Page 8 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)

five

Vespera

The September afternoon held the last warmth of early autumn as I made my way to Studio C for Scene Study with Professor De Scarzis.

Two weeks into the semester, I'd begun to find a rhythm in my classes, a sense of cautious optimism that maybe I could navigate Northwood's treacherous social waters through sheer academic excellence.

That optimism died the moment I saw the partner assignment sheet posted outside the studio door.

"No," I breathed, scanning the list twice to make sure I hadn't misread. But there it was, printed in stark black letters: Vespera Levine & Corvus Barclay - "The Crucible," Act IV.

"Let me guess," Stephanie said, appearing at my elbow with her usual impeccable timing. "You got paired with one of them."

I handed her the sheet without speaking, watching her expression darken as she found my name.

"Corvus," she muttered. "Jesus, Vespera. They're not even trying to be subtle anymore."

"Elizabeth Proctor's interrogation scene," I added, my voice hollow. "Thirty percent of our midterm grade. They literally gave him academic permission to psychologically torment me."

The irony wasn't lost on either of us. Elizabeth Proctor.

The woman falsely accused, emotionally brutalized, watching her world crumble while maintaining her integrity against impossible odds.

If there was a more perfectly calculated assignment for someone being systematically targeted, I couldn't imagine what it would be.

"This can't be coincidence," Stephanie said, pulling out her phone. "I'm documenting this. Time, date, and the suspicious nature of the pairing."

"It won't matter." I leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted despite the day barely being half over. "His word against mine, remember? The son of a political dynasty versus the scholarship charity case."

Through the studio's glass door, I could see other students settling into their assigned spaces, scripts in hand, ready to dive into their scenes with partners they'd actually chosen.

Normal students doing normal classwork without having to calculate the psychological warfare potential of every interaction.

"There you are." Corvus's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts.

He approached with calculated grace, immaculate in his pressed uniform, silver-streaked black hair perfectly styled despite the afternoon humidity.

His pale eyes assessed me with clinical interest, as if I were a particularly fascinating laboratory specimen.

"Mr. Barclay," I replied, forcing my voice to remain steady and professional. "I was just reviewing the scene assignment."

"The Crucible," he said, coming to stand just slightly too close, close enough that I caught his scent. Chocolate and winter air and expensive cologne. "One of the finest examinations of moral compromise under pressure. How... appropriate."

The way he drew out the last word made it clear that the choice had been anything but random.

"Shall we find our space?" he continued, gesturing toward the studio. "I've reserved Studio C-2. More intimate setting for our work."

Of course he had. The smaller practice rooms were isolated, soundproofed, designed for private rehearsals. Perfect for whatever psychological games he had planned.

I followed him into the studio. The space was compact but well-equipped, with mirrors along one wall and a small seating area for observation. Corvus had already arranged two chairs facing each other in the center of the room, scripts placed precisely on each seat.

"I took the liberty of analyzing our scene in advance," he said, settling into his chair with the air of a man who wasn’t afraid to take up space.

"Danforth's interrogation of Elizabeth is a masterclass in psychological manipulation.

The way he uses her love for John against her, forces her to choose between truth and salvation. It's quite brilliant, really."

I opened my script, trying to focus on the words rather than the satisfaction in his voice. "Elizabeth's integrity is what makes the scene powerful. She refuses to yield despite everything they put her through."

"Does she, though?" Corvus tilted his head, studying me with those unsettling eyes. "She lies to protect John, compromising her most fundamental principle. One could argue that Danforth succeeds in breaking her precisely because he understands what she values most."

The analysis was academically sound and utterly chilling in its implications. He wasn't just discussing the play. He was laying out his methodology.

"Shall we begin with a cold read?" he suggested, his tone deceptively pleasant. "I find it illuminating to experience the scene's dynamics before getting trapped in preconceived interpretations."

I nodded, though every instinct screamed warnings. We were alone in a soundproofed room, with him holding all the power in both our academic partnership and the broader social hierarchy. But refusing to work would only give him ammunition for complaints about my professionalism.

