The confrontation happens where Silveren prefers his victories to be visible.
The forum hall sits at the heart of Ravenshade a wide, open space where students gather between lectures, where announcements are made, where debates and presentations are held. Power here isn't loud. It's assumed. Those who have it speak freely. Those who don't learn when to stay silent.
Alaric enters with a folder tucked under his arm, expression neutral, steps measured.
He knows Silveren will be there.
And he is.
Silveren stands near the center dais, speaking with two faculty advisors. He looks entirely at ease, one hand resting lightly on the podium as though it belongs to him. People linger nearby, pretending to be busy while listening closely.
Alaric moves to a free desk near the edge of the hall and begins sorting through his papers.
He doesn't look at Silveren.
That, more than anything else, draws attention.
Silveren notices within seconds.
He finishes his sentence and turns, gaze sweeping the room before settling on Alaric. There is no surprise in his expression only acknowledgment.
"Mr. Rowan," Silveren says, voice calm but carrying easily across the space.
Conversations fade.
Alaric looks up slowly. "Yes?"
"You submitted an appeal," Silveren continues. "Without following protocol."
A few heads turn. Someone nearby shifts uncomfortably.
"I followed the written process," Alaric replies. "Exactly as outlined."
Silveren steps away from the podium.
"Written processes," he says, "exist within context."
Alaric nods. "So does authority."
A murmur ripples through the hall.
Silveren stops a few feet away from him, posture relaxed, eyes cool. "You seem determined to misunderstand how things work here."
"I understand how they work," Alaric answers. His tone is steady. "I'm questioning whether they should."
The words hang between them.
One of the advisors clears their throat. "Perhaps this isn't the appropriate-"
Silveren lifts a hand, silencing them without looking back.
"You've been inconvenienced," Silveren says to Alaric. "Minor disruptions. Temporary delays."
"Designed," Alaric replies quietly, "to pressure compliance."
Silveren's gaze sharpens.
"You assume intention."
Alaric opens his folder and removes a page, placing it flat on the desk between them.
"I tracked the changes," he says. "Schedule alterations, access removals, event cancellations. All aligned within twelve hours of our first interaction."
He pauses.
"Statistically," he continues, "that's not coincidence."
The crowd leans in.
Silveren regards the paper without touching it. "You're accusing the institution of bias."
"I'm accusing it of efficiency," Alaric says. "Bias would be careless."
A breath of laughter escapes someone near the back quickly stifled.
Silveren's lips press into a thin line.
"You think presenting numbers absolves you of responsibility?" he asks.
"I think responsibility should be proportional to wrongdoing," Alaric replies. "And I haven't committed any."
Silveren circles him slowly, like a predator assessing distance.
"You disrupted order," he says. "You challenged structure."
"I asked why a seat mattered more than a person," Alaric says. "That's not disruption. That's inquiry."
Silveren stops.
"You're not here to inquire," he says softly. "You're here because you were allowed in."
The words are sharp. Clean.
The room stills.
Alaric lifts his chin slightly. "Then Ravenshade shouldn't advertise itself as a place for merit."
Silveren's eyes darken.
"You mistake tolerance for equality," he says. "This institution rewards excellence."
"And obedience?" Alaric asks.
Silveren's gaze flicks to him fully now.
"Obedience," Silveren says, "is how excellence survives."
"That's one philosophy," Alaric replies. "History doesn't support it."
The silence stretches.
People are no longer pretending not to watch.
Silveren studies him for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then he smiles faintly.
"You're articulate," he says. "I'll give you that."
Alaric doesn't respond.
"But articulation without leverage," Silveren continues, "is noise."
"Then it's fortunate," Alaric says evenly, "that attention amplifies noise."
That lands.
One of the faculty advisors shifts. Another glances toward the exits.
Silveren steps closer just enough to reclaim space, not enough to touch.
"You think you've won something here," he says quietly.
"I think I've clarified my position," Alaric answers.
"And what position is that?"
"That I won't apologize for existing in a space you don't think I belong in."
The words are calm.
That's what makes them dangerous.
Silveren's smile fades.
For a moment, it seems like he might respond might press harder, might dismantle Alaric publicly the way everyone expects.
Instead, he straightens.
"This conversation is over," he says.
The sudden finality cuts through the tension like a blade.
He turns to the advisors. "See that his appeal is processed."
Their surprise is visible but they nod.
Silveren looks back at Alaric once more.
His expression is no longer neutral.
It's darker now. Sharper.
Not angry.
Interested.
"You should be careful," Silveren says softly. "Words can protect you. They can also mark you."
Alaric meets his gaze without flinching. "So can silence."
Silveren's eyes linger on him for a beat too long.
Then he turns away.
The crowd exhales.
Whispers erupt.
Alaric gathers his papers slowly, pulse steady despite the adrenaline humming beneath his skin. He doesn't look around as he leaves the hall.
Behind him, Silveren remains still.
Watching.