status,” the boy behind me smugly retorts. “You must be in the bottom of the rankings.”

“Eighty-sixth out of eighty-six, to be precise,” Bri chirps, as if this is good news. She passes me my orientation packet and schedule.

Mythos 101: Foundations of Divine History and Lore

Ethics of Power and Prophecy

Combat Strategy and Survival: Mortal Applications

Applied Symbolics and Enchantment I

Psychological Warfare and Influence: Divine and Mortal Tactics

Language and Code of the Old Tongue

Freshmen Seminar

Psych Warfare? Great. Just what I need—more people in my head.

“Eighty-six,” I echo, my arms numb. “That’s practically a death sentence.”

“You survived,” the boy hisses at my ear, “That doesn’t mean you’re safe.”

While I ache to introduce his face to my fist, I can’t.

He’s right.

∞∞∞

I don’t get far before I spot Reema, draped in her priestess robes like some kind of divine bullseye. Cat walks beside her, already halfway through an eye roll.

And standing in their path, like a shadow that thinks it owns the sun—Nikolai.

Of course he’s here. The gods couldn’t let me have one quiet moment.

His attention drifts down Reema’s figure.

Her flowing pearl dress and matching cloak make her stand out—too much. The vee neckline would break dress code anywhere else, but modesty isn’t exactly a Van Ritten priority. She tugs it up anyway, trying to shield herself from Nikolai’s lecherous gaze.

“Piss off, Nikolai,” Cat says flatly, flicking her fingers like she’s swatting a fly.

“Aww, Kitty,” he purrs, that crooked smile cutting deeper. “Retract those claws. I mean no harm.”

He leans back lazily, and that’s when I notice Kilronan Kingsley, a troll prince, and Ta?sse Camon, dragon royalty, flanking him—like royalty with their retinue.

Ta?sse lounges close, her arm draped across his shoulders like she owns him. Although he’s not paying her any attention.

His gaze finds me.

“And look who it is.” Nikolai grins. “The girl who couldn’t even survive In-processing without help.”

Then he glances at Cat.

Finally, Reema.

And gods help me, he smiles. Regardless of how much of an ass he is—and he is such an ass—it’s a golden smile. Pure power and mischief wrapped in sunlit arrogance. I clench my jaw before my face does something stupid.

“Tell me, is that robe just ceremonial, or should I expect you to offer yourself with it?”

Kilronan snickers. Empowered, Nikolai continues.

“I wonder—do your prayers ever echo with pleasure?” His grin widens, slow and obscene, feeding off Reema’s discomfort. “Or are you still saving yourself for someone divine? Some women have called me ‘God,’ you know.”

“Gross,” Cat mutters.

Reema stiffens.

I can’t believe he’s saying this in public. In front of witnesses. In front of Ta?sse, who so clearly wants him.

And no one stops him. Probably no one ever has.

Nikolai moves close enough that he’s just beside her ear. Still, we all hear his words.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, close enough to Reema’s ear for everyone to hear. “Are you meant to be the consolation prize?” Then, to me—without breaking eye contact—, “Because it’d be a shame if they sent you here without offering tribute.”

My temper flares so hot I taste copper.

“If your fighting’s as shitty as your pickup lines,” I snap, “it’s no wonder you’re thinking about consolations.”

“Ouch,” Cat whispers, delighted.

“You must be one of those creatures that sleeps for fifty years,” I bite, voice sugar-sweet with venom. “Let me catch you up—these days, if a guy talks big game like a god, he’s expected to fuck like one. Not just leave the room smelling like disappointment.”

Truth is, I’m stalling. I’m furious—but I’m also calculating. One wrong move, and he’ll pounce. But if I let this slide, I’ll never get respect back.

The smile drops from his face.

Then it returns—slower this time, knife-sharp.

“While I appreciate the invitation,” he says coolly, “mutts don’t do it for me.”

Reema flinches. Even Cat’s mouth pulls tight.

I pretend to fan myself. “Thank the deities. I was worried you’d try to seduce me. But if all you want is to get humiliated in public, that’s a kink I can work with.”

Cat snorts into her sleeve. Reema doesn’t laugh at all.

And Nikolai… he’s unfazed. His head tilts, studying me like I’m something in a petri dish. No. Not that. Like I’m prey—and he’s wondering if he’s hungry enough to finish the hunt.

“I’ll confess, I was afraid you might die before we had fun. But I’m so glad you didn’t. I’m really looking forward to seeing you on Bonfire Night.”

I recall the chill of the sea in my bones during the assessment, the scream that wasn’t mine, the blood that might’ve been.

And he brings up my survival like it’s a game.

“What is your problem?” It feels good, finally putting the question out there. From over Nikolai’s shoulder, Cat shakes her head against going down this line of questioning. But damnit, I haven’t seen him give anyone else such a hard time before. “Don’t you have other mortals to piss off?”

Nikolai steps closer. The air around him folds in, warmer and heavier—like heat rolling off a forge.

And then—something odd.

His expression catches—like I’ve startled him. Like I’m a fire he didn’t mean to step into.

One second of hesitation. One second where I swear he wants something he doesn’t have a name for.

Then it’s gone.

Buried beneath that lazy smirk and the chill of someone who’s never learned how to want without taking.