LUCIEN

  Sinclair had been talking for a full minute before Lucien realized none of it required a response.

  "...and I'm telling you, God was on holiday during that Applied Logic paper," Sinclair went on, sprawled across his bed with one arm flung over his eyes. "I didn't fail exactly. But I didn't pass with dignity either. If there's a miracle, I scrape through. If not—well. At least I tried."

  Lucien sat at his desk, polishing his shoes though they didn't need it. The habit had stuck since the Mocks began. Something precise to do with his hands while everything else waited.

  "You did fine," he said, mostly to be polite.

  Sinclair snorted. "That's rich, coming from you."

  Lucien glanced over. Sinclair had finally lifted his arm, propping himself up on an elbow now, eyes sharp with interest.

  "You," Sinclair continued, pointing lazily, "are the problem. The rest of us are just making peace with survival. You, on the other hand, look like you're planning a change of residency."

  Lucien said nothing and followed Sinclair's gaze as it swept the room.

  Two beds. Two desks. Their shared wardrobe, shoved into the corner, overflowing mostly with Sinclair's things.

  It was standard accommodation for most of Billard's students—ancient and functional, and larger than any bedroom Lucien ever had. To an old-money heir like Sinclair, though, it likely felt like a jail cell.

  "Honestly," Sinclair said, rolling onto his back again, "it's only a matter of time before you're packing your things and heading upstairs. Top boys' suite. Private sitting room. Private bath. Probably servants who make eye contact."

  Lucien paused mid-polish.

  "Don't," he said quietly.

  Sinclair grinned. "Don't what? State the obvious? Come on. From the way you've been moving these two weeks, I'd say you did more than well."

  Lucien set the cloth down and leaned back in his chair.

  "I'm not aiming for the suite," he clarified.

  Sinclair blinked. Then laughed. "Oh, that's good. Modesty. I like it. Very becoming."

  "Seriously, I want none of it."

  The laughter faded, replaced by something more attentive. Curious.

  "...Right," Sinclair said slowly. "Then what exactly are you aiming for?"

  Lucien met his gaze.

  Sinclair understood immediately.

  The silence stretched.

  Then Sinclair laughed again, louder this time. Disbelieving. Almost fond.

  "Oh, you're serious," he said. "God, I forgot how entertaining you are."

  Lucien didn't rise to it.

  "Unseat Corin Clarendon? You wanna unseat the bloody sun?" Sinclair continued, shaking his head. "That's not ambition anymore. You're a lunatic."

  Lucien turned back to his shoes. Sun. He had heard people call her a rose before, but this was the first time he'd heard someone call her that—and from Sinclair, no less. Well, she was indeed, the centre of Billard's universe.

  "She's unranked," Sinclair went on. "Do you know why? It's not because they can't measure her. It's because they don't bother trying anymore."

  Lucien could hear it now—the shift in Sinclair's voice. The humour thinning, replaced by something closer to reverence.

  "She's not respected because she's a Clarendon," Sinclair said. "That's just the excuse people use. They respect her because she's better. Every student knows it. Every professor. She walks into a room and people adjust themselves without thinking."

  Lucien's jaw tightened.

  "She frightens us," Sinclair added. "And we like it."

  He swung his legs off the bed, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees.

  Sinclair tilted his head, studying him. "You really haven't noticed, have you?"

  "Noticed what," Lucien asked.

  "That no one beats her," Sinclair said simply. "Not Rothwell. Not Vandercourt. Not Ascor on his best day. They orbit her for years, but none of them ever won against her."

  Lucien stood. The movement was abrupt enough that Sinclair fell quiet.

  "I'm not one of those heirs that revolve around her," he said. "Nothing lasts, not even the sun."

  Sinclair watched him, something uncertain flickering across his face for the first time. He didn't laugh this time.

  ***

  The results were due within forty-eight hours.

  They did not come.

  By the third day, the Great Court was crowded long before breakfast. Students lingered in clusters, pretending not to stare at the empty ranking board mounted against the stone wall. Phones were checked and rechecked. Whispers threaded through the cold air.

  Lucien stood at the edge of it all, hands in his pockets.

  Results were always late by a few minutes, he heard. Sometimes an hour. Apparently, never this.

  He refreshed the system once. Then again. Nothing.

  A prefect brushed past him at a near run, expression pinched. One of the junior professors snapped at a student for standing too close to the steps, voice sharp enough to draw glances.

  Lucien's unease grew, quiet but insistent.

  Something had gone wrong.

  Not with the exams.

  With the outcome.

  Faust Rothwell appeared near the staff entrance, immaculate as ever, though the tension at his jaw betrayed him. He spoke briefly with a Professor Lucien didn't recognize, then disappeared through the side doors reserved for faculty.

  That alone told Lucien more than any announcement could have.

  Rothwell did not chase answers unless the ground beneath him had shifted.

  When he returned, empty-handed, the murmurs grew louder.

  Lucien exhaled slowly through his nose.

  Did I...?

  He didn't finish the thought.

  The crowd stilled as Corin Clarendon entered the Court.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Conversations died mid-sentence. Students straightened. Even the laughter near the fountain evaporated.

