Aria Whitmore had won again.
She stood at the center of the Franklin Hall auditorium, posture straight, hands relaxed at her sides, the echo of applause still bouncing off the high ceiling. The judges were smiling. The audience was on its feet. Someone in the back whistled, sharp and celebratory.
Another clean victory.
Another flawless argument.
Another night where no one could touch her.
And yet—
Aria felt nothing.
She nodded politely as the debate moderator announced her name, the words "undefeated for three consecutive years" rolling easily off his tongue. Cameras flashed. Her opponent—red-faced, brilliant, and utterly dismantled—offered a tight smile and a handshake.
"Well played," he muttered.
"Thank you," Aria said, because that was what winners said.
She turned away before the applause could swell again.
Because she could already feel it fading.
In the wings of the stage, Mila Sanchez bounced on the balls of her feet, clutching Aria's blazer like it was a trophy she planned to steal.
"You murdered him," Mila whispered loudly. "Like—academically. With footnotes."
Aria slipped her blazer on, smoothing the sleeves. "It was a regional qualifier. He was nervous."
"He quoted three philosophers and you still folded him in half," Mila said, eyes bright. "That's not nerves. That's destiny."
Aria smiled, small and automatic.
Mila paused. She knew that smile.
"Hey," Mila said, lowering her voice. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"That was a nothing that sounded like a lie."
Aria glanced back toward the stage. Faculty members had begun gathering near the judges' table—too close, too quiet. Professor Kingsley stood among them, his silver hair immaculate, his hands clasped behind his back.
He wasn't looking at Aria.
He was listening.
And whatever he was hearing made his jaw tighten.
Aria felt a strange pull in her chest.
"Do you see that?" she asked.
Mila followed her gaze. "The faculty huddle? Yeah. They do that sometimes. Usually when someone messes up the funding paperwork."
"They're whispering," Aria said.
"They always whisper."
"No," Aria said quietly. "They're whispering about something."
Mila studied her for a moment. "You're spiraling."
"Am I?"
"You just won," Mila said. "Again. You're the top-ranked debater in the state. Colleges fight over you like you're a limited-edition vinyl."
Aria swallowed.
Then why did it feel like the room had shifted?
Professor Kingsley finally turned.
His gaze landed on Aria like weight.
Not pride. Not approval.
Assessment.
Aria straightened without realizing it.
"That's new," Mila murmured. "He usually looks like he wants to frame you and hang you in the faculty lounge."
Aria didn't answer.
Because Kingsley was already walking toward her.
"Miss Whitmore," he said, voice smooth, precise. "A word?"
Mila opened her mouth. Closed it. Stepped back. "I'll… go guard your trophies."
Aria nodded and followed Kingsley down the side corridor, away from the noise, the lights dimming as the auditorium doors closed behind them.
The silence pressed in.
"You performed exceptionally well," Kingsley said.
"Thank you, sir."
"You adapted quickly to pressure."
"I always do."
Kingsley stopped walking.
He turned to face her fully now, his expression unreadable.
"Yes," he said. "You always do."
Something in the way he said it made her pulse jump.
They resumed walking.
"Is something wrong?" Aria asked.
"No," Kingsley replied too quickly. "Not wrong. Merely… changing."
Aria frowned. "Changing how?"
Kingsley didn't answer.
They reached his office. He unlocked the door and gestured for her to enter.
On his desk lay a single folder.
Black.
Unmarked.
Aria's stomach tightened.
"Sit," Kingsley said.
She did.
He remained standing, hands braced on the desk, eyes fixed on the folder as if it might bite.
"Aria," he said, dropping formalities for the first time in three years, "what do you believe your greatest strength is?"
She blinked. "Preparation."
"A common answer."
"Pattern recognition," she added. "Most arguments repeat themselves. People think they're original. They're not."
Kingsley nodded slowly. "And your greatest weakness?"
Aria hesitated.
She had never been asked that before.
"I don't lose," she said finally.
Kingsley's lips twitched. "That's not a weakness."
"It is," Aria replied. "Because if I do… I don't know who I am after."
Silence stretched between them.
Kingsley exhaled.
"Have you heard the name Evelyn Cross?" he asked.
Aria frowned. "No."
Mila's words echoed in her mind. A new name is mentioned.
Kingsley opened the folder.
Inside were transcripts. Rankings. Articles. Photos.
A girl about Aria's age stared up from the page—dark hair, sharp eyes, a smile that looked like it knew secrets.
"Evelyn Cross," Kingsley said. "Eighteen. Transferred twice. National debate circuit."
Aria scanned the page.
Her breath caught.
Undefeated.
Just like her.
"She's… good," Aria said carefully.
"She's better," Kingsley replied.
The word landed hard.
Aria looked up. "That's not possible."
Kingsley met her gaze evenly. "It is. And she's arriving here next month."
The room tilted.
"Here?" Aria echoed.
"Yes."
"Why?"
Kingsley closed the folder.
"Because Oxford is sending her."
The word Oxford didn't sound real.
It sounded like a myth. A destination. A door that only opened for legends.
"Oxford doesn't send students," Aria said. "They recruit them."
"They also relocate them," Kingsley said. "When they believe a student has… outgrown their environment."
Aria's fingers curled into her palms.
"So why here?"
Kingsley studied her carefully. "Because Franklin Hall has you."
The air between them went taut.
"You're saying—"
"I'm saying," Kingsley interrupted gently, "that you'll be facing a transfer."
Aria's heart slammed.
"From where?" she asked.
Kingsley held her gaze.
"Oxford."
The word struck like a bell.
Loud. Final.
Aria left the office in a daze.
Mila was waiting, arms crossed, expression sharp.
"You look like someone just told you Santa isn't real and also he stole your scholarship."
"Oxford," Aria said.
Mila blinked. "Like… Oxford Oxford?"
"There's a transfer," Aria said. "Coming here."
Mila's smile faded. "Oh."
"Her name is Evelyn Cross."
Mila's jaw tightened. "I've heard of her."
Aria stopped walking. "You have?"
"Circuit rumors," Mila said. "They call her the Mirror."
"Why?"
"Because whoever debates her ends up seeing all their flaws reflected back at them."
Aria felt a chill.
"I don't lose," she said quietly.
Mila reached for her hand. "Maybe not. But winning doesn't mean you're untouchable."
Aria looked back toward the auditorium doors.
The applause was gone now.
Replaced by murmurs.
Whispers.
For the first time in her life, victory tasted thin.
And somewhere, far across the ocean, someone was already preparing to take her place.