Arthur allowed a perfectly measured flicker of confusion to cross his face, leaning slightly back as if taken aback by the sudden intrusion. "What are you doing, Lady Celeste?" he asked, his voice maintaining its soothing, saintly cadence.
She leaned her weight forward, using her crossed arms as a cushion for her chin. Her grin stretched into something immensely satisfied and gleeful. "I'm making it easier for you to watch me," she hummed, her amber-gold eyes locking onto his with a terrifying, unbreakable persistence.
Beneath the flawless mask of his smile, Arthur's mind recoiled. How could such staggering political power be commanded by someone so completely arbitrary? he thought, analyzing the absolute lack of tactical reasoning in her gaze. She is more stubbornly irrational than any noble I have ever encountered. He mentally calculated the social cost of forcibly removing her. It was too high. With a soft, conceding sigh, he picked up his graphite pencil and brought it back to the paper. There is nothing I can do to physically stop her, he reasoned, pretending to review a complex diagram in his notes. So, I will simply avoid her until she loses interest. There is no way she can maintain this level of empty focus forever.
He was spectacularly wrong.
The morning bled away, trading the vaulted ceilings of the Magic Theory Hall for the cramped, chalk-dust air of the Mathematics sector, then the heavy, parchment-scented History archives, and finally, the sunlit Linguistics lecture room. The hours dragged, the subjects shifted, and the student body rotated around them in a chaotic shuffle of uniforms and books. Yet, the vibrant flash of teal hair never left his periphery. Celeste Devreux shadowed his every step, claiming the seat directly beside him in every single room, her chin propped on her hands, her unblinking, gleeful stare drilling into the side of his head.
How impossibly stubborn, Arthur thought, keeping his eyes rigidly locked on the chalkboard as the Linguistics professor droned on about ancient syntactic structures. I have never once seen her present for attendance in any of the core academic subjects, excluding mandatory exam days. And yet, here she is, present and tethered to me on a day of standard instruction.
He forced his focus entirely onto the lecture, attempting to drown out the suffocating, chaotic weight of her presence, but found the professor's standard pacing agonizingly sluggish for his own mind. How painfully slow, his intellect criticized, genuine irritation bleeding through his usual detachment. The instruction here is simply inadequate for my processing speed. Even during Head Instructor Clive's rigorous theory lessons, my mind operates fast enough to afford me the excess time to map Celeste's every micro-movement while simultaneously comprehending every concept.
That idle thought catalyzed a sudden, chilling deduction. Arthur's graphite pencil paused mid-stroke. He recalled a brief conversation from the previous week. Kaelen had eagerly shared his marks for the second grading period, boasting an exceptional 99.2% average across all disciplines. If Kaelen holds a near-perfect average, Arthur calculated, the gears of his intellect snapping together, and Celeste still definitively holds Rank Two overall... then it mathematically dictates she must receive flawless marks in every single subject, despite her chronic truancy.
If she wasn't relying on illicit academic espionage—and Arthur strongly doubted she possessed the care required to orchestrate a cheating ring—there was only one logical conclusion left.
Arthur finally turned his head, breaking his self-imposed restriction, and made direct eye contact with her. Instantly, Celeste's smile brightened, vibrating with the sheer, pure thrill of being acknowledged.
She must be one of those mentally ill geniuses, Arthur concluded, his amber eyes completely dead beneath his polite exterior. Born eccentric. Finding no further tactical value in the interaction, he simply looked away, his expression entirely indiscernible as the final bell of the academic block chimed.
The lunch period had officially begun. Arthur calmly packed his satchel and stood. True to form, Celeste popped up beside him like a coiled spring, falling into step right beside his shoulder, her expectant eyes glued to his profile. Her relentless proximity had finally exhausted his vast well of clinical patience. Moving with deliberate, unhurried steps, Arthur bypassed the crowded, noisy pathways leading to the grand cafeteria. Instead, he steered his path outward, navigating a labyrinth of quiet stone corridors until he led her into an isolated, overgrown courtyard garden, entirely empty of wandering eyes.