The lecture hall felt like a throne room masquerading as a classroom—wide windows spilling light on polished floors, gold accents carved into dark wood, and the heavy presence of names that had ruled in shadows for generations.
I took my seat beside Arthur Gray.
Again.
Neither of us said a word.
The professor—a wiry man with sharp glasses and a voice like sandpaper—paced the front, gesturing toward the screen behind him.
"Today's topic: Strategic Power Shifts," he said. "When alliances falter, and empires crumble, who truly survives?"
Hands didn't rise. At St. Arthelios, answers were weapons, not offerings.
Except mine.
"Miss Durova," he said suddenly. "Thoughts?"
I straightened slightly, ignoring the weight of eyes turning my way. "The ones who survive are the ones who understand the battlefield before the war begins."
"And what does that battlefield look like in modern strategy?"
"Quiet," I said, "and crowded. The loudest threats are rarely the deadliest."
A low hum moved through the room—approval or irritation, I couldn't tell.
Beside me, Arthur tapped his pen once before speaking.
"survival isn't about anticipating the battlefield. It's about owning it. Controlling who walks on it, and who bleeds on it." he suddenly said, his tone smooth
The professor raised a brow, pleased. "Mr. Gray, are you challenging Miss Durova's stance?"
"I'm refining it," Arthur said, gaze flicking toward me, "from fiction to function."
I smiled without turning. "Function sounds awfully desperate when spoken with a bruised ego."
That got a few quiet laughs.
Arthur didn't blink. "Desperation is for those clinging to legacy. I don't need mine."
I turned my head now. "Then why wear it like a second skin?" Eye to eye with his Grey eyes.
He leaned forward slightly, eyes unreadable locking them with mine. "Because it fits."
The professor cleared his throat, unaware—or pretending not to see—the sparks between us. "Impressive. Both of you. Let's continue."
But class didn't continue, I could already hear them whisper. We'd both said too much. And not enough.
Every word had been wrapped in steel and silk. And neither of us was done.
I firstly broke the eye contact, he's eyes were too cold and now I know I hated that.
The professor's voice faded into the background.
I stopped taking notes. Arthur didn't look at me again—not directly—but the tension between us didn't dissolve. It simmered. Like the last spark before something goes up in flames.
I could feel eyes on me. Not his this time.
From across the room, Sophia sat poised in her perfect uniform, lips pressed into something between a smirk and a frown. Her elbow rested lazily on the desk, but her gaze was sharp. Watching me like I'd touched something that was hers.
She didn't blink.
She didn't pretend.
Our eyes met for half a second too long.
Then she looked away—graceful and cold.
Not a word spoken, but the message was clear:
Know your place.
I didn't flinch.
If she was going to play silent games, I could play too. Only difference?
I don't lose….
Class ended with the soft scrape of chairs and the murmur of shifting bodies.
I gathered my things slowly, not because I needed time—but because I wanted to see if he'd move first.
Arthur stood without a word. His movements were smooth, practiced. Every step measured, every gesture deliberate. Like someone who had spent his whole life being watched—and learned how to control what others saw.
But just before he turned to leave, he looked back.
At me.
Only for a second.
There was no smirk. No glare. Just something unreadable behind those grey eyes—like he was trying to solve a puzzle and didn't like the shape of the pieces.
Then he was gone.
Sophia followed seconds after, her perfume trailing like smoke.
And I stood there, still holding my pen, wondering what exactly I'd just started.