"From Danforth's entrance," I said, finding the page. "Elizabeth has just been brought in to testify about John's confession."

"Perfect.” He grinned. “Remember, she's been isolated, terrorized, forced to watch her community tear itself apart. She's holding onto her principles by the thinnest thread."

The observation was textually accurate and personally threatening in equal measure.

I began reading Elizabeth's lines, trying to inhabit the character's fear and determination.

But Corvus immediately shifted the dynamic, rising from his chair to loom over me exactly as Danforth would have done.

His physical presence became oppressive, commanding, designed to make me feel small and vulnerable.

"Look at me," he commanded, fully in character as the judge. "Your husband confesses, does he not?"

The question hung between us, loaded with implications that went far beyond the script. I met his gaze, channeling Elizabeth's desperate strength.

"I—I cannot tell you how he—"

"Did you know he were a lecher?" Corvus interrupted, the word dripping with contempt. His eyes never left mine, searching for any sign of weakness or submission.

My breath caught involuntarily. The way he delivered the line carried undertones that had nothing to do with the historical context of the play and everything to do with the psychological game being played in this room.

"I—I cannot say," I managed, staying in character despite the way my pulse quickened.

"Were you surprised when you discovered his lechery?" Corvus stepped closer, using his height and Alpha presence to maximum intimidating effect. "Surprised to find that your husband was not the man you believed?"

The questions continued, each one delivered with increasing intensity, Corvus masterfully blending Danforth's judicial authority with his own Alpha dominance. He circled me as he spoke, forcing me to track his movement, keeping me off balance and reactive.

But something strange happened as we worked through the scene.

Despite the psychological pressure, despite his obvious attempts to break my composure, I found myself rising to meet his performance.

Elizabeth's strength became my strength, her refusal to be cowed translating into my own determination not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me crack.

"I know my husband," I said, injecting steel into Elizabeth's voice. "Whatever he may have done, I know his heart."

Corvus paused mid-stride, thrown off by my unflinching response.

"Your husband confessed to lechery," he pressed, returning to the script but maintaining that dangerous intensity. "Do you doubt his confession?"

"If my husband confessed, then... then he confessed," I replied, finding my footing in Elizabeth's impossible position. "But I know him to be a good man."

"Good?" Corvus's laugh was cold, calculated. "He used you, manipulated your affections, made you complicit in his deception. And still you defend him?"

We'd moved away from the script now, I realized. This was no longer Cruz's dialogue but Corvus's own psychological warfare, using the scene as a vehicle for more personal attacks.

"I know what's in his heart," I repeated, refusing to break character or acknowledge his manipulation. "And I know what's in mine."

The standoff stretched between us, two wills clashing across the small studio. Gradually, Corvus's expression shifted to cool appraisal.

"Interesting," he murmured, stepping back and allowing the scene's tension to dissipate. "Most people crumble under sustained pressure. You find strength in it."

I set down my script with hands that trembled only slightly. "Elizabeth Proctor is one of literature's strongest female characters. She deserves to be played with full commitment."

"Indeed." He studied me with new interest, as if recalculating some internal assessment. "You bring natural instincts to the role that many trained actors struggle to achieve."

The compliment was unexpected and more unsettling than his earlier intimidation. I couldn't tell if he genuinely appreciated my work or was setting another trap.

"We should work through the emotional transitions," I said, trying to redirect us back to legitimate scene work. "Elizabeth's arc from terror to determination to heartbreak is complex."

"Agreed." He resumed his seat, his manner shifting to something approaching professional collaboration. "Though I'd argue her most challenging moment isn't the interrogation itself but the final choice. Whether to lie to save John or tell the truth and damn him."

We spent the next hour working through the scene's technical elements. Blocking, emotional beats, character motivations. Corvus proved to be a skilled scene partner when he focused on the actual craft, bringing insights that challenged me to dig deeper into Elizabeth's psychology.