The lecture hall was packed.
Students filled every tiered seat of the forum, their attention split between the glowing runes scrolling above the stage and the polished figure standing beneath them—Professor Haltright, a man whose reputation loomed even larger than his towering frame.
Clayton leaned back against the curved bench, arms folded. Asher sat calmly beside him, while Eric tapped his ring absently against the armrest.
Haltright's voice echoed across the chamber—measured, articulate, and impossibly smooth. The man looked like he'd been sculpted for politics. Robes pristine, posture impeccable, expression warm but unreadable.
"…As part of Vyrith's ongoing efforts to strengthen cross-institutional ties," Haltright said, "we are pleased to announce this year's inter-academy competitions will include spell theory exhibitions, two formal duels, and a collaborative runeweaving challenge between partnered schools."
Murmurs rose from the crowd.
"Additionally, due to the recent elemental flux patterns detected near the northern ley-lines," he continued, "Novice midterms have been rescheduled to a new date—details to follow."
Clayton raised a brow. So it was official now.
Haltright paused as the announcement sank in, then offered a relaxed smile. "We expect all of you to treat this not as a setback, but as an opportunity. More time to prepare. More chances to surprise us."
A small wave of applause followed, light but genuine.
Eric's eyes didn't leave Haltright. "Polished bastard," he muttered.
"Smile's too perfect," Asher added dryly.
"Let's see how he handles real questions," Clayton murmured.
As the presentation wrapped, Haltright opened the floor to the audience. Several students stood, asking about scoring criteria, group selection, and travel schedules. He answered each with impeccable grace.
Then Eric stood.
"Professor Haltright," he began, voice clear, "with the increase in competitive exposure, what's being done to ensure faculty involvement doesn't sway or interfere with student advancement?"
Haltright didn't blink. "A valid concern," he said smoothly. "But I assure you, our role is strictly supervisory. Students' progress will be judged independently by an appointed board—half internal, half visiting adjudicators."
Eric didn't sit.
"And who selects those adjudicators?"
Clayton tensed.
Haltright's smile didn't flicker. "The process is overseen by the Headmaster's council. As with every year, transparency and fairness are paramount. You have my word."
"But not the names?" Eric asked. "Or affiliations?"
A murmur ran through the students.
Haltright took a single step forward, projecting warmth like a seasoned actor. "Names are announced two weeks prior to the first event. We release them simultaneously to all academies involved to prevent early influence or bias."
Eric studied him. "And you don't influence that list?"
"I serve the academy's interests," Haltright said. "And the academy serves its students."
His eyes met Eric's, and for a moment, the veneer slipped—just a hairline crack in the perfect finish. Then it was gone.
"Perhaps we can discuss this further after the panel, Mr. Ashford," he added. "I always make time for members of the Union."
Eric nodded stiffly and sat.
Clayton watched Haltright closely. The man hadn't flinched. Not once. Too perfect.
The panel concluded without further incident, and students began filing out. Eric didn't try to follow Haltright immediately. They knew it wouldn't work. Not yet.
They regrouped later that evening in Clayton's apartment, which felt unusually small after the public theater of the panel. Asher settled onto the worn leather chair, while Eric stood by the window, arms crossed.
"Nothing," Eric said, frustrated. "He parried every word."
"He's been doing this longer than we've been alive," Asher replied. "That wasn't a man talking. That was a performance."
Clayton didn't speak. Not yet. He was thinking—pulling at the loose threads.
In the novel, Haltright had always seemed too clean. Until the third arc, when Eric found leverage on him—blackmail, a hidden scandal involving funding discrepancies and a secret about Haltrigt through which he blackmailed him.
That scene had been dramatic. Emotional. The moment when Eric gained the upper hand and forced Haltright into compliance. But now?
Clayton turned those pages in his mind again and again.
They'd expected to push him. To see something slip.
But Haltright had been flawless.
And that's what troubled him most.
Later, after the others left, Clayton sat alone in his room. The city-light glow of Vyrith shimmered faintly through the warded glass, casting shifting shadows across his desk.
He leaned forward, fingers steepled.
"In the story," he murmured, "Haltright slipped when Eric caught him embezzling something. But we didn't see anything like that. Not even a ripple."
Which meant either the situation hadn't developed yet—or it had changed entirely.
Clayton reached for his communication crystal. It took a moment to unlock, even longer to access the private line Antigonus had provided when he first enrolled.
Not many knew he even had it.
He typed a brief message:
"Requesting low-visibility surveillance on Professor Haltright. Patterns, contacts, off-hours movement."
Then he set the crystal aside and leaned back.
If the official route yielded nothing, then it was time to dig beneath the surface.
He was very reluctant to send this because Antigonus helps always comes with aprice but he had no other option.
Two days later, a tiny glyph appeared in the corner of his window—an Antigonus signal. A report had arrived.
Clayton read it three times.
The perfect mask had a crack.
Haltright had been visiting a secluded storage facility outside the west wing. Officially, it was listed as a relic vault—outdated, unranked materials not in circulation. But he'd been there four times in the last week. Alone. Always at night.
Clayton's eyes narrowed.
So he did have something to hide.
By the time Asher and Eric returned to his apartment later that night, Clayton had the report printed, coded, and laid flat across the table.
He pointed to the highlighted entries. "This is our lead."
Eric read it quickly, nodding. "This is good."
Asher was already reviewing the vault's location. "We confront him?"
"Not yet," Clayton said. "We watch. Wait until he slips. Then we strike."
Eric looked thoughtful. "Blackmail?"
"Maybe," Clayton said. "Or something better."
And for the first time in days, all three of them smiled