Lillian Shaw had every reason to avoid Roman Laurent.
Not simply because of the deeply unfortunate incident in Room 213 the previous evening, though remembering it was already enough to make her want to disappear into another continent.
That was merely the newest problem.
The older one had existed for years.
His family stood at the very center of vampire politics.
For generations, House Laurent had held enough influence over the Vampire Council that their opinions often carried the weight of law before the Council itself ever convened.
Their name appeared in treaties, succession disputes, military appointments and, more often than not, in the final signatures beneath death warrants.
Lillian tried very hard not to think about that.
Unfortunately, the academy had spent the entire morning discussing bloodlines, legitimacy, and power, dredging up memories she would have preferred remained buried.
And then there was that incident about the halfbreed…
Halfbreeds represented something every ruling bloodline feared.
If power could be inherited across species, then centuries of carefully preserved lineage, political marriages, and claims of “pure” succession suddenly became far less absolute.
A halfbreed did not merely challenge biology, they challenged legitimacy itself.
From what little she had heard, the boy had been born of a vampire and a fae.
She had never known his name.
Only that he was a brilliant student, top of his graduating class, and celebrated one moment.
Who was then executed before he ever left the academy gates the next day.
Not because he had committed a crime, but simply because someone discovered what he was.
A shiver crawled quietly down her spine as she shook her head, refusing to think about it.
Attention was dangerous.
Especially attention from those who held the council together.
Which was precisely why being assigned to Roman Laurent felt less like unfortunate luck and more like a clerical error with catastrophic consequences.
She stared at the glowing board for another several long seconds, still contemplating whether the academy had suffered some kind of administrative collapse when a familiar voice spoke just behind her.
“Lillian Shaw.”
She swore… her soul briefly left her body.
Every muscle locking instantly as a cold sweat broke out across her neck.
The voice that had spoken her name was not just loud, it carried a smooth, rich confidence mixed with a faint, speculative wonder that made her feel like a specimen under a microscope.
Oh by the moons, I’m dead, she panicked, her eyes widening in sheer terror.
He knows.
He found me.
He’s going to question me right here in the courtyard.
Trembling, she slowly, painfully turned her head to face her impending doom.
Only to realize that Roman Laurent was not looking at her at all.
He stood only a few feet away, one hand tucked casually into his pocket as he regarded the notice board with mild curiosity.
Beside him stood another vampire with a crew cut she vaguely recognized.
“…Lillian Shaw,” he repeated thoughtfully.
Lillian’s heartbeat cautiously returned.
The vampire beside him leaned closer to the list.
“Your partner?”
“Apparently.” Roman tilted his head.
“Hm.”
“Hm?” The other vampire echoed.
“I don’t know a Lillian Shaw.”
Lillian, who was literally standing directly beside his elbow, stared blankly at the billboard.
The other’s eyes drifted to the small crimson droplet glowing beside Lillian’s name.
“Vampire,” he observed.
“Shaw…”
Roman waited.
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Same.”
The two of them stood in silence for a moment, apparently searching generations of vampire nobility from memory.
“North?” The other guessed.
Roman gave a slight shake of his head.
“West?”
“No.”
“Eastern principalities?”
Roman hummed again.
“If House Shaw held enough influence to send an heir here, I’d know the name.”
The other crossed his arms.
“Maybe a lesser branch?”
“Possible.”
“Merchant family?”
Roman considered it for a heartbeat before dismissing the idea.
“Unlikely. The surname’s too… distinct.”
Lillian blinked.
Distinct?
Roman glanced once more at the glowing list.
“Lillian Shaw,” he repeated, rolling the name over thoughtfully and smiled.
“Pretty name,” the other admitted.
“But still doesn’t tell us who she is.”
Roman sighed with exaggerated resignation.
“How troublesome.”
Lillian resisted the overwhelming urge to raise a hand and say, Present.
She did no such thing.
In fact, without consciously deciding to, she took the smallest possible step sideways.
The retreat was so gradual that even she barely noticed she was doing it.
She was almost successful in her escape.
Freedom was beginning to look achievable when she noticed the Laurent heir glancing around the courtyard from her peripheral vision that made her heart drop.
“So…” he mused aloud.
Roman turned his head.
His crimson gaze dropped down, locking directly onto the sophomore who was currently mid-crab-walk away from the notice board.
Lillian froze, one foot hover-planted an inch off the cobblestones.
“Are you from Lecture Hall Seven? Do you know who Lillian Shaw is? Or what she looks like?”
