“War is not born in blood, but in ideas that refuse to bend.” - Rafael Voss, Private Journal

Lucien

Dean Mortimer Hale’s office was exactly what you’d expect from a man who’d kept peace at a supernatural academy for forty years, carefully designed to offend no one. Books from every major clan lined the shelves. Artwork representing werewolf, vampire, and human cultures hung in perfect balance on the walls. Even the tea service on his desk included both blood-infused blends and traditional herbal options.

I sat in one of the leather chairs facing his desk, my posture straight despite having slept poorly. Rafael occupied the chair beside mine, slouched in a way that probably gave him back problems but definitely said he didn’t care what anyone thought.

Dean Hale steepled his fingers, his gray eyes moving between us with an expression I’d learned to read over my years at Noctis, disappointed but not surprised.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “I’ve received seventeen messages since yesterday evening. Twelve from concerned faculty members, three from students requesting transfers out of your course, and two from clan representatives expressing alarm about the theatrical nature of your first lecture.”

“It was an academic debate,” I said evenly. “Vigorous, perhaps, but within the bounds of scholarly discourse.”

“You called my entire methodological framework into question,” Rafael said without looking at me. “In front of sixty students.”

“You suggested my clan has been running a centuries-long propaganda campaign.”

“If the historical record fits...”

“Professors.” Dean Hale’s voice cut through our exchange. “This is precisely the problem. You’re so focused on being right that you’ve forgotten you’re supposed to be teaching.”

I felt anger rise but kept my face neutral. He wasn’t wrong. The lecture had become something personal, something beyond teaching.

Rafael shifted in his chair. “With respect, Dean Hale, sometimes teaching requires challenging comfortable narratives. If that makes people uncomfortable...”

“Uncomfortable is fine,” the Dean interrupted. “Productive discomfort is actually educational. But what I heard of yesterday wasn’t productive. It was two brilliant scholars using students as an audience for a clan dispute that has nothing to do with their education.”

The words landed hard. I glanced at Rafael and found him staring at the floor, jaw tight.

Dean Hale pulled out a folder and opened it on his desk. “I’m going to be very clear about what happens next. You will continue co-teaching this course. Not as primary and supplementary instructors, but as equal partners. You will plan lectures together, present unified perspectives, and model for your students what intellectual collaboration looks like even across significant ideological differences.”

“Dean Hale,” I began, “I’m not certain that’s feasible given...”

“I don’t recall asking if it was feasible, Professor D’Armand. I’m telling you it’s mandatory.” His gaze was steel. “This academy was founded on the principle that different supernatural communities can coexist and learn from each other. Your course is supposed to exemplify that principle. Instead, you’re demonstrating why our ancestors thought separation was necessary.”

Rafael made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sigh. “So we’re a cautionary tale.”

“Currently, yes.” Dean Hale closed the folder. “But you’re also two of the most accomplished scholars in your respective fields. If anyone can make this work, it should be you. The question is whether you’re willing to put your intellectual pride aside long enough to try.”

The office went quiet. I could hear the clock on the wall ticking, each second stretching out.

The truth was, I didn’t want to co-teach with Rafael Voss. He was everything I found frustrating about modern scholarship: impulsive, insufficiently rigorous, more interested in provocation than precision. Working with him would be a constant exercise in restraint.

But Dean Hale was right about one thing. If we couldn’t find a way to collaborate, what did that say about the academy’s mission? About the possibility of bridging centuries of clan division?

“What exactly does equal partnership entail?” I asked carefully.

“Joint lesson planning. Alternating who leads each lecture. Shared office hours where students can come to both of you with questions. And most importantly, presenting a united front in the classroom. You can disagree, but you must do so respectfully and in a way that models productive academic discourse rather than personal animosity.”

Rafael crossed his arms. “And if our clans object?”

“Then you’ll have to decide whether you’re scholars first or clan representatives first.” Dean Hale’s expression softened slightly. “I understand the pressure you’re both under. But this academy exists as neutral ground for a reason. While you’re here, teaching these students, your loyalty needs to be to truth and education, not to clan politics.”

