The heavy, humid spring air clung to Zenith Academy like a suffocating shroud.
The morning after the attack, the central dining pavilion was completely stripped of its usual chaotic, aristocratic energy. The massive marble hall was packed with students from all twenty first-year classes, but the noise level was reduced to a paranoid, collective murmur. No one was laughing.
Vane sat at his squad's usual oak table, his amber eyes tracking the subtle shifts in the room's hierarchy.
Three tables away, a heated, hushed argument was breaking out. A third-year Imperial noble slammed his fist against the wood.
