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

Lucien

The auditorium was packed.

I stood backstage, adjusting my tie for the third time. Through the curtain, I could hear the murmur of students finding seats, the shuffle of papers, the anticipation that came before any major academic event.

Tonight's debate had been Dean Hale's idea. "If you two are going to argue constantly," he'd said, "you might as well make it educational."

So here we were. A formal debate on the nature of vampire clan division. Rafael would argue for the circumstantial theory, that division was a political choice, not a cultural necessity. I would argue for the inevitability theory, that our clans separated due to fundamental philosophical differences.

In other words, we'd be doing exactly what we'd been doing for weeks. Just with an audience.

"Professor D'Armand?" A student poked her head backstage. "Five minutes."

"Thank you."

I checked my notes one final time. They were immaculate, as always. Color coded, cross referenced, every argument supported by at least three historical sources. Rafael's notes, I knew from our planning meetings, would be a disaster of scribbled thoughts and random references he'd somehow pull together into brilliance.

We were opposites in every way that mattered.

The curtain parted. Rafael stepped backstage, his hair slightly wild, his tie already loosened. He carried a stack of papers that looked like they'd been through a hurricane.

"Ready?" he asked.

"As I'll ever be."

"You look nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

"Your tie is crooked." He stepped closer, reaching up to adjust it. His fingers brushed my collar, warm and steady. "There. Perfect."

I stood very still. He was close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his eyes, smell the coffee on his breath. My heart hammered for reasons I refused to examine.

"Thank you," I managed.

"Don't mention it." He stepped back, his expression unreadable. "Let's give them a show, Professor."

"Let's give them scholarship, Professor."

"Boring."

"Accurate."

He grinned, sharp and challenging. Then the student was calling us to the stage, and there was no more time for banter.

The auditorium erupted in applause as we walked out. Every seat was filled, students, faculty, even a few members of the town council. Word had spread about our contentious partnership. Everyone wanted to see the two rival professors face off.

Dean Hale stood at the podium, welcoming the audience. I barely heard his introduction. My attention was on Rafael, who stood at his podium with that infuriating casual confidence.

"Professor Voss will begin," Dean Hale announced. "Ten minutes for opening arguments, then we'll proceed to rebuttals."

I gripped the podium. The lights were bright, the audience a sea of expectant faces. I'd given hundreds of lectures. When my turn came it should be easy.

Rafael shot me a look before he stood close to to his podium, his expression intent and focused. Something about his attention made feel hot under the collar.

He began.

"For centuries, we've been told that vampire clan division was inevitable. That fundamental differences in philosophy and practice made separation necessary." His voice was steady, professional. "But historical evidence suggests otherwise. Before the Division of 1707, our clans coexisted peacefully. They shared resources, taught at the same institutions, even intermarried. The split wasn't inevitable. It was a choice, a political decision made by a small group of elders who prioritized power over unity."

He walked through his arguments methodically. Primary sources showing collaboration. Treaties demonstrating shared governance. Personal accounts describing friendship across clan lines.

The audience was attentive, engaged. I was engaged. I took notes for when it was time for my rebuttal. My pen moving rapidly across the page. Occasionally I found myself nodding, as if conceding a point. Other times I couldn’t help the tightening of my jaw when I wholly disagreed.

I sighed as he concluded his opening statement to polite applause.

Then it was my turn.

I straightened up adjusted, my notes, and spoke directly to the audience. No preamble. No careful setup. Just immediate, devastating engagement.

"Professor Voss makes a compelling case for circumstantial division. But he's missing the fundamental question: why would our ancestors make such a choice unless deeper differences already existed?"

I held my head high as I spoke as I found myself filled with energy to get my point across. "Yes, there was collaboration before 1707. But examine the records more closely. You'll find constant tension. Philosophical debates that never resolved. Disputes over blood magic ethics that grew more heated with each generation. The Division didn't create our differences, it acknowledged them."

I built my argument like a storm gathering force. Historical examples of conflict. Philosophical texts showing irreconcilable viewpoints. Evidence of growing resentment that predated the formal split.

By the time I finished, half the audience was nodding along.

I felt my competitive edge sharpen.

The rebuttals began.

"Professor D’Armand claims philosophical differences made division inevitable," he said. "But philosophy is meant to be debated. If we split every time we disagreed, scholarship itself would be impossible."

"True," I countered. "But there's a difference between academic debate and fundamental incompatibility. When core values clash.."

"Core values didn't clash. Political interests did. Look at the elders who pushed for division. They gained power, resources, territory. The separation benefited them personally."

"That's cynical."

"That's realistic."

We went back and forth, the pace quickening. Arguments and counter-arguments flowing faster than the audience could follow. At some point it stopped being about the debate and became about us, two minds locked in perfect, terrible synchronization.

