LUCIEN

  The notification came that evening.

  Lucien was still damp from the shower, towel draped around his neck, Sinclair ranting in the background about the vending machine on the third floor eating his card again, when his tablet chimed with a sharp ping. He picked it up without thinking, thumbing the screen unlocked.

  SCHEDULE UPDATE – Term Week 3

  New Activity Added: English Sporting

  Club (Probationary Membership)

  Status: Pending Permanent Placement

  He stared at it.

  There had to be a mistake.

  But no, his name was listed. Right there, under the roster of the English Sporting Club. With a timestamp. And a quiet little note at the bottom, a single line that made his blood cool.

  Nominated by: Clarendon, C.

  Lucien lowered the tablet slowly, as if it might explode. His chest felt tight. He wasn't even sure which emotion had won out—panic, disbelief, or something dangerously close to thrill.

  Sinclair peered over and saw it. "Way better than porn."

  Lucien almost jumped at the breath against his ear. He really had issues with personal space.

  "You must be the new target practice," Sinclair said.

  Lucien shoved the tablet into his drawer, as if hiding it could erase it.

  "No point doing that," Sinclair laughed. "That sort of thing gets announced to the whole system."

  He forgot about that. Everything at Billard was connected through Clarendon tech—the timetable changes, the club rosters, the performance metrics. By morning, the whole school would see his name. See exactly who had invited him in.

  At breakfast the next day, they did.

  The dining hall, all gilt ceilings and long tables heavy with silverware, went silent when he walked in. Heads turned. The sound of a dozen forks scraping porcelain seemed louder than gunfire.

  Lucien kept his stride even, made a point of not shrinking under the weight of all those eyes. But inside, his stomach coiled.

  Girls were the first to react. A cluster at the far table offered him quick smiles, one even giving a little wave before turning pink and ducking behind her toast. Others watched with open curiosity, their stares softening into interest.

  The boys, though—most of them looked like they'd swallowed needles. A few muttered greetings as he passed, too polite not to, but more than half didn't bother to hide their hostility.

  He saw Rothwell scoff at his scones, hacking at one with a butter knife. Victor popped his bubblegum, then mouthed, "You're dead." And Alistair, who was usually stoic and unreadable, glared. Lucien could feel it, the sting of insult at seeing someone unpedigreed get nominated.

  He took his seat with mechanical calm and tried not to look like his hands were shaking.

  Corin hadn't just invited him into a club. She'd marked him. Claimed him, in a way. It wasn't romantic—not even close. But in a school built on bloodlines and legacy, association with her meant something.

  It meant danger.

  It meant attention.

  The rest of the day carried that strange new weight. Corridors that had once felt hostile now felt... divided. The whispers followed him, just loud enough for him to catch pieces.

  "Scholarship kid..."

  "Clarendon's toy..."

  "...never even been shortlisted, and she picked him?"

  He ignored them, or tried to. It wasn't the words that rattled him, it was the truth behind them. They weren't wrong. He hadn't earned it. Not yet.

  Still, there were moments when the shift worked in his favour. Girls who had passed him by before now slowed, offering casual hellos in the hall. Some didn't speak at all, just gave him looks he wasn't used to getting. Looks that made him almost trip over his own shoes.

  And Corin Clarendon?

  She ignored him. Entirely.

  He shared two subjects with her that day. She didn't so much as flick her gaze his way. Not when she entered the classroom, not when she answered questions with her usual precision. It was as though he didn't exist at all.

  Part of him was irritated. The other part, was unsettled.

  Then, last period, she ended it.

  He was walking out with his books tucked under his arm when she passed him in the corridor. No pause, no theatrics. Just a single glance and a quiet command,

  "Don't be late."

  That was all.

  He blinked, caught between disbelief and the sudden awareness of every eye in the corridor. Because everyone had heard it. The Queen had spoken to him.

  That was enough. Acknowledgment.

  He knew what it meant. Everyone did. She might as well have knighted him.

