CHAPTER 2 : Shadows in the Lecture Hall

Julian Grantham was already seated when I entered the seminar, lounging as though the chair had been built to display him. Black shirt clinging to his shoulders, dark hair catching the light, that striking jaw set in its usual expression of careless amusement. His eyes flicked toward me the moment I crossed the threshold.

He smirked. Of course he did.

I ignored him, settling near the back, close enough to listen, far enough to observe. A low hum of voices filled the space as students waited for the professor. Julian leaned back, one arm stretching across the seat beside him like territory claimed.

"Look who it is," he said, voice pitched just enough to carry. "The clever girl with all the answers. Careful, Bain, you might put the rest of us out of work."

A few students snickered. I did not glance at him.

The door opened, and silence fell like a drawn curtain. A man I had not seen before stepped into the hall. Professor Christopher Ashford. New to Oxford this year, I had been told—replacing the genial but weary Cartwright, who had finally surrendered to retirement after decades.

Ashford was nothing like him. Dark hair, threaded with grey at the temples, sharpened features rather than softened them. His suit immaculate, waistcoat and trousers cut with precision. No tie, no jacket, but each deliberate gesture radiated authority. He moved as if the room itself bent slightly to his rhythm.

My eyes caught on his face and refused to leave. Strong jaw, sculpted mouth, and those impossible eyes—changing with the light, impossible to name, piercing nonetheless, reading as though the hall were an open book. Heat rose in me, sudden and unwelcome, curling low in my stomach. I forced my expression still, eyes down on my notebook. Centuries of restraint, of learned control, and yet my cursed body reacted like that of a girl barely past twenty. It was infuriating.

Even as I focused on Ashford, I caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye. Rowan. Just a glimpse, part of a figure leaning slightly near the far corner, broom in hand, sweeping as if nothing else existed. To anyone else, he was merely a caretaker in the university. To me, he was far more: centuries of loyalty, my beta, my constant shadow, bound to me through time and survival.

I allowed my gaze to linger for a heartbeat, noting the quiet precision in his stance, the alertness behind his casual movements. He was always watching, always near, ready to act before a threat reached me, gauging the people around me as carefully as I did. Even in disguise, even in silence, his presence was a tether. A reminder that I was not entirely alone.

The wolf in me stirred, subtle, patient, attuned to his own instincts. I drew a faint, steadying breath and returned my attention to the hall, comforted by the knowledge that, no matter how many eyes sought to measure or tempt me, Rowan would be there—loyal and vigilant, always.

Professor Ashford placed his notes with deliberate precision, each movement composed, measured, confident. The silence thickened around him. Authority clung without a word, and I knew, as I had known kings and generals, that he would test me.

"Mr Grantham," he said evenly, not looking at Julian. "If you have remarks to make, save them for the seminar itself."

The smirk on Julian's face faltered, just for a heartbeat. I allowed the tiniest smile to ghost my lips, hidden in the shadow of my hand as I opened my notebook. The day had barely begun, and Julian Grantham had already been reminded of his place.

Ashford began the seminar with calm command, voice low but carrying, filling the hall with a rhythm that drew attention and held it.

"This term, we'll explore the Scottish Covenanters and their role during the English Civil War," he began, glancing at his notes. "Most historians agree that their actions at Dunbar were coordinated with Cromwell's forces, ensuring a decisive English victory. Yet, as always, the story becomes far less tidy once you look beyond the official accounts."

The words struck like cold iron. September 1650. I had been twenty-five then, unaware it would be the last year I would age. The curse had been whispered months earlier in a Scottish village that branded me witch, though permanence remained uncertain. I still thought I might live and die like any other woman.

I remembered Dunbar—the sodden ground, hills veiled in mist. I had moved among the Covenanters' camp, passing as a laundress, though my mind carried far more than linen. Cromwell himself I had glimpsed at a distance—broad-shouldered, pale, fervour in his eyes mistaken for divine command. Men were full of conviction, yet clarity was often absent. The Scottish soldiers quarreled among themselves, starving and ragged, while their commanders bickered and split over strategy. When the cavalry finally charged, there was no triumph, only chaos—the lines collapsing like dry kindling, blood staining the earth, betrayal whispered through the ranks. Nothing was ordained. Nothing was tidy.

