The Day of Concord died a slow, muddy death.
The freezing winds that had battered the floating continent of Zenith Academy for the past three months were finally losing their sharp edge. The sky above the white-gold spires was no longer a canvas of brittle, cracked gray. It had softened into a heavy, humid overcast that clung to the stonework like a damp blanket.
The pristine snow that had blanketed the courtyards and training rings was actively rotting, melting into a treacherous, ankle-deep slush. Spring was forcing its way into the ecosystem with violent intent. In Oakhaven, the thaw meant the gutters would overflow with filth and deadly diseases would spread through the lower districts. Here, in the absolute pinnacle of magical society, it simply meant the frozen defensive wards were dropping, and the true brutality of the academic year was about to resume in full force.