  ***

  The following morning, Lucien stood at the edge of the English Sporting Club's private grounds, adjusting the stiff collar of the cream-colored shooting vest Taylor had instructed him to wear.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Billard's system had automatically synced his wardrobe the moment his club probation was approved down to the polished boots, ivory cufflinks, and a tailored navy undershirt bearing the discreet crest of the club.

  It looked ridiculous on him. Or rather, it looked expensive on him. That was the problem.

  Taylor had gone over the essentials that morning with military precision. Gun care, stance, etiquette, safety protocols, discipline logs. Everything the heirs in the club had been bred to learn at ten, Lucien was cramming in thirty minutes over tea and burnt toast. There was even a monogrammed kit with his initials—freshly embossed—that he hadn't asked for.

  Corin wasn't there.

  Just Taylor and the others. Four students in total, all sharpshooters in training. All Clarendon loyalists. All silently judging him the moment he stepped into the gravel-lined perimeter of the range.

  He could feel their stares. The kind that came with assumptions—mostly the wrong ones.

  He picked up the Beretta, stepped into position, and nodded to Taylor.

  "Pull."

  The target flew. He raised the gun, tracked, and fired.

  Miss.

  "Again," he said through clenched teeth.

  Taylor obliged.

  Miss. Miss. Then one—just one—broke apart in the air like a crumbly apology.

  The rest were humiliating.

  The club members weren't subtle in their reaction. One shook his head. Another leaned to whisper something to the boy beside him, who smirked.

  Taylor, to his credit, said nothing for a moment. Then he crossed the field toward him with his hands behind his back like a disappointed tutor.

  "What happened?" he asked, voice calm but curious. "You were exemplary last time."

  Lucien wiped his palms against his trousers and exhaled.

  "I was fighting for my life then."

  Taylor blinked. "Pardon?"

  "She threatened to shoot me in the spleen if I missed. Might've even killed me if I didn't hit the targets."

  Taylor raised a single brow. "So... you're underperforming because you're not being threatened?"

  Lucien didn't answer at first. He just looked down at the gun in his hand like it had betrayed him. "Probably."

  Taylor looked over his shoulder at the other members, then back at Lucien. His face remained neutral, but there was a flicker of something like pity in his tone.

  "She's given you two weeks before the fundraiser," he said plainly. "You know she'll hurt you if you fail."

  Lucien did know.

  And for some reason, that made his stomach twist in the most confusing, exhilarating, and utterly unhelpful way possible.

  Taylor had barely walked away when the sound of heels striking stone echoed across the field. Not the sharp clicks of stilettos—she wasn't that dramatic. These were riding boots, polished to a brutal shine, moving with the kind of authority that made people look up without knowing why.

  Lucien turned just as Corin Clarendon stepped into view.

  Black wool jacket. Crisp white blouse. Gloves tucked beneath her arm. Hair in a single braid that made her look both aristocratic and lethal. She wasn't here for practice.

  She was here to inspect.

  Taylor immediately stood straighter. The other boys went silent, postures tightening like someone had just raised a rifle behind their backs.

  Lucien swallowed. The temperature dropped ten degrees.

  Corin's gaze swept the range, then settled on the target Lucien had just missed.

  Then back to him.

  Her lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line.

  "I said don't be late," she said coolly. "I didn't say you could be bad."

  Lucien shifted his weight, trying to look less like someone caught copying homework.

  "I left my fear at breakfast."

  She blinked once. No smile.

  "You'll need it," she said. "The fundraiser is Clarendon's biggest public event. Cameras. Shareholders. Ambassadors. No one gives to a foundation that looks... incompetent."

  She walked past him toward the rack of rifles, inspecting them like prized artifacts, fingers trailing over polished barrels.

  Then, abruptly, she turned to him again. "Take the field."

  Lucien hesitated. "Now?"

  "Now."

  The others stepped back. It wasn't a suggestion.

  He moved into position, heart thudding. Taylor handed him a fresh gun. Loaded. Balanced. Corin stopped at his left shoulder and stood close enough that he could smell the perfume woven into her coat.

