The morning sun filtered through towering stained-glass windows, scattering fractured ribbons of crimson, sapphire, and gold across the worn stone floor.
Dust drifted lazily through shafts of light, disturbed only by the quiet scratching of quills and the occasional turn of a page.
The corridors beyond still echoed faintly with footsteps and distant conversations, but inside Lecture Hall Seven, those sounds seemed to dissolve against shelves lined with centuries of political records and maps depicting borders that no longer existed.
Lillian occupied a seat near the back of the room, where the rows curved gently upward into a small amphitheater.
From there, she could see everyone without feeling particularly seen herself.
The room had fractured into familiar clusters of students flocking with their own kin, as though blood still dictated proximity more than the academy ever admitted.
At the front of the hall, Professor Whitmore, a respected wizard scholar descended from one of the High Houses of the western covens and considered an authority on political history, stood before an enchanted map that hovered several feet above the floor.
Borders shifted across its surface in shimmering silver lines as ancient kingdoms rose and fell in silent succession.
“Power,” the professor said, drawing a slow circle around one of the northern territories, “has rarely belonged to the strongest.”
With a casual flick of his finger, another family crest appeared above the map.
“It belongs to the bloodline everyone else agrees is entitled to wield it.”
Several students dutifully copied the sentence.
Lillian did too.
Almost automatically, she added another line beneath it.
Unless someone stronger decides bloodline no longer matters.
She paused for a while to read it again before quietly crossed it out.
“Too cynical…” she murmured to herself.
The orphanage had taught history differently.
Mrs. Llewellyn had never spoken only of kings and treaties.
She had spoken of ordinary people who survived beneath them.
Every political marriage reshaped villages.
Every succession dispute emptied homes.
Every noble feud eventually found its way to someone who had never learned the names of the people fighting it.
The professor continued.
“Interspecies diplomacy has always relied upon one principle above all others.”
Another crest materialized.
“Legitimacy.” The word echoed faintly through the lecture hall.
“A ruler may possess overwhelming military strength, extraordinary magical ability, even the loyalty of an entire nation. Yet if the major bloodlines refuse to acknowledge that ruler’s claim…”
With another flick, the glowing crown above the map simply vanished.
“…Their reign rarely survives the decade.”
Lillian’s quill slowed.
Legitimacy.
Such a simple word, yet it carried the weight of kingdoms.
She remembered studying the First Lunar Compact during her first year, where three rival Alpha bloodlines had accepted the weakest claimant simply because every major pack agreed his succession would prevent civil war.
It had seemed absurd at first.
Then Professor Emerie had explained it carefully.
“People don’t always choose the best ruler. Sometimes they simply choose the one least likely to burn the world down.”
At the time, Lillian had thought that sounded rather wise.
Now she was not entirely certain.
Her gaze drifted back to the enchanted map.
Because if legitimacy depended upon recognition, then what happened to those who could never be recognized in the first place?
The thought arrived quietly… so quietly that she almost failed to notice herself thinking it.
Professor Whitmore was already moving on.
“Which brings us to one of the most politically sensitive subjects in modern governance.”
He tapped the board, where bold letters spelled out ‘Bloodline Legitimacy.’
Around the room, a few students straightened instinctively.
Even without looking up, Lillian could feel the shift in the air.
Because some topics were merely for academic purposes, but this one touched families sitting right inside the classroom itself.
Speaking of the devil…
The heavy oak doors at the rear of the lecture hall swung open with all the urgency of someone who had absolutely no intention of apologizing.
Every head turned.
Lillian stopped mid writing her notes to look up at the guest.
A tall vampire strolled inside as though the lecture had been waiting for him rather than the other way around.
His academy blazer hung open over a dark shirt.
One hand rested casually in his pocket while the other remained on the strap of a leather satchel slung over his shoulder.
The professor paused mid-sentence as several students exchanged knowing glances.
A few sighed in amused resignation.
Others simply start interpreting the situation among themselves.
Lillian stalled, her quill slowing to a stop before it could finish the sentence she had already begun forming in her mind.
She knew the academy assigned classes without student input, so questioning it made little sense.
But…
He’s… in this class?
Instinctively, she quickly lowered her gaze, intending to return to her notes.
In this situation, that was the sensible thing to do.
Observing too long in a room like this always felt dangerous, even when nothing was happening.
At the front, Professor Whitmore exhaled through his nose, setting his wand down with a sharp click that immediately cut through the low hum of the room.
“Well,” he said, adjusting his spectacles as he looked toward the back doors.
“It appears we are being graced with late attendance from House Laurent.”
A collective stiffness rippled through the amphitheater rows.
Roman, however, merely let the heavy oak door swing shut behind him and walked down the steps with an effortless, fluid stride.
“I prefer ‘fashionably punctual,’ Professor,” he replied, tossing his leather satchel onto an empty desk in the front row.
He dropped into the adjoining chair, stretching his long legs out beneath the wood.
