The lecture hall of Arcanum Academy buzzed with low chatter as Professor Alther tapped his rune-carved staff against the stone floor, silencing the crowd. Sunlight streamed through arched windows, casting dancing shadows across floating parchment and spell glyphs suspended mid-air.
Lucien Drex sat in the farthest back row, hood drawn low, eyes half-closed, a book open in his lap—though he hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes. The way he slouched, half-melted into the chair, you'd think he was asleep if not for the occasional flick of his finger, nudging a falling quill back onto the desk with casual magic.
"Mr. Drex," Professor Alther called out, voice thin with irritation. "Are you even awake?"
Lucien lifted his head an inch. "Only as much as the lecture requires, Professor."
A few students stifled laughs. Others rolled their eyes.
"Then perhaps you'll be alert enough for the notice," Alther said, summoning a scroll with a flick of his hand. "As of this morning, you have been formally challenged to a ranked duel."
Silence swept through the room.
Lucien blinked once.
"Opponent?"
"Third-year, House Ignis, Marcus Vale. Ranked sixth."
More whispers. Marcus Vale was known for flame magic and noble arrogance—a combination that usually meant explosions and broken bones.
Lucien slowly closed his book. "On what grounds?"
Alther sneered. "'For conduct unbecoming a mage of Arcanum.' Apparently, your remarks yesterday insulted his family bloodline."
Lucien smirked faintly. "Ah. The truth tends to bruise nobility."
The professor ignored him. "The duel is scheduled for tomorrow morning, central arena. Mandatory attendance."
Lucien didn't respond.
---
The next morning arrived.
The arena thrummed with magical anticipation—students packed the stands, eager to see a spectacle. Professors observed from floating platforms, shields ready to contain whatever damage Vale's temper unleashed.
Marcus Vale stood in the center, flamboyant in crimson battle robes, flame sigils glowing on his palms.
"Where is he?" Vale snarled. "Coward!"
Minutes passed.
No Lucien.
A professor floated down, reading from a scroll. "As per Academy Code 9-A, subsection C: a duel cannot proceed without both parties present within the first ten minutes. Lucien Drex has forfeited."
The crowd booed.
Vale's magic flared, scorching the stone beneath him. "This isn't over!"
---
Elsewhere…
Lucien sat under a tree in the abandoned eastern gardens, sipping tea.
A black cat lounged at his side. "You missed your duel."
"No," Lucien said softly. "I avoided unnecessary effort."
The cat blinked. "Vale will make it worse now."
Lucien slid a folded parchment from his sleeve. "Not after this."
It was a copy of a letter—Marcus Vale's forged duel approval, which violated academy protocols. Lucien had sent it anonymously to the Dean.
That afternoon, rumors spread like wildfire:
Vale's duel paperwork had inconsistencies.
A cheating artifact was found in his dorm.
A disciplinary hearing was scheduled.
Lucien yawned beneath his tree.
He never showed up.
He never cast a spell.
But the match had already been decided.
---
Hours later, Lucien returned to his dorm—an unassuming space on the far west wing, shared with two other students who rarely spoke. He preferred it that way.
He stepped over a small glyph trap at the doorway—a crude attempt to catch him off guard. He'd disarmed it without even glancing, weaving an auto-redirect spell into the air days earlier. The trap snapped, fizzled, and reversed into a harmless puff of light.
His roommate, a jittery second-year named Renn, looked up from his bunk. "They say Vale's getting suspended. What did you do?"
Lucien shrugged. "Nothing."
"But—"
"I just didn't show up."
He tossed his cloak onto a chair and collapsed into bed, book still tucked under one arm.
Renn stared at him, wide-eyed. "You're scary, you know that?"
Lucien rolled over. "I'm tired. That's all."
His voice was quiet.
But behind his closed eyes, he replayed every piece on the board, every spell he'd nudged, every rumor he'd seeded through whispers in the mess hall. Everything had moved exactly where he needed it to.
Victory didn't need applause. Only control.
And silence.
---
In the faculty chambers, Headmistress Elenora tapped a crystal pen against a file labeled: Lucien Drex.
"This one," she murmured. "We'll have to watch closely."
Beside her, an old mage in silver robes squinted at the parchment.
"Either a prodigy... or something else."
Elenora closed the file.
"No. He's both."
Far away, under a quiet ceiling and wrapped in shadows, Lucien slept.
And dreamed of nothing.