It was such a simple question, but one that enough to put her mind into shambles.
Because if she answered him normally, he would hear her voice.
If she turned around fully, the morning sunlight would hit her face, and a pureblood vampire’s perfect visual memory would instantly recall the awkward intruder from yesterday afternoon.
“No?” He resumed upon receiving no r response.
She could feel his attention waiting.
Her brain, meanwhile, had completely abandoned every useful survival instinct.
“AAACHOO!”
The sneeze exploded through the courtyard with enough force that half the students around the notice board jumped.
Conversations stopped.
Dozens of heads turned.
Lillian immediately raised both hands to cover the lower half of her face, eyes squeezed shut with astonishing commitment to the performance.
“…I’m so sorry,” she mumbled nasally, keeping her face carefully hidden.
“I… I don’t know who Lillian Shaw is. Please excuse me.”
Before either vampire could respond, she pivoted with impeccable politeness and disappeared into the crowd at a pace that was not technically running, but was making a very persuasive argument for it.
Jett watched her retreat.
“…That was odd.”
Roman’s gaze lingered thoughtfully on the disappearing figure for a moment.
Then he shrugged.
“Seasonal allergies, probably. Witches aren’t the only ones sensitive to the autumn bloom.” He turned his back to the board, completely unbothered.
“It’s fine. I’ll worry about it later.”
“Right,” Jett said, falling into step beside him as they began walking away from the crowded Academic Courtyard.
“So, want me to have someone look her up?”
“Don’t bother,” Roman waved a dismissive hand.
“Everyone here knows who I am. If she intends to pass Professor Alder’s assessments, she’ll come find me before sunset.”
Jett let out a dry snort.
“Spoken like a true, lazy apex predator.”
The air grew noticeably cooler as they descended the stone stairs, the ambient gold light of the upper levels transitioning into the crisp, blue-toned glow of specialized cooling charms.
They were heading toward the Blood Dispensing Registry—a daily, mandatory stop for every vampire student enrolled at Valerius.
Because while the academy championed “harmony” between the six kin, biology was a non-negotiable reality.
To prevent the student body from turning into an all-out hunting ground, the institution maintained a highly sophisticated blood system.
Every day, vampire students were required to log their attendance and draw their standardized daily ration.
The blood was collected under long-standing agreements with licensed donors across the realm, then preserved through alchemical enchantments that kept it viable for weeks.
It was one of the oldest agreements between the academy and the Vampire Council that had survived for centuries.
They pushed through the heavy double doors into the dispensary, where a long marble counter was lined with rows of enchanted, chilled glass vials.
A couple of upper-year vampires were already downing their thick, dark crimson rations like morning espresso.
Jett stepped up to the registry desk, swiping his silver student crest across the ledger.
A vial immediately slid forward, condensation pooling on the glass.
He popped the seal and took a long, appreciative draw, sighing as the tension left his shoulders.
“Fuck, I needed that. Firing arrows at your head all morning burns through energy fast,” Jett muttered, wiping his mouth.
He looked over at Roman, who was just standing there, arms crossed, ignoring his own designated vial on the counter.
“Aren’t you going to drink? The council checks the log.”
Roman glanced at the chilled glass with a look of mild distaste.
“I’ll log it. I’m just not hungry.”
Jett paused, the vial halfway to his lips.
He frowned, looking Roman up and down.
“Not hungry? It’s past noon, Laurent. Your eyes are practically glowing…” Jett’s expression suddenly shifted from confusion to a heavy, thoroughly judgmental deadpan.
“Oh. For God’s sake. Again?”
Roman’s smile answered before his mouth did.
“You’ve got to be kidding me, the siren from House Embermere?” Jett groaned, rubbing his temples.
“The term literally started yesterday. You didn’t waste a single second, did you?”
“She volunteered, Jett,” Roman replied, his voice dropping into an amused drawl as he leaned back against the counter.
“I don’t force anyone. If certain sirens or high-born witches prefer the direct method of diplomatic exchange, who am I to deny them the hospitality of House Laurent?”
“Direct method. Right. That’s a very noble way to say you’re treating the student body like a personal buffet,” Jett muttered, tossing his empty vial into the recycling bin.
“They’re consenting adults.”
“They’re also completely enchanted by your face,” Jett countered.
Roman laughed softly.
“Well, what would you have me do? Reject perfectly willing donors and hurt their feelings?”
“Yes.”
A frown.