“It loses charm if I arrive with the crowd.”
The professor’s eyebrow rose.
“Charming,” he echoed dryly.
“And yet I distinctly recall the academy assigning this lecture hall a rather uncompromising starting time.” The source of this chapter is g.com.
Roman hummed, leaning back and resting his arm along the back of his seat.
“I was otherwise engaged.”
“Doing what, precisely?” Professor Whitmore asked.
There was no hostility in the question, only the weary patience of a man who had taught the Laurent heir long enough to know that standard disciplinary threats were useless.
Roman tilted his head, a faint, provocative smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Welcoming the first years.”
A quiet ripple of disbelief passed through the students.
A male fae sitting two seats down snorted softly, quickly covering his mouth with a hand.
“You,” the professor said in disbelief, “were welcoming first years?”
“Yes.”
“You are not on the orientation committee, Mr. Laurent.”
Roman’s expression turned faintly contemplative.
“I thought it would be polite.”
“Polite is not a word the department usually associates with you.”
“A tragedy of reputation. I contain multitudes.”
A few students broke into quiet laughter this time, though it quickly withered when Professor Whitmore flicked a stern glance across the rows.
The professor sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before turning back to the enchanted, glowing board.
“I see, then… Since you have graced us with your presence, perhaps you would care to contribute something useful before I decide whether to mark you as present or merely decorative.”
Roman’s smile widened.
“I always contribute, Professor. You simply rarely appreciate the nuance.”
“Try me,” Professor Whitmore challenged, gesturing to the shimmering silver script that spelled out Bloodline Legitimacy.
“Since you seem particularly energetic this morning, explain the concept to the class. Choose between theory or practice.”
The lecture hall seemed to lean forward as one.
More attention settled on Roman’s answer than had accompanied the professor’s lecture all morning.
Though Roman did not answer immediately.
Instead, he turned slightly in his chair, his gaze drifting up the curved amphitheater rows, sweeping over the faces of his classmates with an unbothered appraisal.
He was not looking at anyone in particular, just measuring the room and evaluating the collective tension before he spoke.
Lillian did not even realize she had quietly ducked herself further behind her desk, keeping her quill poised over her parchment, her breath lodged in her throat until his gaze moved past the back rows and settled back at the front.
Only then did she exhale.
“In theory,” Roman began, resting his elbow on the desk and steepling his fingers, “legitimacy is granted by recognition. Bloodlines, treaties, history. All agreed-upon systems that tell people who is allowed to matter. But in practice, it only survives as long as no one stronger decides otherwise.”
Silence fell over the room.
It was a blunt, lethal distillation of the realm’s politics, stripped of all academic elegance.
Without thinking, Lillian glanced down at the faint ink she had crossed through earlier.
Professor Whitmore did not flinch, though the caution in his eyes seemed to deepen.
“That is a highly cynical interpretation,” he said carefully.
Roman shrugged.
“It is the only honest one.”
“Dangerously phrased, but not entirely incorrect,” the professor commented, tapping the map, which rippled at his touch.
“Expand it. If multiple ‘stronger’ claims exist simultaneously, how does that legitimacy survive?”
Roman leaned back again, spinning a stray quill on the desk with a flick of his finger, seemingly thinking about something.
He watched it rotate for a second, then snapped his fingers to stop it.
“Oh, that part is simple. It becomes negotiation,” he said lightly.
“Until someone loses patience.” A nod.
“Then it becomes war.”
Professor Whitmore studied the young pureblood for a long moment as a heavy stillness settling over the lecture hall.
Against her better judgement, Lillian found herself waiting for the professor to refute him.
Not because she thought the answer was entirely wrong, but because no one was supposed to say it aloud.
Politics was a language built upon careful wording, softened truths, and elegant omissions.
And Roman had discarded every one of them in the span of three sentences, reducing centuries of diplomacy to something almost brutally simple.
Then again, perhaps such honesty came naturally to someone born into the very bloodline around which the realm had spent centuries arranging its politics.
Finally, the professor gave a solemn nod.
“Yes,” he murmured.
“That is what the textbooks spend hundreds of pages avoiding.”
“Textbooks are polite lies,” Roman replied easily.
The professor let out a breathy sound that might have been a laugh.
He picked up his wand once more.
“Sit properly, Laurent. And try not to turn my curriculum into a political crisis before noon.”
Roman merely gave him a nod.
“I’ll do my best.”
The remainder of the morning passed beneath the familiar rhythm of lectures.
Their second class was Magical Physiology.
Unfortunately, it was taught by Professor Alder.
The Reaper Professor possessed a gift unlike any other lecturer at Valerius Academy.
Before every lesson, he would calmly open the attendance register, glance at the class, and begin calling names completely at random to answer difficult questions.
It had become the closest thing the academy had to a sanctioned public execution.
Lillian had survived the previous year by developing the remarkable ability to appear academically invisible.
