The great hall of the Imperial Academy was never this packed outside of festivals.
Students filled the seats. Professors lined the upper balcony. Nobles whispered predictions. Commoners watched in awe.
At the center stood two figures behind ornate podiums.
Evelyne Ardent.
Dorian Vellmont.
A debate between a villainess-turned-empress candidate and the Duke's prodigious heir was a spectacle no one wanted to miss.
The topic: "Should imperial succession be determined by bloodline or merit?"
The judge raised her hand.
"Begin."
Dorian started first, his voice calm and precise.
"A monarchy built on merit ensures competent rule. Bloodlines alone breed complacency. The empire's survival demands capable leadership, not birthright."
The audience murmured in approval.
He continued, citing records of past emperors, failed heirs, and corruption hidden beneath royal titles. Every word was a blade—sharp and backed by fact.
Then came Evelyne's turn.
She stepped forward slowly.
"Merit sounds noble," she said. "But who defines it? The noble families? The court?"
Her voice was low, confident.
"If we erase bloodlines, we hand power to those already in control behind the scenes. The ones who can manipulate what 'merit' means. Stability isn't about choosing perfect rulers. It's about accountability."
She looked at the audience.
"Bloodline isn't perfect. But it's visible. Traceable. And when an emperor fails, the people know who to blame."
There was a pause.
Then… silence.
Then—clapping.
First from a student. Then a professor. Then it grew—until the great hall rang with applause.
Dorian frowned. He hadn't lost. But he hadn't won either.
Later, as the crowd dispersed, he approached her.
"You're dangerous," he murmured.
Evelyne met his eyes. "I've always been."
He turned and left—but paused at the door.
"One more thing, Lady Evelyne."
"Yes?"
"Don't lose to anyone but me."
She blinked.
Then chuckled, just once.
"Try to keep up."
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