The notice appears just before noon.
Not an announcement. Not an order.
A quiet update pushed through student portals and faculty boards alike an academic assembly hosted jointly by the Political Council and the Cross-Departmental Leadership Forum.
Attendance: optional.
At Ravenshade, that means expected.
Alaric reads it once, then closes the screen. His schedule has already been adjusted twice this morning, small changes that feel intentional rather than accidental. He doesn't bother questioning it anymore. The university rarely explains itself.
By the time he reaches the auditorium, the space is already filling.
The room is designed to impress tiered seating curving toward a wide central floor, glass and stone blending into cold elegance. Faculty members gather near the front, their conversations muted, their posture precise. Students settle into seats with unusual restraint, as if sensing something important is about to happen.
Alaric chooses a spot near the middle.
He doesn't miss Silveren Vale.
Silveren stands near the central table, hands loosely folded behind his back, expression unreadable. He isn't speaking, but the effect of his presence is immediate people adjust around him without realizing they're doing it. A step back here. A pause there. Space made without being asked.
Power, effortless and absolute.
Alaric watches with quiet focus.
For the first time since arriving at Ravenshade, the sight doesn't make his stomach tighten.
The doors at the far end of the auditorium open.
The shift is instant.
Conversation falters. Faculty straighten. Even Silveren turns.
Two men enter side by side.
They don't pause to take in the room. They don't scan faces or measure reactions. They move with the calm certainty of people who already know exactly where they stand.
One of them is tall, dark-haired, dressed simply but expensively. His movements are unhurried, his expression composed to the point of severity. There's nothing outwardly threatening about him and yet the space seems to bend subtly around his presence.
Isaac Blackwell.
The name travels in whispers before anyone formally says it.
The man beside him carries a different energy. Leaner. Sharper. His gaze flicks across the room with open interest, lips curved in something close to amusement, as if he's already picking apart the dynamics at play.
Asher Crowe.
Alaric doesn't need introductions to understand what they represent.
The faculty's reaction tells him everything.
A senior professor steps forward, greeting them with deference that borders on respect. Isaac acknowledges it with a brief nod. Asher smiles, slow and knowing, as if he finds the entire display mildly entertaining.
They take their seats at the table.
Silveren joins them without ceremony.
For a moment, the three of them sit together in silence.
The effect is unsettling.
This isn't a hierarchy.
It's a balance.
Alaric feels the realization settle in his chest, heavy and undeniable. Silveren is powerful yes. But he isn't singular. He isn't the only one who commands a room without effort.
There are others who share the weight of that kind of authority.
The assembly begins.
The discussion moves through policy updates, ethical frameworks, leadership models. Isaac speaks rarely, but when he does, the room listens. His voice is calm, controlled, carrying no wasted words. He doesn't argue he states. He doesn't persuade he assumes agreement.
Asher speaks more often.
He asks questions that sound casual but cut precisely, forcing speakers to clarify their positions, to expose weaknesses they hadn't intended to show. He watches reactions closely, eyes bright with interest, as if this is all a game he enjoys far too much.
Silveren speaks last.
As always.
Alaric listens, absorbing the rhythm between them the way power flows differently from each man. Silveren controls structure. Isaac controls space. Asher controls momentum, raising and lowering the room's tension with well-timed remarks.
It's intoxicating in a distant, dangerous way.
Halfway through the assembly, Alaric shifts in his seat.
That's when he feels it.
Not pressure.
A gaze.
He looks up slowly.
Isaac Blackwell is watching him.
Not openly. Not with the kind of curiosity that draws notice. His gaze rests on Alaric for only a second longer than necessary before moving on again, as if it were nothing.
As if it were deliberate.
Alaric's breath catches, just slightly.
He doesn't know why.
Isaac hasn't smiled. Hasn't spoken to him. Hasn't acknowledged his presence in any obvious way. And yet the look lingers, heavy with something Alaric can't quite name.
Assessment.
Across the table, Asher notices.
Of course he does.
His eyes flick from Isaac to Alaric, then to Silveren. A faint curve touches his mouth not quite a smile, more like anticipation.
Silveren doesn't react immediately.
He's finishing a point about institutional balance, voice steady, posture composed. But when his gaze sweeps the audience, it lands on Alaric and then shifts, almost imperceptibly, to Isaac.
The connection clicks into place.
Silveren's expression doesn't change.
But something tightens beneath it.
The assembly concludes without fanfare. Chairs scrape softly against the floor as people rise, conversations resuming in cautious tones. Faculty members approach the table, eager to engage.
Isaac stands smoothly, buttoning his jacket.
Asher leans toward Silveren, murmuring something Alaric can't hear. Silveren listens without responding.
As Isaac steps away, his path takes him past Alaric's row.
He slows not enough to draw attention.
Their eyes meet again.
This time, there's no mistaking it.
Isaac's gaze is deliberate.
Measured.
Alaric doesn't look away.
For a brief moment, the noise of the auditorium fades, the space between them narrowing into something private and charged.
Then Isaac moves on, leaving behind nothing but the echo of his attention.
Alaric exhales slowly.
He doesn't understand what just happened.
Only that something has shifted.
From across the room, Silveren watches Alaric, who in turn watches Isaac.
And for the first time since Ravenshade taught him the meaning of power, Silveren Vale feels something dangerously close to uncertainty.