Easy for him to say. Dean Hale’s family had been neutral mediators for generations. He’d never had to choose between institutional loyalty and the expectations of elders who’d shaped his entire existence.

But he was also offering us a framework. A justification we could give to our clans: we weren’t betraying our lineages, we were upholding the academy’s mission.

Whether the elders would accept that justification was another question entirely.

“I’m willing to try,” Rafael said suddenly. “If Professor D’Armand is.”

I looked at him, surprised. He met my gaze, and for a moment I saw past the casual exterior to something more serious underneath. He actually cared about this. About making it work.

“I’m willing,” I said.

“Good.” Dean Hale stood, signaling the meeting’s end. “I expect to see a joint syllabus revision by the end of the week. And gentlemen? The entire faculty will be watching. Please don’t make me regret giving you this opportunity.”

We left his office in silence, walking down the corridor side by side. Morning sun streamed through the tall windows, lighting up dust motes in the air.

“That went better than expected,” Rafael said once we were out of earshot.

“He didn’t fire us. The bar was admittedly low.”

Rafael huffed a laugh. “Fair point. So, joint lesson planning. Your office or mine?”

I thought of my organized space with its labeled filing systems and maintained schedules. Then I thought of what I’d heard about Rafael’s office: organized chaos at best, fire hazard at worst.

“Neutral ground,” I suggested. “The faculty library. Tomorrow afternoon?”

“Works for me.” He paused at the stairwell that would take him to his wing of the building. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t mean to make it personal yesterday. The argument about methodology, I mean.”

“It felt personal.”

“I know. But it wasn’t about you specifically. It’s about...” He trailed off, searching for words. “It’s about all the voices that got erased. All the stories that didn’t get told because the people who lived them didn’t survive or didn’t have access to the halls of power where history gets written.”

I studied him for a long moment. There was passion in his voice, conviction that went beyond academic posturing. He believed this. It mattered to him in a way that went deeper than intellectual exercise.

“I understand that concern,” I said slowly. “But without rigorous methodology, without standards for evaluating sources, we risk replacing one set of convenient narratives with another. The goal should be accuracy, not simply inverting power structures.”

“And who decides what’s accurate? Who sets the standards?” Rafael’s eyes were intent. “That’s the question you keep avoiding, Lucien.”

The use of my first name caught me off guard. We’d been “Professor D’Armand” and “Professor Voss” up until now, keeping professional distance.

“I’m not avoiding it,” I said. “I’m acknowledging that it’s complicated. That there are no perfect solutions.”

“At least that’s honest.” Rafael shifted his bag on his shoulder. “Tomorrow afternoon, then. Faculty library. Try not to bring too many color-coded notes.”

“Try not to bring books you haven’t actually read.”

He grinned. “No promises.”

Then he was gone, disappearing down the stairs with that same restless energy he brought to everything. I stood alone in the corridor, wondering what exactly I’d just agreed to.

My phone vibrated. A message from my uncle, Christophe D’Armand: “We need to talk. Tonight. The estate.”

My stomach sank. Of course the clan had heard about yesterday’s lecture. Of course they wanted to discuss it.

This was going to be worse than Dean Hale’s office.

The D’Armand estate stood fifteen miles from the academy, a sprawling manor that had housed my family for six generations. I arrived as the sun was setting, painting the old stone in shades of amber and gold.

My uncle waited in the study, and he wasn’t alone. Three other clan elders sat in the wingback chairs: Marguerite, Sebastien, and Thomas. All of them ancient, all of them powerful, all of them looking at me with expressions that ranged from disappointment to outright anger.

“Lucien.” Uncle Christophe gestured to the empty chair. “Sit.”

I sat, keeping my composure even as tension coiled in my shoulders. The study smelled of old leather and older blood, the scent of centuries of D’Armand history.

“We’ve heard troubling reports about your new course,” Marguerite said. Her voice was soft, but I’d learned long ago that softness from her was more dangerous than shouting. “Is it true you’re co-teaching with Rafael Voss?”

“Yes. Dean Hale believes it will provide students with multiple perspectives on vampire history.”

“Multiple perspectives.” Sebastien leaned forward. “That’s a diplomatic way of saying you’re legitimizing the Voss clan’s revisionist nonsense.”