Ashford's voice drew me back. "And while we examine these events, consider the stories whispered alongside history—legends that grew in the shadow of war. Accounts of spectral soldiers, creatures that struck fear in the night, even rumours of vampires and lycanthropes in the borderlands. Some claim myth arose to explain horrors that cannot be rationalised; others insist the world is wider, stranger, than history alone can tell."

My fingers tightened around the pen. Centuries of lived experience, of watching humans grasp at shadows while the truth prowled beneath, stirred in my chest.

"I'm not sure I would describe it that way," I said evenly, hand raised before thought could interfere. Authority came naturally to me, honed over centuries. "The Covenanters acted independently. Cromwell's correspondence implies minimal coordination, and General Leslie's letters suggest separate campaigns, each pursuing their own objectives rather than following English command."

A hush fell over the room. Julian's eyes snapped to me, sharp, suspicious. Ashford's brow lifted, intrigued.

"Miss—?"

"Bain, sir. Lily Bain," I replied, voice steady.

The name Lilith had long been abandoned. Centuries had taught me subtlety, the necessity of masks. Lily sounded harmless, fresh, something a girl might be called in spring, not a woman whose presence could command loyalty—or death.

"And how would you describe it then, Miss Bain?" Ashford's tone was polite, edged with challenge.

"History is rarely tidy," I said, letting the faintest smile brush my lips. "Documents overlooked often disrupt the prevailing narrative. The chaos, the rumours, even the legends—they're all part of the story if you choose to see them."

Julian shifted in his seat, the faintest trace of surprise flickering through his expression before the sly half-smile returned. He leaned back, arms folding loosely, masking the tension he could not entirely hide. His gaze flicked briefly to Ashford, as if daring him to challenge the audacity of a mere student.

"And you have examined these documents yourself?" Ashford asked, eyes sharp.

"I have," I said lightly. "Private collections in Edinburgh. Many scholars dismiss them as irrelevant precisely because they don't fit the neat story."

Ashford's lips twitched, a trace of recognition at audacity and precision.

"I see. And you believe your interpretation outweighs the consensus?"

"I don't believe anything," I said, allowing just a hint of heat to touch my gaze. "I prefer to know."

Julian's fists unclenched. His blue eyes darkened, stormy, desire tangled with irritation. I kept my gaze on my notebook.

Ashford cleared his throat, leaning lightly on the edge of the desk as he surveyed the room, his eyes briefly catching mine—even through my spectacles—with something unreadable: interest, perhaps, or a recognition that I had unsettled the balance he rarely allowed to shift. He straightened, composed, voice firm as he guided the discussion back on course.

"Very well," he said, a faint edge of command underlining his calm. "Let's return to the sources themselves."

His gaze swept the room, settling momentarily on Julian, whose smug expression had tightened into frustration. Then, ever so subtly, his eyes found mine again, an imperceptible lift at the corner, as though acknowledging that I had spoken with precision and insight the hall had not expected.

He moved through the documents, annotations, and excerpts with careful authority, every sentence measured, yet the ease of his teaching had been lightly punctuated by the reminder that not all students accepted his narrative without question. The seminar continued in the same rhythm as before, but the air now carried an almost imperceptible tension, sharpened by the brief disruption. Yet beneath it, there was a subtle trace of respect that Ashford never fully revealed but did not attempt to hide.

First impressions had been made. I had planted mine. Julian Grantham had tested me. Professor Ashford had measured me. And Rowan—my shadow, my Beta, and my only friend—watched, unblinking. The wolf beneath me stirred, restless and alert, drawn by the pull of the curse that had centuries of obsession and desire tied to every glance from men like Julian, yet restrained by the presence of the one who measured me differently. For the first time that day, I felt the edge of my power—not entirely alone, yet always aware of the dangerous pull that came with being seen.