Arthur's POV
If there was one thing I hated more than being summoned, it was being summoned without context.
Especially by this school.
St. Arthelios didn't call students to the conference room unless it was important. Or theatrical. Usually both.
I leaned back in the velvet chair near the aisle, one ankle resting on my knee, arms folded. Calm. Collected. Bored as hell. My fingers drummed against the seat's armrest, slow and steady. Ares hadn't shown his face since yesterday's little stunt. Probably already lurking in shadows, doing whatever stunt he called "observing."
The lights dimmed.
Spotlight.
Of course.
Headmaster Corven stepped onto the raised stage like a priest at a ceremony. All-black suit. Gloves. Not a smile in sight. The crowd hushed, tension rippling like a quiet storm.
"As all of you know," he began, "our senior tradition is upon us."
Eyes widened. Whispers spread.
I didn't move.
"The Crimson Masquerade," Corven continued. "A gathering older than any of you. Attended by legacy families, syndicate leaders, and guests of power from outside these walls."
No one breathed.
"One student is chosen every year to plan and host the event. A legacy student, with enough mind to strategize, and enough spine to stand in the fire." His gaze swept over the crowd.
"And this year…" he paused, letting it sting, "the Crimson Host is Isla Durova."
Whispers exploded like gunfire.
I glanced sideways.
She sat three rows ahead, stiff and still.
Interesting.
Corven raised a hand for silence. "And as per tradition, the host does not plan alone."
My jaw tightened before he even said it.
"She is to be paired with Arthur Gray."
The silence that followed was loud enough to crack bone.
A sharp turn of heads. Eyes on me. On her. On the impossible pairing of two bloodlines that should've never stood side by side.
Of course.
I didn't blink.
Didn't smirk either.
Just leaned forward slightly, rested my chin on my hand, and let one thought echo in my mind: 'Let the games begin.'
The cheers were deafening as the announcement of Isla's name sent ripples through the crowd. My eyes narrowed slightly as I fought the instinct to roll my eyes.
Isla Durova.
She might've been chosen as the Crimson Host, but that didn't mean I had to like it. Nor did it mean we'd suddenly get along. She was the last person I wanted to share any spotlight with, let alone a masquerade hosted by legacy families who were already eyeing her like a prize.
Then they called me.
"Arthur Gray," Corven intoned. "As her partner."
I stood slowly, hands at my sides, masking the tightening of my jaw. The weight of the room's gaze felt like a thousand pounds pressing down on me. All I wanted was for this to be over. For the curtain to fall. For whatever this mess was to vanish.
I glanced over at Isla as she rose too, and the world seemed to pause for a moment, for just a second. Her expression was unreadable, but the faintest flicker of disdain in her eyes gave me all the answers I needed.
She didn't want this. Neither did I.
But there was no choice. No turning back.
We walked up to the stage in stiff, calculated steps. The applause thundered around us. They wanted a show. They wanted a spectacle.
When we reached the center, Corven gestured for us to shake hands, a simple symbolic gesture. But there was nothing simple about it.
I extended my hand, and she met it without hesitation, her grip firm and cold. Neither of us flinched. Neither of us showed weakness. But the tension between us was palpable, thick enough to cut through.
It was a handshake meant for enemies, but we couldn't let anyone see it.
The crowd clapped louder, and I couldn't help but glance over to the side. There, in the shadows, sat Ares.
He was clapping too, a lazy grin spread across his face, dimples on full display as he watched with too much interest. His eyes met mine, and that was enough to make my blood freeze. I raised an eyebrow, offering nothing but cold indifference in return.
He didn't stop clapping, though. Just kept watching me—mocking, amused.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt the familiar, irritating itch in my chest.
'Let the games begin.'