The journal vanished.
One moment Grace held it, leather warm against her palms, and the next it dissolved into light that folded inward and disappeared.
The skill came naturally to her now. A small pocket dimension, accessible only to her, where she stored things she couldn't risk anyone finding. It was a skill "gifted" to her by the goddess of light.
She flexed her fingers once, then turned back toward Class S's camp.
The atmosphere was abysmal.
Students moved in tight groups rather than the organized patrol pairs she'd assigned after Marcus's death. Whispers and accusations followed Aura wherever she went, even though no one accused her directly. People avoided eye contact with each other.
The murder had fractured something fundamental.
Grace walked through the camp, observing the damage with a calm expression. A group of nobles huddled near the northern area of the base, casting glances toward a cluster of commoners who'd gathered near the supplies.
