'So this is what you meant…'
She remembered one of their earliest conversations—him standing just outside the mess hall, tossing an apple into the air like he didn't care where it landed.
"They don't care how smart you are. Or how strong. Not if you weren't born with the right ink stamped on your name. You think it's a meritocracy. I think it's a really pretty lie."
At the time, she'd thought he was exaggerating.
Over-dramatic.
Performative.
But now…
Now she wasn't so sure.
It wasn't just suspicion in these students' voices. It was certainty. Not the kind earned through facts—but through entitlement. The belief that because they had followed the rules written for them, everyone else had to follow beneath them.
And Lucavion…?
Lucavion had never bowed once.
She could feel the crowd brimming now—ready to tip, not just with words but action. Anger and pride were dangerous when they had a rhythm.
And then—
Clap.
One, single, echoing clap.
Crisp.
Deliberate.
Mocking.
