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Chapter 5: A Duel of Diction
By midweek, the rain had finally broken. The academy, washed clean and glistening, looked almost new beneath the morning light. Water clung to the ivy that climbed the stone walls, each droplet catching sunlight like a shard of glass. The courtyard brimmed with motion—students spilling from doorways, laughter rising into the air, umbrellas snapping closed with sharp flicks of wrists. Puddles mirrored flashes of red scarves, polished shoes, the flutter of books clutched beneath arms.
Elara walked through it all with her own books hugged tight to her chest. She tried to ignore the eyes. The stares weren't as cutting as that first day, when whispers had carried a sharper edge, but they hadn't vanished either. Now they lingered, speculative, measuring. As though her peers were waiting for her to slip, to prove herself an impostor among them.
She refused to stumble.
Her first class was history—a subject she secretly liked, though she would never admit it aloud. The vaulted lecture hall smelled faintly of chalk dust and leather bindings, its high arched windows spilling golden light across rows of carved benches. Students shuffled into their seats with the restless energy of midweek.
At the front, Mr. Hargrove cleared his throat with the gravity of a general marshaling troops. His voice carried easily, deep and booming, his brows as thick and stormy as ever.
"Today," he declared, striking the chalk against the board in bold lines, "we discuss revolutions. The engines of change. Bloody, brilliant, and inevitable."
The word inevitable echoed. The class leaned forward instinctively.
Hargrove didn't lecture so much as provoke. He thrived on throwing sparks into the room, waiting for the right mind to catch flame.
It didn't take long for Adrian to seize one.
"Revolution isn't inevitable," he said smoothly, his voice carrying across the hall without effort. He sat near the front, back straight, blazer immaculate as always. "It's orchestrated. Those with vision bend the masses to their will. The mob doesn't rise—it's pulled."
A soft hum rippled across the benches, agreement blending with admiration. Adrian's confidence filled the air, sharp and practiced.
Hargrove's eyes shifted, scanning the room for opposition. And then—inevitably—they found her.
"Miss Maradona. Your thoughts?"
The weight of dozens of eyes pressed against her. Elara's chest tightened, but she steadied her breath.
"I disagree," she said, her voice clear though her hands clenched against her books. "Revolutions might be led, but they're born from pressure—anger, hunger, desperation. A spark can't start a fire without fuel. Leaders don't invent that. They ride it."
The room hummed with new tension.
Adrian turned slightly, his gaze hooking onto hers. His eyes were cool, intent, like a blade catching the sun.
"So you're saying leaders don't matter?"
"I'm saying the people matter more."
His smile curved, sharp enough to draw blood. "And yet history remembers the names of the leaders, not the crowd. Napoleon. Lenin. Washington. Tell me, Maradona—can you name a single starving farmer who made the French Revolution possible?"
The laughter that followed wasn't cruel, but it stung all the same. A ripple, soft and cutting, like the whisper of steel unsheathed.
Elara felt heat rise to her cheeks. She forced herself not to look away. "Maybe not. But does that mean they didn't matter? History isn't fair. It forgets the many and crowns the few. That doesn't mean the few are everything. Without the people, the leaders would've been shouting into an empty square."
The words landed. A few heads tilted, thoughtful. Someone murmured agreement under their breath. Even Hargrove's thundercloud brows rose, faintly impressed.
For a heartbeat, silence lingered. Then Adrian leaned back, fingers tapping against his desk, expression unreadable.
"Interesting," he murmured, and for once he didn't push further. His smirk was not quite victory, not quite surrender—something else entirely, as though she'd slipped past his guard without him noticing.
The class moved on, but the air between them remained taut, every exchange layered with unspoken challenge. By the time the bell rang, Elara's wrist ached from writing notes she barely remembered. Her mind replayed their words like a duel fought in echoes.
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She thought that would be the end of it.
It wasn't.
The corridor outside the lecture hall was alive with noise—lockers slamming shut, the echo of boots on stone, voices overlapping in a messy chorus. Elara kept her gaze fixed ahead, weaving through the press of students with practiced care. She told herself she had survived the sparring match. That was enough.
Until—
"Maradona."
The sound of her name snapped her attention.
Adrian leaned against the stone archway just beyond the stairwell, casual as ever, as though he'd been waiting. Light slanted across his face, catching in the pale strands of his hair. He looked like he belonged there, poised and immovable, while the crowd flowed around him.
Elara slowed, wary. "What do you want?"
He pushed off the wall, closing the space between them with deliberate ease. "You argued well today."
Her brows arched. "That sounded almost like a compliment."
"It was." His smile flickered quick, sharp, and gone. "Don't get used to it."
She narrowed her eyes. "Why do you care so much? About winning every argument, about being right?"
His gaze flickered—an infinitesimal shift, like a shadow passing over glass. For a heartbeat, she saw something rawer behind his control. Then the smirk snapped back into place.
"Because it's fun."
"Or because you can't stand not being in control."
The words slipped out before she could stop them. Her stomach lurched—but it was too late to pull them back.
For a moment, his expression tightened. Barely. But she caught it.
Then he laughed, smooth and unbothered. "Careful, Maradona. You sound like you're trying to analyze me."
"Maybe I am." She lifted her chin, refusing to shrink. "You're not the only one who can."
The air sharpened between them, knife-edged. Students streamed past, chatter and footsteps fading into a blur. It felt, for a breath, as though the world had narrowed to just the two of them.
Adrian stepped closer. Too close. Close enough that Elara could catch the faint trace of rain still clinging to his blazer, the subtle mix of ink and cedar that clung to him. His voice dropped low, meant only for her.
"Then try, Maradona. See how far you get."
Her pulse leapt. She gripped her books tighter, grounding herself. "Maybe I already have."
Their gazes locked, taut as a bowstring, each daring the other to break.
And then, abruptly, the spell fractured. The bell rang overhead, shrill and urgent. Students surged forward, sweeping them apart with the tide.
Adrian stepped back, slipping into the flow of bodies with a grin that curved half-challenge, half-something unnamed.
"Later," he said over the din, and was gone.
Elara exhaled slowly, only then realizing how tightly she had been holding her books. Her knuckles ached from the pressure, but she didn't loosen her grip.
Because for the first time, she understood: their rivalry wasn't only about words.
It was about will.
About who would bend first.
And she had no intention of bending.
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