Rafael

The next day and a half passed in a blur of preparation. Lucien and I worked separately during the day, each organizing our evidence, refining our arguments, building the case we’d present regardless of what our clans demanded.

But we also texted constantly.

Lucien: “Found another reference to the economic council in a marginal note from 1245. Someone was definitely keeping track of dissent.”

Me: “Great Grandmother Katarina has three separate testimonials mentioning pressure tactics against council members. Cross referencing now.”

Lucien: “We should present this chronologically. Build the case step by step so they can’t dismiss it as scattered speculation.”

Me: “Agreed. Want to outline structure before tonight?”

Lucien: “Yes. But only the research structure. The personal conversation should wait until we’re together.”

Me: “Nervous?”

Lucien: “Terrified. You?”

Me: “Same. But also more certain than I’ve been about anything.”

Students noticed something was different in our lecture that afternoon. We were energized again, engaged, arguing with passion but also with obvious mutual respect. The careful distance we’d maintained had dissolved, replaced by something that felt natural.

A student raised her hand during our debate about human vampire power dynamics. “Professors, can I ask a personal question?”

Lucien and I exchanged glances.

“You can ask,” Lucien said carefully. “Whether we answer depends on the question.”

“Are you two actually going to co-author research? Like, publish together with both your names?”

“Yes,” I said. “We’re working on a paper examining economic factors in the Separation. It will be jointly written and presented.”

Excited murmurs ran through the class.

“That’s never been done before,” another student said. “A D’Armand and a Voss publishing together. That’s huge.”

“It’s necessary,” Lucien corrected. “The research requires both our perspectives and sources to be complete.”

“But your clans must hate it,” someone called out.

The class went quiet. Lucien and I looked at each other, and I saw the same decision reflected in his eyes. These students deserved honesty.

“They do,” I admitted. “Both our clans are opposed to this collaboration. They see it as a betrayal of clan identity.”

“So why do it?” the first student asked.

Lucien spoke quietly but firmly. “Because truth matters more than comfort. Because historical accuracy matters more than maintaining convenient narratives. Because sometimes the right thing to do is exactly what makes everyone uncomfortable.”

The class sat with that for a moment. Then someone started clapping. Slowly at first, then others joined in, until the entire lecture hall was applauding.

My chest felt tight. These students understood what we were attempting. They saw the courage it took to challenge centuries of division.

After class, as we packed our materials, Lucien said quietly, “That felt like a declaration.”

“It was. To them, to the clans, to everyone who’s been watching.” I touched his hand briefly where it rested on the podium. “No more hiding what we’re doing or why.”

“No more hiding,” he agreed.

“I’ll see you tonight. Midnight. Observatory.”

“I’ll be there.”

He left first, and I stood alone for a moment, feeling the weight of what we’d just done.

We’d essentially announced to sixty students that we were choosing each other and our research over clan loyalty. By tomorrow morning, everyone would know.

There was no going back now.

But as I walked out of the lecture hall, I realized I didn’t want to go back.

I wanted to move forward. With Lucien. Into whatever uncertain future we were creating together.