“History told truthfully is a mirror; history told falsely is a mask. One reflects who we are, the other hides who we choose not to face.” - Lucien D’Armand, Lecture II

Lucien

The Arcanum Library was silent at midnight, the kind of silence that pressed against eardrums and made every small sound seem amplified. I’d been here for three hours, surrounded by stacks of primary sources I’d requested from the restricted collection, trying to find something that would settle the argument that had been gnawing at me for weeks.

Rafael was right about the economic records. Not completely right, but right enough that it bothered me.

The Montrose Accounts did show patterns of wealth consolidation that contradicted the official D’Armand narrative. Elena Montrose’s letter, whether authenticated or not, raised questions I couldn’t easily dismiss. And the mortality rates among vampire economists during that fifteen-year period were statistically anomalous.

I’d spent decades teaching the traditional version of the Separation. Believing it. Building my scholarship on it.

What if I’d been wrong?

The thought was both terrifying and strangely exhilarating. To discover at three hundred years old that the foundations of my understanding might be flawed... it should have felt like failure. Instead, it felt like possibility.

I pulled another document from the stack, a ledger from 1235 showing resource distribution across vampire territories. The numbers told a story my clan had never acknowledged: systematic diversion of resources to elder-controlled regions, increasing scarcity in areas populated by younger vampires, economic pressure designed to force compliance.

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

I nearly dropped the ledger. Rafael stood in the doorway of the reading room, his hair disheveled, wearing what looked like the same clothes from this morning’s lecture.

“What are you doing here?” The words came out more sharply than I’d intended.

“Research.” He moved closer, and I instinctively gathered the documents toward me. “Relax, Lucien. I’m not here to steal your sources.”

“These are from the restricted collection. You don’t have clearance.”

“Neither do you, technically. Our joint request hasn’t been approved yet.” He gestured at the papers. “But I’m guessing you have ways around that particular bureaucratic obstacle.”

My face got hot. He was right. I’d used my family’s longstanding relationship with the Head Archivist to gain early access. It was a privilege I’d never questioned before, never examined as potentially problematic.

“I needed to verify some information for next week’s lecture,” I said stiffly.

“At midnight.” Rafael pulled out a chair across from me without asking permission. “What information?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“We’re co-teaching the course. Everything about the lectures concerns me.”

I wanted to argue, to tell him to leave, to maintain the professional distance we’d agreed was so important. But I was tired. Tired of pretending I had all the answers. Tired of defending positions I was no longer certain about.

“The economic records,” I said quietly. “You were right. About the patterns of wealth consolidation.”

Rafael went very still. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that? I think I misheard.”

“Don’t be insufferable.”

“You just admitted I was right about something. I’m allowed to savor the moment.”

Despite everything, I felt a smile tug at the corner of my mouth. “I said you were right about the patterns. Not about your interpretation of those patterns.”

“Of course not. That would be too much to hope for.” He leaned forward, looking at the documents spread across the table. “What did you find?”

I should have hidden them. Should have maintained my family’s careful control over which sources were shared and which remained private. But something in me wanted to show him. Wanted to admit that he’d pushed me to look more carefully, to question more deeply.

I slid the ledger across the table. “Resource distribution from 1235. Look at the allocations to the northern territories versus the elder-controlled southern regions.”

Rafael studied the numbers, his expression shifting from curiosity to focus to something that looked like vindication. “This is exactly what Great Grandmother Katarina described in her testimonial records. Systematic economic pressure to force younger vampires to comply with elder authority.”

“It’s one piece of evidence,” I cautioned. “It doesn’t prove intentional conspiracy.”

“Lucien.” He looked up at me. “At what point does pattern become proof? How much documentation do you need before you’ll admit that maybe your clan’s version of events has some significant gaps?”

The question hit harder than it should have. Because he was asking something I’d been asking myself for weeks now.

“I’ve spent my entire career defending that version of events,” I said. “Publishing scholarship based on it. Teaching it to hundreds of students. If I was wrong...”

“Then you were wrong,” Rafael said simply. “That’s not failure. That’s growth.”

“Easy for you to say. Your scholarship doesn’t crumble if the traditional narrative is questioned.”

“My scholarship is built on testimonies that have been dismissed as unreliable for fifty years. You think I don’t understand what it feels like to have your work undermined?” His voice was sharp now. “At least your scholarship has been taken seriously. Mine’s been treated like emotional speculation by academic curiosities.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” He stood, pacing. “Your family controls which texts get preserved, which sources are considered reliable, which narratives get taught in every major vampire academy. Meanwhile, my great grandmother spent decades collecting stories that would have been completely lost because no one thought they were worth writing down. And scholars like you dismiss them because they don’t fit neatly into approved methodological frameworks.”

“I haven’t dismissed them,” I protested.

“You called them anecdotal evidence. In our first lecture.”

“They are anecdotal evidence. That’s not dismissal, it’s categorical accuracy.”

