The Chancellor's Gallery was a predator's aquarium. Soft, golden light from crystal sconces illuminated dark oak panels and portraits of men with stern, judging eyes. The air hummed with a low, cultured murmur, the clink of fine crystal, and the faint, sweet strains of a string quartet playing Bach in a curtained alcove. The scent was a complex blend of aged whiskey, floral perfumes, expensive cigars, and the faint, ever-present ozone of restrained magic.
As Kane guided her through the arched entrance, the temperature of the room seemed to drop by ten degrees. Conversations didn't stop, but they hitched, stuttered, then resumed with renewed, whispering intensity. Eyes—dozens of them—tracked their progress. Lia felt the weight of their gazes like physical touches: curious, speculative, hostile. The open back of her dress, which had felt daring in her room, now felt like a target painted between her shoulder blades.
Kane's grip on her hand, tucked firmly in the crook of his arm, was the only anchor in the swirling current. He moved with an unhurried, proprietary ease, acknowledging the occasional nod from a silver-haired donor or a sharp-eyed faculty member with a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his chin. He didn't stop. He was heading for a specific point in the room.
"Kane, my boy!" A jovial, booming voice cut through the ambient noise. A large, florid-faced man in an impeccably tailored tuxedo detached himself from a group. He had the look of old money and hard living, with a thick head of white hair and a smile that didn't reach his small, shrewd eyes. "And you've brought a guest! How delightful."
"Senator Thorpe," Kane said, his voice neutral. He didn't slow his pace, forcing the Senator to fall in step beside them. "This is Lia Black. A fellow student. Lia, Senator Alistair Thorpe, Class of '68, a generous benefactor to the athletic programs."
"Charmed, my dear, charmed!" The Senator's eyes swept over Lia with a quick, appraising thoroughness that felt greasy. He took her free hand before she could offer it, giving it a damp, lingering squeeze. "A new face! And such a lovely one. Not one of the usual pack, are you?" His chuckle was a low rumble. "Wolfblood? No, no, I'd sense that. Something else?"
"Lia is a scholarship student in Magical Theory," Kane interjected smoothly, extracting her hand from the Senator's grasp with a subtle shift of his own body. "A rising talent."
"Is that so?" The Senator's interest seemed to sharpen, though his smile remained fixed. "A diamond in the rough, then! Kane here has an eye for quality, I'll give him that." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial level, his breath smelling of bourbon and mint. "You keep a close eye on this one, Kane. The Gallery has sharp corners for pretty birds who don't know their place."
The threat, wrapped in paternalistic concern, was unmistakable. Lia felt a flare of anger, hot and bright, but she kept her face placid, her eyes downcast as if shy.
"Thank you for the advice, Senator," Kane said, his tone cooling several degrees. "If you'll excuse us, I see the Chancellor wishes to speak with Lia."
It was a dismissal, delivered with such effortless authority that the Senator, for all his bluster, could only blink and nod. "Of course, of course! Don't let me keep you."
Kane steered her away, his hand tightening on her arm. "The Chancellor doesn't wish to see you," he murmured, his lips barely moving. "But Thorpe is a leech. He thrives on discomfort. Never be alone with him."
Lia gave a slight nod, her heart hammering. The game here was played with smiles and subtle knives. She'd just witnessed her first round, and Kane had parried for her. It was a disorienting feeling—being defended by the very danger she feared.
He led her to a relatively quiet corner near a tall, leaded-glass window depicting a stylized phoenix. He retrieved two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter's tray and handed one to her. "Sip it. Don't drink it. It gives you something to do with your hands."
She took the glass, her fingers curling around the cool stem. The bubbles tickled her nose. She took a tiny sip. It tasted like dry, expensive minerals.
"You're doing adequately," he said, his gaze scanning the room over her head. "The deer-in-the-headlights look sells the 'overwhelmed scholarship student' angle. Just remember, you're a deer under my protection. That changes the dynamic."
Before she could respond, the atmosphere in their corner shifted. The air grew colder, the ambient chatter seemed to recede, and a new, cloying perfume cut through the smell of whiskey and wood polish.
