For Lucien de Montaigne, the real battle was just beginning: Advanced Magical Theory.
He strolled down the corridor, his uniform unbuttoned at the collar, his silver hair loose. He wasn't heading to class. He was calculating the optimal sun-angle in the clock tower garden for a mid-morning nap.
'Class A is doing barrier drills again,' he thought, stifling a yawn. 'Tedious. I already mastered hexagonal shielding when I was twelve.'
He turned a corner, spotting a secluded alcove perfect for a nap. He took a step toward it—and froze.
Amaryllis was standing there.
She looked pissed.
Her arms were crossed, her foot tapping rhythmically against the stone floor. She was wearing her Academy uniform, but she wore it like coronation robes.
Lucien immediately spun on his heel to walk the other way.
"Halt," Amaryllis commanded. The temperature in the hallway dropped five degrees.
Lucien stopped. He sighed, a tragic sound, and turned back with a charming, lazy smile.
