Chapter 5: A Professor's Unusual Interest
The dome of the Celestial Theory Lecture Hall absorbed sound into a velvet hush, broken only by the soft, sweeping arc of Professor Orion’s pointer as it traced the path of a dying star on the illusory map overhead. Glittering motes of phantom stardust drifted down through the beams of artificial twilight, dissolving before they touched the obsidian floor. Darcy kept her eyes on her notes, the heavy parchment covered in her own neat script—a mix of standard theory and the subtle, corrective marginalia she’d never voice aloud.
She could feel his gaze. Not the occasional, sweeping glance of an instructor checking for comprehension, but a persistent, weighted attention that settled between her shoulder blades. Professor Orion, young for his post and sharp as the edge of a star-chart, had been watching her since the moment she’d taken her seat beside Talia.
“The harmonic decay of a supernova,” he said, his voice cool and clear in the vast space, “directly influences the volatility of Fire magic in its celestial correspondence period for up to a decade. Miss Vega.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He simply stopped, and the silence became a question. The entire class, a mix of second and third-years, turned.
Darcy looked up, meeting his gray eyes across the rows of desks. “Professor?”
“Your thoughts on the practical application. Specifically, how one might mitigate the volatility in a high-stakes casting environment, given the decay’s unpredictable sine wave.”
It was a third-year question, probing the edge of published research. The kind of thing a royal heir with a specialized tutor might know. Not a mortal-raised Fae princess in her first week. Talia stiffened beside her.
Darcy placed her quill down carefully. She could recite three separate scholarly debates on the topic from memory—from a future he hadn’t lived. She saw, with gut-wrenching clarity, a different version of this moment: her younger self, flustered, offering a brilliant but emotionally raw answer that would make him look at her with something other than academic interest. That path was a wire stretched over a canyon. She would not step onto it.
“The mitigation would depend on the caster’s primary Order,” she began, her voice even and polished. “A Fire Fae would be advised to use the decay’s own frequency, channeling it as a resonance rather than a barrier. An Earth Fae, seeking stability, would anchor their casting in a geomagnetic node to absorb the erratic pulses. The texts by Arcturus the Elder, particularly his later work on Celestial Symbiosis, suggest the volatility isn’t a flaw in the magic but a feature of the star’s final message. The key is interpretation, not suppression.”
The hall was silent. Orion didn’t blink. “Arcturus’s later work is considered highly speculative. Not typically part of foundational reading.”
“I find speculation useful when grounded in observable principles,” Darcy replied. She offered a small, polite smile, the kind you’d give a librarian who found you an obscure scroll. Nothing personal. No shared secret. “The observable principle here being that fighting a cosmic pulse usually ends with a shattered casting circle and a migraine. Working with its rhythm is simply more efficient.”
A few students chuckled nervously. Orion’s head tilted just a fraction. The intensity in his gaze didn’t lessen, but it shifted, analyzing her like a new and complex equation. He’d thrown a spear; she’d caught it, examined its make, and handed it back as a useful tool. He’d gotten nothing of her—no glimpse of how a girl from Chicago could possibly know about Arcturus the Elder’s controversial theories.
“Efficiency is a pragmatic goal,” he finally said, turning back to the star map. “Often overlooked in favor of sheer power. Thank you, Miss Vega.”
The lecture continued. His glances became more frequent, but more subtle. She remained a statue of focused study, her mind elsewhere. She remembered the heat of his hand on her waist in another life, the desperate whispers in dark archives, the world-shattering pain of a bond forged in conflict and tragedy. It was a ghost limb, aching with a phantom feeling. She had no intention of re-growing it. Her path was a political labyrinth, and her potential partners within it—Seth with his competitive grin, Max with his thoughtful observations—were puzzles to solve within the framework of a shared future. A future that required calm, deliberate alliance, not the all-consuming, dangerous fire of a forbidden bond with a professor. That was a story she had already read. She was writing a new one.
When the class ended, he called her name again. “A moment, Miss Vega.”
She gathered her things slowly, letting the other students file out. Talia gave her a worried look; Darcy shook her head slightly, a it’s fine gesture. She approached the dais where he was erasing the star map with a wave of his hand, the constellations winking out one by one.
“Your answer was unusually nuanced,” he said without preamble, not looking at her. “It lacked the… hesitancy of someone encountering the concept for the first time.”
“I’ve always been a quick study, Professor. And I read ahead.” She kept a respectful distance, satchel held in front of her like a shield.
Now he looked at her. The silver in his eyes seemed to catch the chamber’s dim light. “Reading ahead implies access to advanced archives. Or a very well-stocked personal library.”
“The Academy’s libraries are quite comprehensive. I’ve found the librarians very helpful if you ask the right questions.” She was building a wall of impeccable, boring truth. Yes, she knew things. She was diligent. End of story.
A faint, almost imperceptible frown touched his lips. He was being deflected, and he knew it. He was used to students either fawning or trembling. He wasn’t used to being met with a perfectly calm, diplomatic wall. “Your sister displays a similar… preternatural competence in practical magic. It raises questions about your upbringing.”
“Our upbringing was unremarkable,” Darcy said, her tone light but final. “But we’re here now, eager to learn. Was there something specific about the lecture you wanted me to clarify, Professor?”
It was a masterstroke. Putting the ball back in his court, framing any further inquiry as a request for her to help him. He held her gaze for a long, silent moment. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t look away. She simply waited, a polite, intelligent student with nothing to hide and everything to protect.
He saw the boundary then, as clear as if she’d drawn it on the floor in light. He gave a slow, deliberate nod. “No. That will be all. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Professor.” She turned and walked out, her footsteps echoing softly on the rune-etched floor. She didn’t look back. She could feel his eyes on her until the great silvered door closed behind her.
In the corridor, the normal Academy noise felt jarring. She took a steadying breath. That was it. The first probe. Handled.
Orion remained on the dais, staring at the space where she had stood. The princess was an enigma wrapped in a textbook. She offered flawless answers and revealed nothing of herself. He’d expected fear, defiance, or even clumsy attempts to impress. He had not expected to be politely, firmly, and expertly held at arm’s length. It was more intriguing than any celestial anomaly on his maps. A small, unresolved chord of curiosity hummed in the air of the empty lecture hall, where the stars on the ceiling had all gone dark.