"Kane. There you are."
Elara materialized beside them, a vision in emerald silk that matched her eyes. Her dress was a masterpiece of architectural tailoring, all sharp angles and daring cut-outs that showcased her flawless, pale skin. Her red hair was an intricate cascade of curls. She looked like a vengeful forest goddess. Her smile was brilliant, polished, and utterly false as she addressed Kane. Then her eyes—those chillingly beautiful jade-green eyes—slid to Lia.
The temperature dropped further. Elara's gaze was a physical inventory. It started at Lia's face, lingering on her bare eyes, traveled down the midnight-blue silk of the dress, noted the sapphire at her throat, and finally, slowly, took in the exposed expanse of her back. A faint, almost imperceptible flicker of something—shock, fury, pure hatred—passed through her expression before it was locked down behind a mask of polite curiosity.
"And you've brought a… companion." Elara's voice was like honey poured over shards of glass. "How… unexpected." She extended a slender, manicured hand toward Lia, not to shake, but in a gesture that demanded an explanation. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. I'm Elara De Leon."
This was the moment. The direct engagement Kane said wouldn't happen. Lia's training screamed to look at Kane, but some deeper, stubborn instinct rebelled. She met Elara's gaze steadily, though she made sure her own expression remained one of polite, slightly nervous deference. "Lia Black. It's a pleasure to meet you." She did not take the proffered hand.
Elara's hand hovered for a second longer before she withdrew it gracefully, her smile tightening. "Black. The new scholarship student. I heard about the… incident at the mixer. So unfortunate. I trust you've recovered?" The words were solicitous, but the implication was clear: I know who you are. I know what happened.
"Fully, thank you," Lia said, her voice quiet but clear. "It was a misunderstanding."
"Indeed." Elara's eyes flicked back to Kane, who was watching the exchange with an expression of detached boredom, though Lia felt the muscle in his arm tense slightly beneath her hand. "Kane, darling, your father was looking for you earlier. He's with the Luxembourg consortium by the fireplace. He seemed… eager to discuss the autumn hunt. I'm sure he'd appreciate you joining them." It was a command, elegantly disguised as a suggestion. A demand that he leave his new toy and return to the world of deals and dynasties where he belonged.
Kane took a slow sip of his champagne. "I'll find him later. I'm occupied at the moment."
The refusal, so casually delivered, was a slap. Elara's porcelain complexion flushed the faintest shade of pink at her cheekbones. Her smile became a razor-thin line. "Of course. How thoughtless of me. You must be giving Miss Black the grand tour of how the other half lives." Her gaze swept over Lia's dress again, a cruel amusement now glinting in her eyes. "The dress is… charming. A rare find on a scholarship stipend. Or did a generous… patron… provide it?" The insinuation hung in the air, vicious and clear.
Lia felt heat rise to her own cheeks. She opened her mouth, a retort about hard work and thrift shops on the tip of her tongue—a mouse's defense.
Kane spoke first. His voice was low, conversational, but it carried a finality that silenced the immediate space around them. "I provided it, Elara. Lia is my guest. Her appearance, and her presence here tonight, are my concern. Not a topic for Gallery gossip." He turned his head slightly, his winter-sky eyes meeting Elara's jade glare. The air between them crackled with unspoken history and hostility. "If you'll excuse us, I promised to introduce Lia to Professor Vance. He's always interested in promising theory students."
It was another dismissal, even more direct than the one he'd given the Senator. And this time, it was to his fiancée.
Elara's mask slipped for a full second. The hatred that contorted her beautiful features was raw and terrifying. Then it was gone, smoothed over so quickly it might have been an illusion. But the cold fury in her eyes remained, promising retribution. "By all means," she said, her voice now as cold as the marble floor. "Don't let me keep you from your… charitable work."
She didn't wait for a response. She turned in a swirl of emerald silk and melted back into the crowd, a storm cloud in human form.
Kane exhaled, a soft, controlled sound. He looked down at Lia. "Rule three," he murmured. "You look at me. You did not."