“It’s a way of saying they don’t matter as much as written sources. As if the people who lived through the Separation but didn’t have access to literacy or official positions somehow experienced less valid history.”

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. Because he was right. The hierarchy of sources in historical scholarship did privilege written documentation over oral testimony. And that hierarchy inevitably privileged those who had power, education, and access to record keeping systems.

“I don’t know how to reconcile this,” I admitted. “How to honor rigorous methodology while also acknowledging that methodology itself might be biased.”

Rafael stopped pacing, looking at me with something that might have been surprise. “That’s the most intellectually honest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’m not shocked. I’m...” He paused, searching for words. “I’m glad you’re actually thinking about it. That this isn’t just an academic exercise for you.”

“Of course it’s not just academic. This is our history. Our clans. Everything we believe about who we are as vampires.” I gestured at the documents. “If the traditional narrative is wrong, if the Separation was really about power consolidation rather than philosophical necessity, then what does that say about the clan structure we’ve maintained for three centuries?”

“That maybe it’s time for something new.”

The words hung between us, heavy with implication. Because if the clan structure was built on flawed premises, if the divisions we’d maintained were based on lies or half-truths, then what did that mean for us? For the boundaries we were supposed to maintain, the loyalties we were supposed to uphold?

“My uncle would say you’re corrupting me,” I said quietly.

“Am I?”

I looked at him, really looked at him. The intensity in his dark eyes, the way he stood there like he was ready to fight for every word. The passion that I’d initially found reckless but had come to recognize as deep commitment to truth, even when that truth was uncomfortable.

“You’re challenging me,” I said. “That’s not the same thing as corruption.”

“Tell that to your clan elders.”

“Tell that to yours. I’m sure they’re thrilled about you spending midnight hours in the library with a D’Armand.”

Rafael laughed, but it was strained. “Helena’s already given me three separate lectures about maintaining boundaries. Apparently, we’re getting too close.”

“We’re colleagues.”

“Are we?” He moved closer, his voice dropping. “Is that really all this is? Because it doesn’t feel like just colleagues anymore, Lucien.”

My breath caught. We were in dangerous territory now, approaching something neither of us had been willing to name.

“It has to be,” I said. “You know it has to be.”

“Why? Because our clans say so? Because three hundred years of rivalry means we’re not allowed to...”

“To what?” I challenged, standing now, closing the distance between us without meaning to. “To become friends? To respect each other’s scholarship? To work together effectively?”

“Yes. All of that.” He was close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. “Because if we’re being honest, it stopped being just professional weeks ago. Maybe from the beginning.”

“Rafael...”

“Tell me I’m wrong.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Tell me you don’t feel it too. The way every lecture feels electric. The way I can’t stop thinking about our arguments, replaying them, wishing we had more time to dive deeper. Tell me I’m the only one who looks forward to our planning sessions more than anything else in my week.”

I couldn’t tell him that. Because it would be a lie.

“This is a terrible idea,” I said instead.

“I know.”

“Our clans would never accept it.”

“I know that too.”

“It would complicate everything. The course, our careers, our family relationships.”

“Lucien.” He reached out slowly, giving me every opportunity to step back, and touched my hand where it rested on the table. Just his fingers against mine, the barest contact. “I know all the reasons this is impossible. I’ve listed them to myself a hundred times. It doesn’t change what I feel.”

His hand was warm against mine. Three hundred years old and I couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched me like this. Carefully. Questioningly. Like I was something precious rather than just another vampire scholar in an endless succession of academic encounters.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I whispered. The same words I’d said in my office after the interview. But this time the context was completely different.

“Neither do I.” Rafael’s thumb moved slightly against the back of my hand. “But maybe we could figure it out together?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It could be.”

“Rafael, I can’t...” I pulled my hand back, immediately missing the warmth. “I have responsibilities. Expectations. My entire family is watching to make sure I don’t compromise D’Armand principles.”

“And if those principles are wrong?”

“Then I still can’t just abandon three centuries of family legacy because of...” I gestured helplessly between us. “Whatever this is.”

“Even if it matters? Even if it’s real?”

The question hung in the air between us. Real. As if what I felt when arguing with him, when planning lectures together, when catching his eye across the classroom and seeing understanding there... as if that reality mattered more than clan loyalty, family expectations, centuries of rivalry.

But it couldn’t. Could it?

“I need time,” I said. “To think. To figure out what I’m even considering here.”

Rafael nodded slowly, disappointment clear in his expression but also understanding. “Okay. Time. I can give you that.”

“Thank you.”

“But Lucien?” He picked up his bag, preparing to leave. “Don’t take too long. Because I’m not going to pretend anymore that this is just academic collaboration. And eventually, you’re going to have to decide if you’re willing to stop pretending too.”

He left before I could respond, disappearing into the darkened library and leaving me alone with ancient documents and impossible questions.

I looked down at my hand, at the spot where his fingers had touched mine. Such a small gesture. Barely anything, really.

So why did it feel like everything had changed?