Threads of Destiny

5

The first lecture hall was wide and high-ceilinged, sunlight spilling across rows of polished desks. The air hummed with nervous chatter — strangers testing their voices, introducing themselves, laughing too loudly at half-jokes.

Appie Ramone slipped into a seat near the middle, setting down her notebook with a flourish. Within minutes, recognition flickered around her.

“Ramone?” a boy asked from two rows down. “Is your father Étienne Ramone?”

She smiled easily. “That’s him. Do you know him?”

“My dad’s in the Ministry of Trade. They’ve worked together.”

“Oh, then you must’ve been at the Valmont gala last winter,” Appie said, her eyes lighting up. “I was the one raiding the dessert table.”

The boy laughed, and the girl beside him leaned in. “You were there? My parents wouldn’t stop talking about the string quartet.”

And just like that, the conversation bloomed. Names were exchanged, neighborhoods mapped, mutual friends discovered. Someone mentioned a bakery on Rue d’Aigrette; Appie lit up, describing how she always ordered the apricot tarts. Another compared notes on the city’s theaters, and soon Appie was recounting summer evenings at the Parc Valmont concerts, her hands animated, her laugh quick and contagious.

By the time the professor arrived, she was already surrounded by half a dozen students — boys and girls alike — their attention pulled into her orbit.

Appie didn’t force it. She didn’t even notice it. She had always been this way: open, gregarious, magnetic. She spoke, and people leaned closer. She laughed, and the room seemed warmer.

It wasn’t about her father’s name, though that helped open doors. It was about her — her energy, her ease, her way of making even the capital’s most self-assured students feel like they’d known her forever.

On her very first day, Appie Ramone was exactly what she had always been: the heart of the room.

---

The dormitory corridor was quieter in the evening, most students still lingering in the dining hall or exploring the city. Léa sat cross-legged on her bed, unpacking slowly: books stacked neatly, a small framed photo of her family on the desk, the smell of fresh linen still clinging to her pillow.

A knock came on the open door.

“Excuse me… are you Léa?”

Léa looked up to see a girl standing hesitantly in the doorway. Her dark hair was braided loosely over one shoulder, and she carried a box of folded clothes. Her accent was noticeable, softer, drawn-out vowels that marked her as not from Étoilemont.

“Yes, I’m Léa. And you?”

“Clémence Durand. From Cévérie, up north.” The girl’s smile was shy but warm. “I think we’re in the same dorm wing. Room 208.”

“Oh,” Léa said, surprised. “That’s just down the hall.”

Clémence shifted the box in her arms. “I wasn’t sure if anyone here would… well, be from outside the capital. Everyone I’ve met so far seems to know each other already.”

Léa’s lips curved into an understanding smile. “Tell me about it.”

That broke the ice. Léa hopped off her bed and helped Clémence carry the box into her room. They talked as they unpacked: Cévérie’s long winters, its fishing harbors, its quiet festivals where the whole town gathered in the square. Léa shared her own stories of Souvrai, the smaller city she called home — its cobblestone streets, her parents’ store, the quiet rhythm of her childhood.

By the time both rooms looked less bare, the two of them were laughing over the quirks of their respective hometowns.

“It’s strange,” Clémence said, settling onto her bed. “Here in Étoilemont, everything feels so fast. But I think it will feel less overwhelming… if I have a friend nearby.”

Léa smiled, feeling the same. “Me too.”

It wasn’t a crowd, it wasn’t a circle of admirers — but it was real. And for Léa, that was enough.

---

The back row of the lecture hall was already claimed by a loose group of boys — the ones who laughed the loudest, whispered during attendance, and seemed determined to look casual about everything. Baron slipped into an empty chair among them, his height and quiet smile earning him a quick nod of welcome.

It didn’t take long for him to join the rhythm. Someone cracked a joke about the professor’s tweed jacket, and Baron chuckled at just the right moment. Another teased about last night’s tavern run, and Baron grinned, shaking his head as though he’d been there too. He spoke little, but his laughter was easy, his manner unforced.

The lecture began. The professor, a silver-haired man with sharp eyes, launched into a discussion of computational logic. Most students scribbled nervously, trying to keep up. Baron sat back, listening, his arms folded.

Then came the question.

“Who can tell me why efficiency matters more than elegance in algorithm design?” the professor asked, scanning the room.

Silence. A few students bent their heads lower, avoiding eye contact.

Baron felt the pause stretch too long. Before he could stop himself, his hand rose.

The professor’s eyes lit. “Yes, Monsieur…?”

“Blaise,” Baron said. His voice was calm, almost casual. “Because an elegant solution that takes too long is useless. Efficiency keeps a program alive. Elegance is just what makes it pleasant to look at.”

A ripple of chuckles spread through the hall. The professor smiled faintly. “Concise. Correct.”

Baron lowered his hand, but it was too late. Heads had turned. The boys around him grinned and slapped his shoulder.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, Blaise.”

“Quiet guy’s got brains, huh?”

“Efficiency over elegance — I’m stealing that for exams.”

Baron laughed with them, trying to keep it light, but inside he felt the shift. He hadn’t meant to stand out. He’d only meant to answer.

Yet now, the attention was his. And as he knew all too well, once eyes turned his way, they rarely turned back.