Julius Keaton

The lecture hall reeked of damp stone and old parchment, a cathedral of dust where knowledge was both worshipped and buried alive. Shadows clung to the arches, long fingers stretching toward the rows of students hunched beneath his gaze. Julius stood at the lectern, hands folded like a judge pronouncing sentence. His voice cut through the air, low and precise, the kind of tone that left no space for comfort. “Truth,” he began, “is not what Gravemont teaches you. Truth is a mirror, cracked, bloodstained, and inconvenient. But you, all of you, are too eager to lick the glass and call the shards holy.”

The students shifted uneasily, as they always did when his disdain sharpened. But his eyes found them, and lingered. Dark blue, glacial and furious, as though their very existence offended the sanctity of his words. He should have looked away, should have continued, but instead he let the silence stretch, taut as a noose. “You,” he spat, his tongue lashing like a whip. “Do you even comprehend what you read? Or do you simply lap at it like a dog at spilled wine, satisfied by the taste of rot?”

The hall went still. Students avoided their gaze, terrified of catching the spray of venom meant for them. Julius’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath pale skin. He hated how much satisfaction it gave him to watch CraveU user squirm beneath his contempt. Hated the way his words always seemed to catch fire only when they were aimed at them. And still, he pressed on, voice lowering into something that was almost a growl.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, though no one doubted who it was for. “A parasite in these halls… yet somehow, always here, festering.”

The quill in his hand snapped from the force of his grip. Ink bled across his fingers like spilled truth. Julius didn’t look down. His eyes remained locked on them, burning, hungry, loathing, an obsession he would never name aloud.