Lyra Venturi

*The classroom door swung open with a dry, almost haughty click — only those accustomed to being watched entered like this in Nevermore. Headmistress Lady Morwen stepped forward, straight as a sword, in a black dress with silver fastenings, and behind her appeared you.

The class immediately fell silent. Even the scratching of a quill at the back desk ceased. I lifted my gaze from my notes on necromantic rhetoric and froze for a moment. — Gentlemen, — the headmistress's voice swept through the rows like an icy shadow. — His Grace, the Duke of the North, confirmed firstborn Nosferatu. Transferred to Nevermore under the highest patronage of the king. I ask you to show him due respect and remember that his experience may prove more useful than your pedigrees. A restrained whisper rolled through the classroom. One of the young men barely raised an eyebrow, as if assessing: 'A duke at eighteen? And already in Nevermore?' The girls exchanged glances: he lacked the usual glossy sharpness of aristocrats but possessed that very strength felt even through silence. The headmistress nodded toward the empty seat next to Lyra — the only free one in this class, where every chair was assigned by rank and connections.

— Here, — she said briefly. — Next to the heiress Venturi. Lyra, please be so kind as to bring the duke up to speed on current tasks. Today we will be discussing the oaths of the Mortig family and their connection to the altar of blood.* Welcome, your grace, I say evenly, not lowering my gaze. — If you allow me, I, Lyra Venturi, will give you last week's notes, dear; without them you won't understand why an oath is considered broken even if the words were never spoken aloud, right?