Chapter 6: Terms of Engagement
The storm had broken overnight, but its shadow lingered. The sky above the academy was clear, scrubbed raw by rain, yet the halls carried a pressure that clung to Elara like a second skin.
She felt it the instant she stepped into the corridor that morning—the subtle shift in the air, the way voices seemed to ripple around her. Not the cold suspicion of her first days. This was different.
Whispers trailed her footsteps, quieter now, edged with curiosity rather than hostility. Heads bent together, eyes darted toward her and away again. She caught fragments: duel… Maradona… she held her ground…
Elara kept her head down, books clutched tight against her chest, but it was impossible to pretend she didn't feel the weight of it. The duel had marked her. Whether as spectacle, warning, or promise, she wasn't sure.
In the refectory, forks clinked softer when she passed. In the courtyard, conversations shifted like shadows, as though the very air bent to contain her name. Even teachers seemed to look at her differently—lingering, speculative.
It should have been victory. Instead, it felt like standing beneath a spotlight she'd never asked for.
By the time the afternoon bell dismissed them, her nerves hummed with static. She needed silence. Space. Somewhere the academy's gaze couldn't reach.
The library.
She slipped inside, and the world hushed.
The library breathed differently than the rest of the school—cool, dry, sanctified by centuries of ink and vellum. High windows let in long beams of sun, gilding the dust motes that drifted lazily through the air. The scent of paper was everywhere, sharp and comforting, layered with something older—cedar oil rubbed into shelves, the faint musk of bindings.
Between the stacks, silence reigned absolute. No whispers, no watching eyes. Only the soft rustle of a page turning somewhere far off, the muffled shuffle of a librarian's shoes.
Elara let her shoulders drop. She moved automatically toward her corner, the desk she had claimed since her first week: half-hidden, flanked by towering shelves, worn smooth by decades of restless hands.
She unpacked her books with the ritual of someone seeking order. Notebook, pen, text on revolutionary histories. She told herself she would focus. She needed to.
Her pen scratched across the page once, twice—then stalled.
Memory intruded.
Then try, Maradona. See how far you get.
The words replayed with perfect clarity, Adrian's voice threaded with a lazy confidence that had cut sharper than any blade. She clenched her jaw. She had won that moment—or at least hadn't lost. But the echo refused to let her go.
She bent harder over her notes. Focus. Just focus.
"Researching how revolutions begin?"
Her pen froze.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze.
Adrian stood across the desk, the last person she wanted to see in her refuge. He looked utterly out of place in the hush of the library—too composed, too sharp—but at the same time, he seemed perfectly at ease, as though silence itself bent around him.
Elara arched a brow. "Do you make a habit of stalking people in libraries?"
"Not people." His lips curved. "Just you."
He placed a book on the desk. The leather binding whispered against the polished wood.
She glanced down. Gold letters gleamed in the light. The Anatomy of Power.
Her lips twitched despite herself. "Let me guess. A manual?"
Adrian leaned an elbow on the table, casual, calculated. "Consider it a peace offering. Or bait. Whichever tempts you more."
Elara's fingers hovered over the cover. She shouldn't touch it. Shouldn't encourage him. And yet curiosity burned hotter than caution. She opened it.
The smell of old paper rose. The margins were alive with ink—Adrian's hand, neat and exacting, every line a conversation with the text. Notes, counterarguments, sharp insights threaded like hidden barbs.
"You annotate everything?" she asked, unable to keep the edge of interest from her voice.
"Only when the author fails me," he replied smoothly.
She glanced up. "So always?"
A smirk tugged his mouth. "You're catching on."
"Why give it to me?"
For a flicker, his eyes softened, something unguarded surfacing before he shuttered it away. "Because debates are dull without a worthy opponent."
The words landed like a gauntlet. Her pulse quickened despite herself.
"You assume I want to play."
"You already are."
Before she could answer, a shadow fell across the desk.
"Ah. The duelists. Together, at last."
Elara's stomach dropped.
Mr. Hargrove towered over them, arms folded, brows knitted into his usual thunderous scowl. Even in the sanctity of the library, his presence cracked the silence.
Adrian didn't move, didn't even blink.
"You've displayed… spirited engagement," Hargrove rumbled. "Perhaps too much. But spirit, when disciplined, can be forged into something useful."
Elara straightened, wary.
"A joint paper," Hargrove declared. "On the anatomy of revolutions. Ten pages. Two weeks. Together."
Her pen nearly slipped from her hand. "Together?"
"Is there an echo in here?" Hargrove barked. "Yes. Together. Collaboration breeds perspective. Or combustion." His eyes gleamed, sharp as flint. "Either way, instructive."
Elara opened her mouth to protest, but the words tangled uselessly. Adrian inclined his head with practiced grace, as though Hargrove's decree had merely confirmed what he wanted all along.
"As you wish, sir."
Hargrove grunted approval, turned on his heel, and strode away, leaving the faint scent of chalk dust in his wake.
Silence reclaimed the space.
Adrian's smirk returned, slow and certain. His fingers tapped once against the book, as though sealing a victory only he understood.
"This is your fault," Elara muttered.
"Obviously," he said, far too pleased.
She shoved back her chair. "Fine. I'll write my half. You write yours. We stitch them together at the end."
Adrian leaned closer, lowering his voice until it brushed the air like smoke. "Do you really think Hargrove won't notice? He'll sniff out division the way wolves sniff blood. If we're not seamless, he'll tear us apart."
Her throat tightened. He was right. She hated that he was right.
"So," Adrian continued, straightening with elegant finality, "we'll meet. Here. Tomorrow evening. Bring your notes."
He didn't wait for agreement. He simply reclaimed his book, tucked it beneath his arm, and walked away.
The faint trace of cedar and ink lingered where he had been.
Elara sat rigid, heat crawling under her skin. She wanted to throw something at his retreating back, to wipe that insufferable curve from his mouth.
But beneath the anger, something else coiled tight.
Not fear.
Anticipation.
Her palms pressed flat against the cool wood of the desk, grounding herself.
If this was to be a battle, so be it.
She would not yield.
Not to Adrian. Not to anyone.