LUCIEN

  He had read about Billard Academy long before he ever set foot on its marble floors. It was a factory line for power: prime ministers, distinguished scholars, CEOs, even a couple of princes back when the monarchy still breathed in this country.

  The first thing that struck him wasn't the students but the architecture. Vaulted ceilings, stone older than the railways, whispering the same message: this is where the chosen are made.

  He passed a bulletin board, stopping instinctively, eyes moving quicker than his feet. A neat column of names: last term's academic rankings.

  1st – Victor Vandercourt

  2nd – Faust Rothwell

  3rd – Alistair Ascor

  But above them all, unnumbered, was a name in bolder ink: Corin Clarendon.

  Lucien tilted his head, amused. "So, Clarendon doesn't even need a number."

  The implication wasn't lost on him: first place wasn't enough. She was outside the system entirely.

  Further down the hall, another display caught his eye. Glass cases lined with trophies, silver plates, framed photos. He slowed, taking it all in with the kind of attention other people reserved for love letters.

  Polo Club—Victor Vandercourt, captain, 2023.

  Fencing Nationals—Faust Rothwell, gold medal, 2024.

  International Chess Open—Alistair Ascor, finalist, 2022.

  Robotics Innovation Prize—Clarendon & Rothwell, joint winners, 2024.

  Science and Tech Symposium—Clarendon, keynote.

  Faces stared out from the photographs, among these was hers. Her portrait was everywhere, though her eyes seemed to suggest she wasn't smiling for anyone but herself.

  His mind clicked, the details sliding into place like books on a shelf.

  He was about to move on when there was a sudden ripple, a current.

  The whole school was moving like an anthill that had just been kicked—except no one looked panicked. They looked reverent. Ritualistic.

  Lucien stopped mid-step, watching the frenzy unfold around him.

  If he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn the Queen was about to arrive. But the monarchy had been dead for years.

  Then it happened.

  The corridor cleared itself without anyone saying a word.

  Lucien had been around power long enough with men who liked to remind him how far below their shoes he was. He'd never seen silence arrive like this.

  He caught the first glimpse through the archway: a flash of sunlight against dark hair, the glint of a crest on a blazer tailored better than most politicians' suits.

  He registered everything at once: the precise fall of her pleated skirt, the ease with which she carried herself, the way even her expression seemed choreographed into absolute perfection.

  He thought of her unnumbered name on the board, her face in every glass case. The untouchable girl.

  She passed him, and in that heartbeat, he memorized the tilt of her chin, the exact shade of her eyes. Hazel.

  So, this was Corin Clarendon. The reason the academy bent itself in half at the seams.

  The girl who had everything, yet apparently still wanted more.

  ***

  Everything flowed more smoothly than he'd expected for a first day. Sure, there were stares, the occasional whisper that wasn't nearly as quiet as the whisperer thought it was.

  He was a transfer, already enough to raise eyebrows.

  What added more salt to that was he wasn't "new money, don't-know-which-fork-to-use" poor. He was an actual poor.

  He ignored it. He always had.

  Just before next class, he ducked into the washroom. He left his books on the counter, slipped into a cubicle, and when he came back out something caught his eye. A note was peeking from between his pages.

  He picked it up, instantly noticing the scent clinging to it: jasmine, and a hint of pear. Rich. Intentional.

  Handwritten words, delicate and perfect, stared back at him:

  Be her friend.

  That was all. No signature, no hint of who had slipped it there.

  Lucien tucked the note into his blazer pocket with a crooked smile. "Cryptic," he murmured. "Love that."

  ***

  Third period was Advanced Chemistry. He walked in, scanned the room, and picked the only empty table.

  That was when she arrived.

  Corin Clarendon.

  A ripple of shock moved through the room

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  It didn't take a genius to figure out what he'd done. He'd taken her table.

  By rights, she could've thrown him out—literally. She had enough loyalists in the room who would've dragged him by the collar just for breathing wrong in her direction.

  She could've humiliated him, ignored him, or made sure his life here was over before it started.

  Instead, she crossed to him, every line of her posture effortless and assured, and accepted the hand he offered her.

  "Corin Clarendon," she said.

  "Pleasure, Corin," he said simply.

  The air tightened, mouths agape all around the room. You didn't call her that. Not on a first meeting. Not unless you'd earned the right.

  She didn't pull her hand away, didn't rebuke him. She just studied him with that cool, assessing gaze of hers, as if she were cataloguing him the same way he'd been cataloguing her.

  She was quiet for most of it.

  Lucien had never sat so close to anyone worth as much as a small country.

  She smelled faintly of lilies and danger, and the air around her weighed twice as much as normal.

  He debated holding his breath, half-convinced there had to be a decree somewhere that he couldn't breathe the same air as someone like her.

  But passing out on the table never inspired confidence.

  So, he breathed. Quietly. Like a thief stealing something he had no right to.

  By lunch, he had decided the Academy was determined to impress him.

  The mess hall could have doubled as a cathedral, if God had taken tuition fees.

  Arched ceilings, chandeliers, endless rows of polished oak tables. No floating candles, no bewitched ceilings, but it didn't need magic. The money was spell enough.

  Lucien stood there wondering where a penniless transfer might safely rot away his meal when a voice slid into his ear.

  "Hello, Green."

  Victor Vandercourt. Blond, polo club and top boy.

  He slung an arm over Lucien's shoulder, the way a farmer might claim a goat.

  "Since it's your first day, come sit with us."

  Lucien was dragged to the centre table, where royalty without crowns presided.