  He watched her halfway across the stone, walking with that unhurried precision that made it impossible to tell whether she was calm or furious.

  She looked... tired.

  Not dishevelled. Never that. But there was something sharper in her eyes, something stripped of its usual polish. If she had come here herself, it meant patience had been exhausted.

  She stopped before the staff doors.

  Faust moved to her side. The Head boy and the Head girl. Lucien couldn't hear what was said, only saw the way Corin's head tilted, just slightly, as though listening to something beneath the words.

  The answer she received was unsatisfactory.

  Lucien could tell by the way her fingers stilled.

  She said something else. Shorter this time.

  Professor Merriweather, head of the Mocks committee appeared. A spindly, nervous tenured staff who had been heading the exams for years, let his thick spectacles slip of his nose and remained petrified as a response.

  Lucien's stomach tightened overhearing the words, "release" followed by "consequences" and "madness".

  "I think," someone whispered behind Lucien, "something's wrong."

  Yes, Lucien thought. Something has broken.

  Corin stepped back as Professor Merriweather, flanked by two staff members, came out with a rolled parchment in his hands.

  The Great Court surged forward.

  Lucien stayed where he was.

  He watched as the parchment was fixed to the board, the seal broken, the paper unrolled.

  The sound came first.

  A sharp intake of breath. Then another. A ripple of disbelief moving outward like a shockwave.

  Lucien's heart began to pound, slow and heavy, because after the gasps came silence.

  The crowd parted for Corin as she approached the board.

  Lucien's eyes stayed on her, on the line of her shoulders, the smooth fall of her hair. She stopped.

  Only then did he look.

  2nd — Corin Clarendon (97.6%).

  A number sat beside her name. For the very first time, she was marked like the rest of them.

  Above it—

  1st — Lucien Green (98.6%).

  By one point.

  One.

  Lucien's breath left him in a silent rush.

  It should have felt bigger.

  It didn't though. It just felt heavy.

  The crowd stared at Corin. At him. Back at the board.

  Corin turned, and her cold gaze found him across the court.

  There was no fury in it. No shock.

  Even in defeat, Corin was as proud as ever. It must be a sickness for people like her; having spent so much time above others, rarely do they notice when their feet finally touch the ground. He didn't resent her for it. He admired her instead. Corin shone, even as she fell.

  Lucien moved through the corridor of bodies and held breath. They let him pass as though proximity alone might confirm the truth of what he saw from afar. He walked slowly and stopped two feet from Corin.

  No closer. It wasn't worth risking his life.

  Lucien stole a glance at the board.

  "Goddamn."

  The word slipped out under his breath before he could stop it. Then he looked back at Corin, who remained silent. It was beginning to scare him.

  Even the great court itself seemed to hold still, as though the stone might crack if it reacted too quickly.

  From behind them came a sharp, furious voice.

  "What in hell is this?"

  Victor.

  He was shoving his way through the crowd, red-faced and incandescent, Faust Rothwell close behind him, jaw set, and Alistair Ascor wearing the tight, unreadable expression of a man already recalculating his future.

  Victor reached the board and swore loudly, violently, the sound tearing through the quiet like glass breaking.

  Corin moved.

  Lucien's pulse spiked. For half a second, he truly believed she might slap him. Or worse. That she might do something small and surgical that would hurt far longer.

  Instead, she walked past him.

  Straight to Victor.

  "What?" Victor spat when he saw her approach. "Do you—"

  Corin didn't let him finish.

  She reached up and removed the Clarendon tie pin from his tie with a clean, practiced motion. The metal caught the light briefly as she pulled it free.

  Victor froze.

  So did everyone else.

  That pin wasn't decorative. It marked the current Holder. First among the boys. Closest to succession. Victor had worn it like a birthright since last term—now snatched away by the same hand that had probably pinned it on him the year before.

  Corin turned.

  She crossed the distance between them and stopped directly in front of Lucien. He had the absurd thought that she was too close now, that he should step back, that something about this proximity felt dangerous in a way exams never had.

  Her hands came up.

  For one horrifying heartbeat, he braced for it, expecting her to grab his tie and pull.

  Instead, she was gentle as she fixed the pin neatly into place.

  Her fingers brushed his chest, warm through the fabric, steady as if this were nothing more than a routine adjustment. Her palm lingered there for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

  "Congratulations, Lucien," she said softly. "You're the new Holder."

  His lungs forgot what they were for.

  He stared at her, unable to form a single coherent thought. The whole court, the board, Victor's fury, Sinclair's voice from earlier calling him a fool. All of it dissolved into the fact of her standing there, composed and lethal and close enough that he could smell lilies.

  She stepped back but she never let go of his tie.

  Phones began to chime all at once. A sharp, discordant chorus. Notifications flooding screens. The system had finally caught up with reality.

  Victor swore again, louder this time.

  Lucien barely heard it.

  Patrice appeared at Corin's side like a ghost summoned by panic, breathless, colour drained from her face.

  "Miss," she said urgently, voice tight with dread, "you have a call. Headmaster's office. It's—it's the Chairman Clarendon, ma'am."

