Three weeks had been enough time to bury the evaluation in the academy's relentless churn. Outside, the paths of the Academic District bustled with their usual, frantic traffic, while inside, Instructor Thorne's sessions ran with the unforgiving precision of a metronome. Down in the lower district, even the freshly laid repair stone had been scuffed into dull anonymity by a thousand passing boots.
Seventh hour in Thorne's hall.
The hum of the transmission assessment filled the room. Beneath their feet, the ring floor projected its archaic recordings with the indifferent, flat precision of decades past. Thorne paced through the students in strict order, silent and methodical, until he finally reached Vane.
Five seconds.
