Once Lucien was clear of the solarium and the eyes of the courtyard and the muffled buzz of gossip, Lucien's expression shifted. Gone was the pleasant smirk and slow walk. His feet moved with precision now, cutting toward the inner towers of the administrative spire. His mind raced through the possibilities like a well-oiled cogwheel.
If Vellichor takes up a teaching post, and the principal practically begged him to do so, then the class roster will change. New registrations. Reassignments. Limited seats. Possibly no announcement at all until the last minute.
He passed beneath a lit arch, brushing aside a pair of second-year students who barely noticed him and gave their senior the right of way. He needed information, and quickly.
"If I can get into the class before it's public, before the Board of Allocation finalizes the scheduling..." he thought.
He stopped in front of a sealed brasswork door—Admissions and Faculty Liaison. It was late, but not too late. The lights were still flickering inside.
Vedres.
Madame Vedres Renoir, assistant to the Assistant Dean of Curriculum Oversight, and more importantly, Lucien's second cousin once removed, through his mother's side, of course. She always had a fondness for him and a weakness for flattery, in the material sense, and Lucien was prepared to deploy both.
He pushed open the door and smiled like he'd just arrived with a birthday gift.
"Lucien Brunet," Vedres said without looking up. "You're here past peak registration hours."
"Dear Cousin Vedres," he said, approaching the counter with a polished gleam in his voice, "for someone of your diligence, I can only assume the same."
She looked up then, arching a tired but curious brow.
"I've come about a matter of some urgency. A… very specific class registration."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're not on the waiting list for Thaumaturgic Ecology again, are you?"
Lucien laughed lightly. "Hardly. This is a matter of academic opportunity. Of historical significance."
That got her attention.
He leaned in a little, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know of Vellichor, the Dread Mage? Word is, he's going to be teaching at the Halls."
She stared at him. "Vellichor? The Dread Mage? He's… teaching?"
Lucien let the silence draw out, letting his eyes widen just enough to imply that he shouldn't say more.
"He's… considering it," he said softly. "After speaking with the principal and getting used to the grounds."
Vedres blinked, then whispered, "Gods below."
"If he does—if he is—I want to be placed in the class. Quietly. Before the lists go public. I'll file whatever form, sign whatever scroll, offer whatever… donation is necessary."
She hesitated.
Lucien reached into his satchel and produced a carefully folded square of parchment, sealed with his family's minor crest. "A letter of intent. Consider it a courtesy draft. Just in case."
She took it, still looking slightly stunned.
"I'd owe you, Vedres."
That did it.
"I'll… check the internal board," she said. "No promises. But if there's even a placeholder with his name, I'll see what I can do."
Lucien nodded once, then turned to leave, a gleam of triumph already kindling behind his eyes.
While Boffety debates river spirits with half-wits and heiresses, I'll be sitting in the front row of history.