"She spoke to me directly."
"And you held your own. Adequately." There was a note of something—not praise, but acknowledgment—in his voice. "But you also gave her a reaction. The blush. She'll feed on that. Remember, in here, any visible emotion is a weakness to be exploited."
He began to lead her again, this time toward a tall, gaunt man with spectacles who was studying a portrait with intense concentration. "Professor Vance is the head of Magical Theory. He's also the gatekeeper for the senior thesis projects and has oversight on some of the more sensitive archive requests. Be intelligent. Be respectful. Do not mention Elena."
The introduction was a blur. Professor Vance had a dry, whispery voice and eyes that magnified behind his thick lenses. He asked Lia a few pointed questions about her supposed interest in foundational thaumaturgical ethics. She answered as best she could, pulling from the textbook readings she'd actually done, sticking to safe, academic platitudes. Kane stood slightly behind her, a silent, imposing presence. The professor seemed mildly interested, but mostly preoccupied. Still, Kane had made the connection. It was a move on the board.
For the next hour, it continued. Kane moved her through the room like a chess piece, introducing her as "a promising student under my academic mentorship" to a series of influential people: a stern-faced dean, a renowned alchemist from Berlin, the elderly curator of the academy's artifact collection. Each interaction was a performance. Lia played her part—the intelligent but humble scholarship girl, grateful for the attention, slightly awed by her surroundings. Kane played his—the privileged heir taking a philanthropic interest in a deserving lower caste. It was exhausting.
The only constant was Elara's gaze. Lia could feel it, a cold, sharp pressure between her shoulder blades, from across the room. Whenever she glanced surreptitiously, she found those green eyes watching, calculating, waiting.
Near the end of the evening, as Kane was engaged in a low-voiced conversation with a group of men near the fireplace, Lia excused herself to use the restroom. It was a risk, breaking the "stay by my side" rule, but a necessary one.
The ladies' lounge was an oasis of quiet marble and gilt mirrors. She splashed cold water on her wrists, staring at her reflection. The girl in the midnight-blue silk still looked like a stranger, but a stranger who was holding her own in a war zone. She adjusted the sapphire at her throat, her fingers trembling slightly.
The door opened behind her. Lia looked up in the mirror.
Elara walked in.
She was alone. The brilliant social smile was gone. Her face was a beautiful, cold mask. She didn't go to the sinks. She walked directly to stand beside Lia, her reflection a stark contrast of emerald and midnight in the glass.
For a long moment, she said nothing, just studied Lia's reflection as if examining a peculiar insect.
"The dress really is quite good," Elara said finally, her voice soft, devoid of its earlier honeyed malice. It was worse. It was pure, undiluted venom. "He has excellent taste. I should know." She leaned in slightly, her perfume enveloping Lia. "But let me give you some advice, mouse. That dress, those jewels, his arm… they're a rental. A costume for tonight's little drama he's staging to annoy his father and poke at me. When the curtain falls, you go back in your box. Back to your little room with the mildew smell. And he," she said, her lips curling, "comes back to his world. To his obligations. To me."
She reached out, not to touch Lia, but to adjust a perfectly placed curl near her own temple, her eyes never leaving Lia's in the mirror. "So enjoy the playacting. Savor the champagne. But understand this: if you start to believe your own performance, if you forget your place even for a second…" She smiled then, a slow, cruel baring of perfect white teeth. "I will remind you. And I won't be nearly as polite as Corbin was."
With that, she turned and left, the door swinging shut silently behind her.
Lia stood frozen, her hands braced on the cold marble sink, the echo of the threat ringing in the silent, opulent room. The cold war was over. The first shot had been fired across her bow, not with a public scene, but with a private, chilling promise.
She looked at her reflection again. The fear was there, in the depths of her eyes. But beneath it, something else was hardening. A resolve as cold as the marble beneath her palms.
Elara thought this was about a dress, about jealousy, about social maneuvering. She had no idea what was really at stake. And that, Lia realized as she straightened her spine and smoothed the flawless silk of her rented gown, might be the only advantage she had.