Pretty Things Die Here

The lecture from hell (ch5)

The double doors to the Grand Hall groaned open, spilling harsh white light onto the carpeted steps. Isolde stepped in with Rue at her side, the scent of varnished oak and overly expensive cologne clinging to the velvet curtains that lined the room. The hall was tiered like an old cinema—wide, cushioned seats sloping downward toward a polished stage where faculty members had already begun assembling.

"Why does this feel like the Hunger Games?" Rue muttered, side-eyeing the cluster of teachers perched near the podium. "All we're missing is an anthem and some flaming chariot."

Isolde huffed a laugh, scanning the room for seats. Rue tugged her wrist and they slid into the second tier—close enough to the front to be seen, far enough to avoid direct questioning. As soon as they sat, Rue pulled out a lollipop from somewhere deep in her blazer pocket and popped it in her mouth with a snap.

The hush that fell over the hall came with the sound of expensive shoes: measured, deliberate, echoing.

Cassian Varnwyth entered behind them.

He didn't rush—he never did. He walked like he knew the walls curved toward him, like the floor shifted to make his arrival feel cinematic. He passed by Rue and Isolde without so much as a glance—until he paused.

Deliberately, he slid into the seat directly behind them.

Rue's eyebrows launched into her hairline. "Oh, he's trying to be slick. Lord Varnwyth, back from the dead. Bet he sat there so you'd smell his cologne and spiral."

"Don't start," Isolde murmured, her posture suddenly very academic.

Then came Juliet Lacrymelle. Of course. She made her entrance like a perfume commercial—long ponytail, soft pink blazer, silk skirt a little too short for someone who claimed she didn't know the rules. She bee-lined for Cassian's row, sliding into the seat next to him like she'd choreographed it in her mirror that morning.

"Cass," she said, voice feather-soft. "You're ignoring my texts again."

"I haven't opened them," he replied coolly, eyes still fixed ahead.

Isolde stiffened.

"You didn't even look at me at breakfast," Juliet pressed, her lip gloss catching the hall's light.

"I did," Cassian replied. "Once."

Juliet leaned in, clearly unbothered by public humiliation. "You always do this after I—after we—"

Cassian turned his head, slowly, finally meeting her eyes. "You're confusing proximity for possession."

A sharp inhale from Rue. "Damn."

Juliet blinked, face hardening. "Don't act like I don't know you. You're not as untouchable as you think."

"No," Cassian said with a faint smirk. "I'm worse."

Before Juliet could claw back a shred of dignity, another presence slipped into the row behind them. Alaric Caelwyn—sharpened cheekbones, sinfully bored, eyes like blade tips. He gave Cassian a once-over, then looked to Juliet and gave a low chuckle.

"Trouble in paradise?" he drawled, loud enough for all to hear.

Cassian didn't look at him. Juliet did—and flushed.

Behind him, two rows up, Silas Withermore had already opened his notebook. His pen moved in nervous, erratic strokes, and his shoulders twitched every few seconds. He wasn't looking at the stage—he was watching everyone else. His gaze flicked from Alaric to Juliet to Cassian to Isolde. His hand trembled slightly.

Rue noticed.

"You alright, Withermore?" she whispered, turning her head.

He didn't look up. Just scribbled faster.