  Lucien felt her grip tightened at the bottom of his tie. He almost thought he saw Corin slightly tremble at the sound of her father's name.

  Corin inclined her head once, then turned and followed Patrice without another word.

  Lucien stood there, the Clarendon pin heavy against his chest, watching her walk away.

  "You absolute damn bastard," Sinclair said, loud enough to carry. "You actually did it."

  He grabbed Lucien's arm and hauled him backward through the dispersing crowd.

  "Come on. Before someone decides you need a speech or a beating."

  They made it halfway back to the dormitory before Lucien's head caught up with his feet.

  "This feels wrong," he said touching the pin on his tie.

  Sinclair beamed. "You can't give it back now, top boy."

  Their door barely clicked shut before a knock sounded.

  Then another.

  Then footsteps.

  Lucien opened it to find waitstaff—actual waitstaff—rolling in a polished trolley laden with silver trays, crystal flutes, and a bottle of champagne that probably cost more than his entire term's expenses.

  One of them smiled professionally. "Compliments from Mr. Church. Congratulations, Mr. Green."

  "Oh. It's starting." Sinclair noted.

  Lucien watched the cork ease free, the quiet pop sounding far too loud in the space that used to be too big but now feel suddenly crowded. His skin prickled.

  "What?" he asked.

  Sinclair only laughed, already reaching for a glass.

  Then the corridor filled again.

  More staff. Boxes. Garment bags.

  And then, at the centre of it all, a short, round man with twinkling eyes and a presence that somehow managed to be both genial and overwhelming. The Headmaster of Billard himself in their room.

  Professor Bilius Loxley.

  Lucien straightened instantly.

  So did Sinclair.

  "Evening, Professor Loxley," they said together.

  "Ah!" Loxley clapped his hands, delighted. "Finally free of Mocks. Congratulations to you both."

  He turned to Sinclair first, peering over his spectacles. "Rather a shaky year for you, Mr. Sinclair, but you've clawed your way out of the failing pile. Always a triumph, that."

  Sinclair scratched his nose. "Thank you, sir. I think."

  Loxley chuckled and pivoted.

  "But I cannot say the same of you," he said, stepping closer to Lucien.

  He took Lucien's hand warmly and pumped it once.

  "Congratulations, Lucien. May I call you Lucien?"

  Lucien nodded, throat tight.

  "Splendid. Now—" Loxley's eyes gleamed as he noticed the tie pin already fastened at Lucien's collar. "I see Ms. Clarendon has been efficient."

  Lucien's fingers twitched at the remark.

  "You do know what that means," Loxley continued lightly. "Perfectly outlined in the Billard handbook. Presumably read?"

  Lucien had read it. Every absurd, impossible word.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Excellent. Then let us make it official." Loxley gestured grandly. "As the holder of the Clarendon tie pin, you are the current top student of your year, which means you will be relocating to the private suites, alongside the other ranked boys."

  The staff moved at once.

  Hands lifted his books. Folded his clothes. Labelled boxes.

  "Right now?" Lucien asked, startled.

  "But of course, dear boy. Billard prides itself on efficiency." Loxley lowered his voice conspiratorially. "And tradition."

  Lucien barely had time to breathe before Loxley continued.

  "And naturally, being a holder also rendered you the heir apparent to Clarendon Industries."

  That made Lucien froze. He forgot about that bit.

  "And," Loxley added, smiling, "by extension, Ms. Clarendon's de facto fiancé. It means you will now accompany her at all official functions. School and otherwise."

  Sinclair elbowed him hard. "You hear that, mate? You're going to be the future Mrs. Clarendon."

  Lucien seriously considered slapping his mouth to shut him up. Professor Loxley's presence steadied his irritation.

  The room emptied and filled in waves until it was no longer his. When the last box was sealed, Loxley patted his shoulder.

  "We'll give you time," he said kindly. "Do enjoy the evening."

  The door closed.

  Silence rushed in.

  Sinclair immediately poured champagne. "I'm going to miss you."

  "I'm moving up one floor," Lucien said. "Not moving to another country."

  "Still tragic."

  Sinclair offered him a glass.

  Most days, he would have said no. But this wasn't most days. Soon, he would be forced to enjoy the finer things in life, and he decided he might as well start learning how to endure it now.

  Since his things were now systematically shipped to the upstairs, the sudden vacancy had left his eyes to wander to Sinclair's desk. The nameplate on the dark wood caught the light.

  L. Sinclair.

  "You know," Lucien said slowly, "I still don't know your first name. Everyone just calls you Sinclair. I assumed that was it."

  Sinclair groaned.

  "Don't."

  "What is it?"

  Silence.

  Then, reluctantly—

  "Lacroix."

  "La— excuse me?"

  "Lacroix," Sinclair repeated, painfully clear.

  Lucien nodded. "Right. I got that. Leroy."

  He didn't get shit.

  They both burst into laughter.

  Lucien finally set his glass down and reached for his coat. "Do you want to break in the new room or not?"

  "An underachiever like me in the Top Boy suite?" Sinclair's grin was tinged with something wild. "Loxley's going to shit a brick. Let's go."