  "Posture," she said sharply.

  He adjusted.

  "Grip."

  He did.

  Her hand moved, without warning, to correct his elbow. The contact burned—not warmth, but pressure, touched by expectation itself.

  "Pull," she commanded.

  Taylor released the target.

  Lucien fired. The disc exploded midair.

  Another. Hit.

  Another one. Hit again.

  By the sixth, he could feel the eyes of the club members behind him shift. Less pity. More confusion. Maybe even the start of something like begrudging respect.

  Corin stepped back when he lowered the rifle. Her expression was unchanged, but Taylor caught the smallest nod she gave. Barely perceptible.

  "Better," she said. "Don't waste my time again."

  Then she turned to the others.

  "If anyone has a problem with his membership," she said aloud, "you can come shoot against me."

  Silence.

  No one moved.

  Lucien didn't smile, but he felt it rise in his chest like heat.

  Corin didn't wait for a response. She walked off the field without another word, braid swaying, a silent storm in polished leather.

  Taylor cleared his throat beside him.

  "Well," he muttered. "At least she didn't threaten your spleen this time."

  Lucien didn't answer. He was too busy watching her retreat.

  By the time Lucien returned to the common room, the sun had dipped behind Billard's steepled rooflines, leaving the corridors awash in amber light. His shoulders ached—not just from the recoil of the rifle, but from the weight of the day. He had survived his first official practice. Barely.

  It wasn't the humiliation that bothered him.

  It was the fact that everyone now knew his name.

  He stepped into the common room and immediately regretted not checking first. Someone was already there, draped across the leather armchair.

  "Hello, Lucy," said Victor Vandercourt without looking up from the lollipop in his hand. "I heard you were pathetic today."

  Lucien exhaled through his nose. No "hello", no "how was practice", just a verbal punch to the ego and an absurd nickname.

  "It's only the first day."

  Victor's brows lifted. "Mm. And you think that doesn't matter?"

  He popped the candy into his mouth, finally deigning to meet Lucien's eyes. The look wasn't hostile. It was the cold amusement of a hyena, watching a fox stumble into its den.

  "You shouldn't treat clubs here like the ones from whatever sad, state-funded afterschool program you came from."

  Lucien bit back a reply. No use taking the bait.

  Victor smirked, pleased with himself. "Clubs at Billard count. They're not just for show. They weigh in the rankings."

  Lucien tensed at that.

  Rankings.

  It wasn't just grades here. It was a whole ecosystem of prestige. The academics, lineage, leadership, public image, club performance. Every part of your existence was scored and surveilled, fed into the system, and churned out as a number. That number dictated your worth.

  And worth meant everything.

  Victor stood, the lollipop clicking softly against his teeth. "We all know you got a perfect score on the entrance exam," he said casually. "Which means you're not stupid. Just... under-informed."

  He walked slowly, until he was just a pace or two from Lucien. His voice dropped lower—not menacing, exactly, but precise.

  "So, let me inform you: First days here aren't just first days. Every day is a test. If you want to be more than nothing..." he leaned in, smile sharpened like a knife, "you'd better perform on day one."

  Lucien didn't flinch. Didn't speak. Just watched Victor turn away, his footsteps soft against the rug.

  The door closed behind him with a quiet click.

  Lucien stood alone for a moment, the silence of the common room wrapping around him like cold water. He glanced at the fireplace, it was empty now. Embers long gone.

  Victor was right.

  No one would hand him anything here.

  And if he wanted to win, it wouldn't be enough to be smart. He'd have to outshoot, outwit, outlast. In the classroom. On the field. In the shadows of these bloodline-built halls.

  And he'd have to do it while pretending not to care.

  He looked down at the schedule still tucked under his arm.

  English Sporting Club. Probationary Member. Practice: Ongoing.

  He tightened his grip on it and sat down at the farthest chair from where Victor had been.

  Tomorrow, he'd aim better.

  Not just at the target.

  At everything.