The spring thaw dragged out into a grueling, suffocating month of paranoia.
The first week following the attack on the Low Justiciar felt like holding a breath underwater. Students from all fifty first-year classes walked the academy corridors in tight, nervous clusters. The arrogant noble heirs from the Empire and the proud martial prodigies of the Eastern Continent entirely stopped their petty political squabbles. They were united by a sudden, primal fear of the dark.
By the second week, the ankle-deep slush in the courtyards dried into hard, cracked mud. The immediate, frantic panic settled into a heavy, unbroken exhaustion. The administration offered no answers. The Imperial Inquisitors remained locked outside the territorial wards. The academy Wardens maintained their silent, imposing patrols.