But fortunately, this year’s class contained an alarming number of students who genuinely enjoyed answering Professor Alder’s questions.
Before he could even finish asking one, three hands were already in the air.
Some of them even debated each other.
Honestly, Lillian had never been so grateful for academically competitive classmates in her life.
Right after the bell chimed indicating the class has ended, Professor Alder swept one pale hand through the shimmering anatomical projection suspended before the classroom.
He announced, “Before you all disappear for lunch, there is one final announcement.”
A collective sigh swept through the lecture hall.
Lillian slowed her hand as she organized her books, her gaze drifting toward the podium.
Someone at the front groaned.
“The evaluation spans the entirety of the academic year. All collaborative work across all subjects will be completed with your assigned partner. Spellwork, field practicums, theoretical exams involving paired critique, lab assessments, tactical simulations…” He tapped the projection once.
“Everything requiring partnership.”
A ripple moved through the room.
Someone near the middle rows immediately muttered, “Please don’t let it be another fucking siren…”
Another voice scoffed from somewhere beside Lillian, “I barely escaped my brooding werewolf partner alive.”
Meanwhile, Lillian quietly accepted the explanation.
It was hardly surprising.
After all, it was a requirement.
The academy had always preferred forcing students into uncomfortable proximity.
Apparently, that philosophy extended to coursework as well.
Her previous partner had been a fae.
A deeply unpleasant one.
He had possessed the remarkable ability to lace every conversation with just enough aristocratic condescension to remind her that vampires ranked comfortably beneath the High Courts in his personal opinion.
Still, they had passed the evaluation civilly.
…Eventually.
Professor Alder continued.
“Your pairings have already been posted on the central academic billboard outside. Meet your assigned partner before the end of the day— And no,” he added sternly, causing the students to stiffen.
“Requests for reassignment based on personality incompatibility will not be entertained unless accompanied by severe magical interference, attempted murder, or verified existential risk.”
There was an eerie pause.
Then, almost gently he declared, “Class dismissed.”
The lecture hall emptied with surprising speed.
Students immediately dissolved into clusters of conversation as they poured into the corridor.
By the time Lillian reached the main corridor, the morning bustle had returned in full force.
She adjusted the strap of her satchel and continued walking, eyes lowered to her notebook as she skimmed over the final few paragraphs she had written during class when last night’s conversation drifted back into her thoughts.
“Don’t wait for me after class tomorrow, just lock the door, I’ll make sure to bring my keys,” Stella had said while cheerfully watering the little Moon-glow Echeveria she had gifted her.
“My Lecture Hall is in the eastern wing, and I’m meeting some friends afterward. I’ll probably be back late.”
That meant she has more alone and quiet time for herself.
Good.
She turned another page while walking and almost walked into a pillar before recovering with what she hoped looked like dignity.
Then she followed the steady stream of students toward the enormous notice board standing in the center of the Academic Courtyard.
A sizeable crowd had already gathered as everyone was trying to find their names.
Lillian patiently waited until the cluster thinned before stepping closer.
Large enchanted lists floated beneath each lecture hall designation.
Her gaze immediately locked onto her class.
Lecture Hall Seven.
Her finger drifted slowly down the column.
Ainsley, Rowan.
Everhart, Celeste.
Hawthorne, Elias.
And so on…
There.
Shaw, Lillian.
She followed the line to the corresponding name beside it.
Laurent, Roman.
“…” Her heart stopped.
That… couldn’t be right.
She read it again for the second time, then a third time.
And then the fourth, the fifth, the sixth… It did not change.
Frustrated, she placed her notebook beneath her name, aligning it carefully against the glowing board just to be absolutely certain she was not misreading something fundamental about reality.
The lines matched perfectly.
Shaw, Lillian.
Laurent, Roman.
Perfectly aligned.
No. Aren’t… Aren’t partners supposed to be assigned across kin?
She stared at the board as though enough concentration might persuade the ink to rearrange itself into something considerably less alarming.
Roman Laurent.
Roman Laurent.
Roman Laurent.
A sudden wave of headache zapped into her head.
Why… Why did her life suddenly seem determined to orbit that man?
A frustrated voice somewhere beside her broke through the haze.
“What?” A young fae stared at another section of the board in horror.
“They paired me with him?”
His companion leaned over to read, his eyes widened.
“That’s the High Court heir!”
“Exactly!” The lower-born fae looked personally betrayed.
“I thought the Academy always mixed species! Why did I get partnered with that pompous freak? What—because I’m poor and he’s rich?”
Lillian slowly looked back at her own pairing, then at the two fae again.
He… was not wrong.
If she were to compare her social class to Roman Laurent’s, it would be like comparing the sky to the ocean—vast, distant, and never meant to meet.
Huh.
Did… social compatibility also count as part of academic collaboration metrics?
Because if so, that felt unnecessarily personal for a grading framework, and mildly insulting.