"You're romanticizing the past," I said, my voice sharp with passion. "Imagining some golden age that never existed."

"And you're justifying centuries of prejudice because acknowledging it was a mistake would be uncomfortable."

"I'm acknowledging reality."

"You're accepting the status quo without questioning it."

"I question everything. Including your idealistic notion that unity would have been sustainable."

"We'll never know, will we? Because our ancestors chose separation before giving unity a real chance."

The audience was silent, riveted. Even Dean Hale had leaned forward in his seat.

Rafael stepped out from behind his podium. So did I. We faced each other center stage, the debate having evolved into something more immediate, more personal.

"You think I'm defending the status quo?" My voice was quieter now but no less intense. "I'm not. I'm saying we need to understand why division happened before we can address it. You can't fix something if you don't understand its roots."

"And you can't fix something if you believe it was inevitable."

"I believe it was understandable. That's different."

"Is it?"

We stared at each other. The auditorium had gone completely silent. I was aware of how close we were standing, how his chest rose and fell with each breath, how his eyes had gone dark and serious.

Something shifted between us. Some acknowledgment that this wasn't just academic anymore.

Rafael must have felt it too, because he stepped back. "Perhaps we're both right. Partially."

The concession surprised me. Surprised the audience too, based on the murmurs.

"Partially," I agreed carefully. "Division may have been understandable given the political climate. But that doesn't make it right. Or irreversible."

"Agreed." Rafael's expression softened slightly. "The past matters. But it doesn't have to define the future."

Dean Hale stood. "I think that's an excellent place to conclude. Thank you both for a remarkable demonstration of scholarly debate."

The audience erupted in applause. Students were on their feet, clearly energized by what they'd witnessed. Several faculty members looked impressed. Others looked concerned.

Rafael extended his hand. "Good debate, Professor."

I took it. His grip was firm, warm. "You too, Professor."

We stood there, hands clasped, as the auditorium emptied around us. Neither of us seemed ready to let go.

"That got intense," he said finally.

"It did."

"You're a formidable opponent."

"So are you."

His thumb brushed across my knuckles, deliberate or accident, I couldn't tell. "Maybe that's the problem. We're too well matched."

"Is that a problem?"

"I don't know." He released my hand, stepping back. "But I'm starting to think this partnership might be more complicated than I anticipated."

He left before I could respond, disappearing into the crowd of students waiting to talk to him.

I stood alone on the empty stage, my hand still warm from his touch.

He was right. This was more complicated than I'd anticipated too.

Because somewhere during that debate, something had shifted. I'd seen beyond the chaos and challenges to the brilliant mind underneath. To the passion that drove him. To the way his eyes lit up when he was fully engaged in an argument.

I'd seen him. Really seen him.

And that terrified me more than any academic debate ever could.

Rafael

I left the auditorium before I could do something stupid. Like stay on that stage with Lucien and finish the conversation we'd started. Or acknowledge the way my hand had lingered in his. Or admit that the debate had stopped being about vampire history somewhere around the third rebuttal.

Students caught me in the hallway, asking questions, praising the debate. I answered on autopilot, my mind still on the auditorium. On Lucien's face when I'd conceded that partial point. On the way we'd moved together, like some kind of intellectual dance.

"Professor Voss?" A student I recognized from my morning seminar appeared at my elbow. "That was incredible. You and Professor D'Armand, the way you argued, it was like watching two masters."

"Thank you."

"Are you two always like that?"

"Like what?"

"So... intense. It's like you're the only two people in the room when you're debating."

Were we? I thought back to the stage. To the moment when the audience had faded away and it was just us, facing each other, locked in perfect opposition.

"We're passionate about our work," I said carefully.

"It's more than that." The student grinned. "But whatever it is, it's fascinating to watch."

She wandered off. I stood in the emptying hallway, unsettled.

The debate had been everything I'd expected, sharp, challenging, intellectually stimulating. What I hadn't expected was the way it felt. The rush of matching wits with someone who could actually keep pace. The thrill of having him push back against every argument, forcing me to be better, sharper.

The way my heart had hammered when he'd stepped close.

I shook my head, trying to clear it. This was professional respect. Intellectual appreciation. Nothing more.

Certainly nothing that explained why I could still feel the warmth of his hand in mine.

I headed back to my office, needing the familiar chaos of books and papers. But even surrounded by my research, I couldn't stop replaying the debate. Lucien's arguments. His rebuttals. The moment when we'd both conceded partial points and found unexpected common ground.

Maybe that's the problem. We're too well matched.

I'd meant it as a joke. A way to lighten the intensity that had built between us. But the words felt more true than I wanted to admit.

We were matched. In ways that went beyond scholarship.

And that was becoming a problem I didn't know how to solve.