Arthur's POV
I didn't look back for her.
Not at first.
But I felt her. Like static under skin. The kind of presence that stays even after the room empties.
My steps echoed down the corridor—measured, deliberate. I made it back to my room without a word, peeled off the uniform jacket, tossed it across the chair, and stood by the tall window.
The courtyard below buzzed with life. Students moving in pairs, laughter barely rising above the fall air. It felt far away, like I was watching a play I wasn't part of.
Good.
I needed the quiet. Needed space from her.
I poured myself a glass of water from the crystal set Father insisted I use—because appearances mattered, even in private. The glass was cool against my fingers, but not enough to steady what stirred beneath the surface.
Her voice echoed in my head—sharp, fast, challenging.
"Then why wear it like a second skin?"
I hated that it stuck.
She talked like she wasn't afraid. Like she didn't care who I was.
And worse—she meant every word.
I took a long drink and stared at the glass. A crack had formed along the rim. Barely visible.
Just like her.
Beautiful on the surface. Dangerous underneath.
She didn't come to this school to fade into the background.
And if she thought I'd let her pull me into some careless mess of emotions and rivalries…
She was wrong.
I don't fall into traps.
I set them.
The glass was almost empty when my phone lit up.
"Luciano Gray"
The screen alone was enough to change the temperature of the room. I let it ring twice before I picked up. Not because I was scared.
Because I knew he liked it when I hesitated.
"Arthur," came the voice—smooth, warm, too easy.
"Father" I responded.
"Did I interrupt something?"
I leaned against the desk, my tone flat. "Just finished class."
"Ah, St. Arthelios," he mused. "How's the nest of vipers? Still charming?"
"You built it," I said.
He laughed softly, like it was a compliment. "I built the bones. What the next generation does inside it… that's on you."
I didn't reply.
"I heard about the lecture today. You and the Durova girl made quite an impression."
Of course he heard.
"Anything I should know?" he asked lightly.
"She's impulsive."
"Impulsive is just another word for unpredictable," he said. "And unpredictable can be useful—or fatal, keep your cards she can of use."
He paused, then shifted tones so smoothly it gave me whiplash.
"I trust you're keeping your head clear, son."
"I am."
"Good," he said, voice softening again. "Because unlike your little brother, you understand the value of subtlety. I didn't raise a fool—I raised a king."
His praise always sounded like bait dipped in honey.
"I have plans," he continued. "And you know how delicate things are with the Durovas right now. So I need your hands clean, Arthur. Your thoughts sharp."
"I know," I said.
"I'll be sending someone soon. Quiet. Just to make sure nothing goes… off-course."
He didn't say spy. He didn't need to.
And then, like always, he switched back to the gentle voice—the one normal fathers probably used when they meant it.
"I'm proud of you son."
Call ended.
No warmth lingered.
Just the soft click of silence—and the reminder that in our world, love was a weapon. And Father wielded it better than anyone.