“I’m presenting both traditional scholarship and alternative interpretations,” I said carefully. “Students deserve to evaluate evidence and draw their own conclusions.”

Thomas made a dismissive sound. “Students deserve to learn accurate history, not conspiracy theories dressed up as academic inquiry. The Voss family has been pushing their narrative for decades, trying to rewrite the Separation as some kind of violent coup rather than the necessary philosophical division it was.”

“Perhaps there’s truth in both interpretations,” I suggested.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

“Lucien,” my uncle said quietly. “Your father spent forty years building the D’Armand reputation for scholarly integrity. We’ve maintained the Arcanum Library, preserved historical texts, trained some of the finest vampire historians in existence. And now you’re suggesting that our work, our family’s legacy, is somehow equivalent to the Voss clan’s emotional appeals and anecdotal evidence?”

“I’m suggesting that history is complex. That no single perspective captures the complete truth.”

“There is truth and there are lies,” Marguerite said. “The Voss family wants to paint us as oppressors, as architects of some grand conspiracy to maintain power. They ignore the scholarship, the documentation, the careful research that has established what actually happened during the Separation.”

“They also raise valid questions about whose voices got included in that documentation,” I countered, then immediately regretted it.

Sebastien’s eyes narrowed. “He’s already gotten to you.”

“Rafael Voss hasn’t gotten to anyone. I’m simply acknowledging that responsible scholarship requires examining our own assumptions.”

“Responsible scholarship requires defending truth against those who would distort it for political purposes.” Uncle Christophe stood and walked to the window, his back to me. “The elders are concerned, Lucien. Not just about this course, but about what it represents. We’ve maintained separation from the Voss clan for good reasons. They’re impulsive, reckless, more interested in stirring up old grievances than moving forward.”

“And yet Dean Hale seems to think we can work together.”

“Dean Hale is an idealist.” Thomas’s voice was harsh. “He believes in some fantasy of supernatural cooperation where everyone holds hands and ignores centuries of legitimate grievances. The real world doesn’t work that way.”

Marguerite leaned forward, her expression softening slightly. “We’re not trying to control you, Lucien. You’re a brilliant scholar in your own right. But you’re also a D’Armand. That comes with responsibilities. With expectations.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” My uncle turned to face me. “Because from what we’ve heard, you engaged in a very public argument with Rafael Voss. You gave his positions legitimacy by treating them as worthy of serious debate. Students are already talking about it, using it as evidence that maybe the traditional histories are flawed.”

“Students should question traditional histories,” I said, frustration bleeding into my voice. “That’s what education is supposed to be. Teaching them to think critically, not just memorize approved narratives.”

“There’s a difference between critical thinking and undermining established knowledge.” Sebastien shook his head. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Lucien. The Voss clan will use this collaboration to advance their agenda. They’ll point to you as proof that even D’Armands are starting to doubt the official history. And once that seed of doubt is planted, it spreads.”

“Maybe it should spread,” I said quietly. “Maybe absolute certainty is the problem.”

The elders exchanged glances, some kind of wordless communication passing between them.

Finally, my uncle spoke. “We’re going to give you the benefit of the doubt. This is your first time teaching this course, and perhaps you’re still finding your footing. But we need you to be very careful, Lucien. Guard your words. Don’t give the Voss family ammunition to use against us. And remember who you are.”

“I know who I am.”

“We hope so.” Marguerite stood. “Because if this collaboration becomes a liability to the clan’s reputation, we’ll have to take steps to protect our interests. We’d prefer not to do that.”

It wasn’t quite a threat, but it was close enough. I nodded stiffly.

The meeting ended shortly after, and I drove back to the academy with my thoughts churning. The elders’ concerns weren’t entirely unfounded. Rafael did push interpretations that challenged D’Armand scholarship. His family did have political motivations for reframing vampire history.

But they’d also raised questions I couldn’t easily dismiss. Questions about whose voices were preserved, whose stories got told, whose version of events became accepted truth.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the elders’ absolute certainty troubled me almost as much as Rafael’s provocations did.

What if history was messier than either of our clans wanted to admit?