“That seems unnecessarily cruel.”
Jett gave him a flat stare.
“You do realize that drinking straight from the vein gives a direct psychic echo, right? You’re playing with fire.”
“Fire is warm,” Roman murmured, a predatory gleam flashing in his eyes as he thought of this morning’s ‘breakfast.’ “And preserved blood tastes like copper and disappointment. I prefer my meals with a heartbeat.” He casually tapped the ledger to log his presence for the day, leaving his pristine, untouched vial sitting on the cold marble.
Jett shook his head, already turning away.
“The Abyssal Courts don’t take kindly to their heirs being treated like juice boxes. If her brothers find out you’re feeding on her in the middle of the residential towers—”
“Feeding on her? Please, you make it sound so barbaric,” Roman interrupted.
He fell back into step beside Jett as they began the walk back toward the upper grounds.
“She had a thoroughly spectacular time. It’s a flawless win-win scenario.”
“You’re feeding on a noblewoman,” Jett pressed.
“Five stars, actually.”
The languid way he was speaking made the latter sigh.
“One day, your definition of a ‘good time’ is going to trigger a formal declaration of war.”
“Then let them declare it,” Roman purred.
“At least the afternoon lectures wouldn’t be so terribly boring.”
Meanwhile, on the complete opposite side of the academic wing, Lillian was currently hiding in a third-floor bathroom cubicle, resting her forehead against the cool privacy door and questioning every single life choice that had brought her to this moment.
“I’m fine,” she whispered into the empty air, her voice muffled by her own hands.
“Everything is perfectly under control. I just committed minor social suicide in front of the most powerful student in the academy, but that’s fine. It’s a localized crisis.”
Her watch ticked ominously on her wrist.
Twelve-fifteen.
The tiny digital numbers seemed to glare at her, reminding her of the absolute, unforgiving reality of the academy’s timeline.
Professor Alder had explicitly stated that partners must meet before sunset.
Professor Alder had been very clear during dismissal.
Failure to establish contact with assigned partner before the end of the day would result in immediate academic consequences.
They will be automatically barred from entering the tactical training arenas tomorrow morning.
Hell, a zero on day one of the sophomore assessment framework was practically an academic death sentence.
Last year she had survived the second day of evaluation purely on luck and the fact that her fae partner had been too proud to admit he had no idea who she was either.
They had spent an entire afternoon narrowly missing each other like some cursed bureaucratic tragedy until the system forcibly matched their records.
She was not repeating that experience.
Especially not with Roman Laurent.
Lillian lowered her head, pressing her palm against her forehead.
There is another thing.
Roman did not know her at all.
That was somehow worse because now the responsibility was hers.
She was the unknown variable and she had to walk up to the most politically dangerous person in the academy and say: Hello.
Yes.
That’s me.
Please don’t remember me from Room 213.
A muffled noises filled the narrow space as she whined.
Frustrated, She reached into her satchel to double-check her documents when her eyes caught the flashing red indicator light on her student handbook portal.
The Blood Ration Registry.
Lillian’s breath hitched.
She had completely forgotten about the noon rotation.
Oh, crap…
At Valerius Academy, the daily logging system at the Blood Dispensing Registry was mandatory.
The Vampire Council tracked the data with religious devotion.
If a registered vampire student failed to scan their crest and log their attendance during the designated noon window, automated alerts were sent directly to the disciplinary sector.
An unlogged ration meant a medical officer or a pureblood supervisor tracking you down to ensure you were not succumbing to blood-deprivation instability or worse, feeding illicitly on the campus grounds.
For a normal vampire, skipping the queue was just an act of defiance.
For Lillian, it was a terrifyingly high-stakes tightrope walk.
Because the truth was, Lillian did not actually need to drink the preserved copper-tasting rations every single day.
Half-witch physiology made her… flexible.
Her heart beat a little warmer, her biological demands were vastly different, and she could survive for weeks on foods only without a single drop of vital essence.
But that was precisely the problem.
If she missed the registration, they would investigate.
If they investigated, a pureblood medical officer would read her bio-signatures.
And the moment a high-tier vampire laid hands on her pulse, the illusion of her pure bloodline would shatter like cheap glass.
“I hate this,” Lillian groaned, quickly adjusting her twisted bun and yanking the strap of her satchel over her shoulder.
Immediately, she burst out of the door and broke into a run.
And if the universe had any mercy left whatsoever, Roman Laurent would be completely finished with his lunch by the time she got there.