The rain had been falling since dawn — a steady, silken sound that wrapped Aethergard in mist.
From her window in Philosophy House, Precious Wolfë watched the drops slide down the glass, distorting the reflection of her face: dark skin, silver-grey eyes that seemed to hold light differently than anyone else's.
She still wasn't used to how people looked at her here.
Aethergard was full of old names and ancient bloodlines. She came from neither. Her mother used to say that dreams didn't need permission, but in these echoing halls, even dreams seemed to wear uniforms.
Danielle had sprawled on her bed across the room, flipping through a spellbook-sized tome. "Girl," she said, her Nigerian accent lilting through the candlelight, "you've been staring out that window for an hour. If you start reciting poetry, I'm leaving."
Precious smiled faintly. "Just thinking."
"That's your first mistake." Danielle sat up, her braids falling over one shoulder. "You know what Thornwell said? We're invited to that public debate tonight — Strategy versus Rhetoric."
"Invited, or required?"
"Same difference." Danielle grinned. "Come on, it'll be fun. Watching Akira Kurosawa roast some arrogant heir from Rhetoric? I'd pay to see it."
At that name, Precious's fingers stilled against the windowpane.
She'd only seen Akira once — at the Sorting. But she remembered the sharp geometry of her face, the contrast of black hair against porcelain skin, and those brown eyes: calm, fathomless, and cold. They didn't just look at people; they looked through them.
Precious hadn't realized she was holding her breath until Danielle snapped her fingers.
"You okay?"
"Fine," she lied. "Just… curious."
---
The Great Debate Hall
Evening
The Debate Hall looked more like a cathedral than a classroom.
Stone columns rose toward a vaulted ceiling carved with constellations, and braziers lined the aisles, filling the air with smoke and gold light. The scent of rain clung to everyone's coats, mingling with candle wax and ink.
At the center stood two opposing podiums — one draped in crimson silk for Rhetoric, the other in black for Strategy.
When Akira Kurosawa stepped forward, the room quieted instantly.
She was tall and still, with the kind of beauty that didn't seem made for admiration but for distance — like a sculpture no one dared to touch. Her uniform fit her perfectly, her posture unyielding. Her skin was pale as porcelain, her eyes deep brown, so dark they seemed to drink in the light.
She glanced once at the crowd — not to acknowledge them, but to measure them.
Across from her, Arthur Conan sauntered to his podium, tie undone, his blond hair catching the firelight. His charm filled the room like perfume — heady, easy, practiced.
Where Akira was stillness, Arthur was movement.
Where she was silence, he was noise.
And yet, both radiated the same unmistakable gravity — the pull of those used to being watched.
The Headmaster's voice rang out:
> "Tonight's debate: What governs the world — logic or persuasion?"
A single chime signaled the beginning.
Akira's voice, when she spoke, was low and steady — deliberate, like ink spreading on paper.
"Logic governs the world. It is the thread from which civilization is woven. Without it, persuasion is mere wind — a noise that passes, leaving no structure behind."
Arthur's lips curved. "And yet," he countered, "it is persuasion that convinces men to build those structures at all. Logic draws the map; persuasion gets people to follow it."
Polite laughter rippled through the audience.
Akira didn't flinch. "Then perhaps your kind prefers following to thinking."
Arthur placed a hand on his chest. "My kind?"
"The charming," she said coolly. "Those who trade in words because they fear what silence might reveal."
The crowd gasped. Precious's lips parted in awe.
There was power in Akira's precision — not loud, but absolute.
Arthur laughed, easy and unbothered. "Oh, Miss Kurosawa, you wound me. But if we're speaking of fear—perhaps it's logic that hides behind walls of theory, terrified to touch the world it claims to understand."
"Better a wall," Akira replied, "than a mask."
The tension snapped like electricity.
Danielle leaned close to Precious. "This is so much better than dinner."
Precious didn't answer. She couldn't.
She was too busy watching Akira — the control in her every gesture, the slight curve of her lips after each cutting remark. She admired her, feared her, and — though she didn't dare name it — felt something else stirring too.
---
The debate reached its peak when Arthur suddenly turned from his podium, his golden eyes glinting mischievously.
"Perhaps we should test our theories," he said. "Logic may be pure, persuasion charming — but what about wisdom?"
He scanned the audience until his gaze landed squarely on her.
"Miss Wolfë. The Philosopher."
The hall fell still.
"Tell us," Arthur said, voice dripping with curiosity, "what governs the world?"
Danielle whispered, "You could just pretend to faint."
But Precious stood, her pulse hammering beneath her ribs.
"Neither," she said, her voice calm though her hands trembled.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. Akira's expression barely shifted, but her gaze sharpened.
"Explain," Akira said, her tone clipped, commanding — but not unkind.
Precious drew a breath. "Logic defines what should be. Persuasion decides what others believe. But the world isn't ruled by thought or speech. It's ruled by want. By hunger. People move not because they understand or are convinced — but because they desire."
The silence that followed was heavier than applause.
Arthur blinked, momentarily thrown. Akira's eyes softened — only slightly — the faintest flicker of admiration breaking her perfect composure.
She inclined her head. "A philosopher's answer."
Arthur smiled, regaining his charm. "Or a poet's."
But Akira didn't look away from Precious. "A dangerous combination."
---
After the Debate
When the audience finally dispersed, the rain outside had softened to a drizzle. The torches burned low, reflections shimmering on the wet stones.
Precious lingered by the archway, clutching her notebook to her chest. Her pulse still hadn't slowed. She could feel Arthur's gaze before she heard his voice.
"You have a gift, Miss Wolfë," he said, stepping into the torchlight. "You make philosophy sound like fire."
"I wasn't performing," she said quietly.
He smiled, leaning closer. "Everything here is a performance. Even honesty."
Before she could reply, a soft voice cut through the air.
"Mr. Conan."
Akira stood a few steps away, umbrella in hand, her dark eyes steady beneath the lamplight. Even in the rain, she seemed untouched by it — composed, immaculate, untouchable.
"Some of us prefer to earn attention rather than provoke it," she said.
Arthur grinned. "Oh, but provoking it is so much more fun."
Akira ignored him and turned to Precious.
"Your answer was… unexpected."
Precious hesitated. "Is that a compliment?"
A shadow of a smile touched Akira's lips. "It's an observation. Compliments are for children."
Arthur chuckled. "You'll forgive her, Miss Wolfë. Miss Kurosawa only smiles when someone loses to her."
Akira's gaze flicked to him, sharp as glass. "And yet you're still smiling, Mr. Conan. Curious."
Arthur laughed and tipped his head. "Touché."
He slipped away into the shadows, leaving them alone beneath the dripping eaves.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The rain whispered against stone.
Akira lowered her umbrella slightly. "Philosophy House," she said softly, almost to herself. "You don't belong there."
"Where do I belong, then?" Precious asked.
Akira's eyes met hers. There was no cruelty in them now, only a quiet intensity. "Somewhere that won't try to make you smaller."
Then, before Precious could answer, Akira turned and walked away — her figure dissolving into the rain.
Precious stood there long after she was gone, the sound of her heartbeat mingling with the rain.
And for the first time since arriving at Aethergard, she wasn't afraid of being noticed.
She was afraid of what noticing might become.
---