The first time Eli noticed the professors choosing sides, it was in a seminar.The room smelled of chalk and damp wool, the kind of heavy air that clung to the old wings of the Crest. Professor Harland, a thin man with sharp spectacles, spoke in clipped tones about the founding of the university. But his eyes weren’t on the lesson. They were on Eli.Every question turned toward him.“What would your family have thought of the First Rite, Mr. Kingston?”“Do you believe bloodlines carry destiny, or defy it?”By the fourth question, the rest of the class wasn’t listening to Harland anymore—they were watching Eli, waiting for him to crack.Eli kept his answers short, cold. “Destiny isn’t blood. It’s choice.”The words earned him a ripple of mutters. A few nods. But Harland’s lips curved like he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.Later that day, in his literature course, the tone was the opposite. Professor Ingram, old and hunched, paused halfway through her lecture, her voice trembling. “We