  Corin sat in the middle, a queen flanked by her two quiet knights: Rothwell, twirling a pen with insolent fingers, and Ascor, who looked like boredom carved into flesh.

  Victor shoved him down across from them.

  "It's too early for charity," Rothwell said, not even glancing up.

  Corin looked up then, eyes on him for the second time that day. She said nothing. Which was probably safer for both.

  Victor adjusted the pin on his tie—the coveted Holder's pin. Billard's way of saying this one is better than the rest of you, and don't you forget it.

  "This is my good friend, Lucien Green," Victor declared. "So shut up, Fausty."

  Lucien smirked. Friendship at Billard apparently came prepackaged. No purchase necessary.

  The phones came out next. Not their own, of course. Those were banned.

  Instead, Billard issued its own gleaming little devices, branded and sanctioned like holy relics. They scanned the codes carved into the table, placing orders with the ease of habit. Technology married to tradition. Aristocracy dressed in innovation.

  Lucien pulled his out too. If you're going to play in their circus, might as well use their toys.

  The waiters arrived with trolleys, laying out silverware in ranks, plates aligned with military precision. They even gave him three different forks. Lucien wasn't sure whether to eat with them or joust.

  "Thanks," he told the waiter when his plate was set down.

  No one else spoke. Except her.

  "Thank you, Church," Corin said, voice soft but final.

  The waiter brightened, bowed. "Enjoy your meal, Ms. Clarendon."

  And just like that, everyone else was irrelevant again.

  Plates uncovered. Aromas wafted. Roast venison, truffle risotto, smoked salmon—and in front of Lucien, one unapologetic tower of a burger with fries spilling across porcelain.

  Victor took one look and nearly fell off his chair laughing.

  Lucien didn't give a damn about Victor's laughter, or Rothwell's look of disdain, the kind a man might reserve for peasant soup slopped into a silver tureen.

  It was the best burger he'd ever tasted. That was all that mattered.

  He went on with his fries, one by one, savouring the salt.

  The rest of them began their delicate orchestrations of cutlery and posture. All except Corin. She paused mid-meal, gaze slipping to him. To the fries.

  Curiosity. On her face. Like watching an empress wonder about the taste of dirt.

  Lucien stopped chewing, slid the plate toward her. "Try some."

  The sound of Rothwell's knife nearly snapping his own plate in half was more satisfying than applause.

  Ascor actually looked up. It was the first time he'd deigned to notice him all day.

  Lucien thought she'd swat him with her glass, baptize him in cranberry juice and be done with it. But no. Her hand moved, slender and precise, and she plucked one fry as though choosing a gemstone.

  He watched every second. Every flick of her fingers. Every curve of her mouth as she placed the fry between her lips. Even French fries looked aristocratic when Corin Clarendon ate them.

  "Good, right?" he asked lightly.

  She nodded once, then pointed with her fork. "How's that one?"

  "The burger?" He lifted it, still warm, still dripping mustard down the bun.

  She raised her brows.

  He offered it across the table, too far. So, he stood, leaned in. Held it toward her like a knight presenting his sword.

  "You're kidding," Rothwell hissed, jaw tight.

  Victor leaned forward, fascinated, etiquette be damned.

  Corin parted her lips, just slightly—

  And then a hand shot up, hard and fast, knocking Lucien's wrist back. Grip like iron.

  "She's allergic to mustard," Ascor said flatly.

  The table froze. His voice carried the weight of a man who spoke rarely, and only to stop calamity.

  Lucien's eyes flicked to his hand on his wrist. "Let me go."

  "Sit the hell down," Ascor barked.

  Corin set her fork down with deliberate weight.

  The sound that echoed from it made them both retreat into silence.

  Lucien returned to his seat, burger unfinished. He picked up a fry instead, chewing as if nothing had happened. Mustard, apparently, was lethal. Good to know.

  ***

  The corridors outside the mess hall were long, their stone echo carrying the rhythm of her steps ahead of him.

  "Corin."

  She stopped walking, slow as if deciding whether his voice was worth her time. Then she turned, gaze cutting through the space like a blade.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know."

  In three steps she was on him, pushing until his back met the cold stone wall. Too close. Close enough for him to smell that faint perfume again—lilies dressed as steel.

  "Nobody's ever tried to kill me with a burger," she said. Amusement curled around the words, but it was the kind of amusement that made you wonder whether she laughed at funerals too.

  Lucien swallowed. "I d—"

  "I allowed you to sit at my table in chemistry. It ends there."

  "I didn't want to sit—" he tried again.

  Her voice sharpened, dismissing him like chalk from a board. "Next time Vandercourt pulls you into one of his games, try to grow a pair."

  She turned on her heel, the matter closed, until halfway down the corridor she changed her mind.

  Lucien braced. When queens reconsider, it's rarely in your favour.

  She came back, tugged his tie loose, yanked it from his collar. For one ridiculous moment Lucien thought of something entirely different, the sort of thing that would get him exiled before he'd even unpacked his books.

  But no. She only inspected the tie. Then her fingers moved. Unhurried. She began to retie it, each fold and cross done with the grace of someone born to perfection.

  Lucien couldn't stop staring—not at the knot, but at her hands. Hands that could adjust silk or set the world on fire with equal elegance.

  She finished, tugged the fabric up tight until it bit against his throat. He coughed once. If she wanted to strangle him, an empty hallway is a perfect place.

  "That's the proper way to do it," she said.

  "Killing someone?" he asked.

  She didn't answer. Didn't need to. But he swore, for the briefest flicker, her mouth betrayed her with the ghost of a smile.