What do we know about each other?
Sirene Valemont learned early that silence was a form of power.
It was taught to her in the long marble corridors of her childhood home, where conversations never rose above measured tones and secrets were carried the way others carried prayer-quietly, reverently, and with consequence. Her family believed noise was vulgar. Emotion, worse.
So when she arrived at Blackthorne University- an institution older than most nations and wealthier than most governments she fit seamlessly into its traditions of restraint.
Blackthorne did not welcome its students. It assessed them.
The gates stood tall and iron-wrought, etched with Latin inscriptions that spoke of legacy and endurance. The buildings loomed like watchful sentinels, stone darkened by centuries of ambition. Ivy crawled along the walls as if trying to claim ownership over what men had built and broken in cycles.
Sirene adjusted the cuff of her coat as she stepped inside the central courtyard, heels clicking softly against the cold stone. The sound echoed, then disappeared. Even footsteps were swallowed here.
She felt it immediately that subtle pressure in the air. The unspoken understanding that everyone standing in this space came from something powerful. Money. Influence. Bloodlines stitched into history books and whispered deals.
She had grown up among ministers and magnates, senators and strategists. Her father shaped policies from behind closed doors; her mother dismantled empires with contracts and smiles. Sirene herself had been groomed to speak carefully, think three moves ahead, and never reveal the full truth of what she wanted.
Blackthorne was not unfamiliar territory.
And yet.
There was something about the place that felt… watchful.
She crossed the courtyard, eyes scanning the carved archways and shadowed windows. Students moved with quiet confidence - tailored coats, understated luxury, expressions schooled into neutrality. Laughter was rare. Curiosity rarer.
Sirene paused at the foot of the grand staircase leading into Ashcroft Hall.
The name caught her attention.
Ashcroft.
She had seen it before. Not on campus maps, but in documents. Financial reports. Political donations buried under layers of shell corporations. Her mother had once mentioned it in passing, voice neutral but eyes sharp.
Old money. Quiet power. Dangerous restraint.
Sirene's mouth curved faintly , not a smile, exactly. More an acknowledgment.
She ascended the steps.
The lecture hall was already half full when she entered. High ceilings arched overhead, ribbed with dark wood beams. Rows of desks curved downward toward the central podium, creating a subtle sense of hierarchy—everyone watching everyone else.
She chose a seat near the middle. Not too visible. Not hidden.
As she settled in, she felt it again.
That sensation.
Like being observed not directly, but with intent.
Sirene did not turn immediately. She waited. Let the feeling linger, sharpen, confirm itself. Then she glanced to her left.
He sat two rows down, posture relaxed but precise. Dark coat. Clean lines. No unnecessary movement. His attention was directed toward the front of the room, but his presence was… heavy. Anchored.
Lucien Ashcroft.
She recognized him without ever having seen his face before.
There were names that carried weight simply by existing. Ashcroft was one of them. The family did not appear in headlines. They appeared in footnotes. In acquisitions that reshaped industries. In foundations that influenced elections without ever endorsing a candidate.
Lucien did not look like someone who needed to announce himself.
His features were sharp in a restrained way—nothing flamboyant, nothing inviting. Dark hair brushed back carelessly, as if he had stopped caring whether it obeyed him. His expression was unreadable, eyes focused forward, jaw set in quiet control.
Sirene looked away first.
Interesting, she thought. Not because he was handsome—though he was—but because he looked… closed. Not guarded. Sealed.
The lecture began.
Professor Hale spoke in a measured cadence about institutional ethics and inherited power, his voice filling the hall with academic authority. Sirene listened, taking notes sparingly. She did not need to prove herself here. She needed to observe.
Halfway through the lecture, Hale posed a question.
"Is power inherited," he asked, "or learned?"
Silence followed.
Sirene considered raising her hand. She had opinions - precise ones. Carefully sharpened over years of watching men like her father negotiate influence as if it were a currency.
Before she could decide, another voice spoke.
"Neither," Lucien said calmly.
Heads turned.
He didn't look fazed by the attention. He met it with indifference.
"Power is accumulated," he continued. "Through decisions that compound over time. Inheritance only determines where one begins."
Professor Hale studied him. "And morality?"
Lucien's lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. "Is optional."
A murmur rippled through the room.
Sirene felt something stir—not shock, but recognition. He wasn't posturing. He wasn't trying to provoke.
He was stating a fact.
Professor Hale nodded slowly. "A dangerous answer," he said.
Lucien shrugged. "Reality often is."
Sirene watched him as the discussion moved on. There was no arrogance in his demeanor. No need to impress. Only a quiet certainty that suggested he had seen consequences up close—and survived them.
When the lecture ended, the hall emptied gradually. Sirene gathered her things, moving at an unhurried pace.
She sensed him before she heard him.
"Valemont."
Her steps slowed.
She turned.
Lucien stood a few feet away, hands in his coat pockets. Up close, his eyes were darker than she expected. Not cold but controlled. Like a fire banked beneath ash.
"You know my name," she said.
He inclined his head slightly. "Your family is… difficult to ignore."
"So is yours," she replied.
A pause.
Something passed between them—not flirtation, not hostility. Assessment.
"You don't belong here," he said finally.
Sirene raised an eyebrow. "Neither do you."
His gaze sharpened. "This place ruins people."
She studied him. The faint shadows beneath his eyes. The tension held too carefully in his shoulders.
"Then why are you here?" she asked.
Lucien's expression did not change.
"Because some things deserve to be destroyed from the inside."
A chill crept along her spine.
Before she could respond, he stepped past her, leaving the faint scent of smoke and winter behind.
Sirene stood still for a moment, pulse steady but alert.
She did not chase him.
She did not need to.
Because something told her this was not an ending.
It was an opening.
And as she watched his retreating figure, she realized—with quiet certainty—that Lucien Ashcroft was not a man who burned quickly.
He burned slowly.
Deliberately.
And when he finally looked back at her, his eyes held a familiarity that unsettled her far more than interest ever could.
He looked at her like he already knew how this would end.