The lecture hall was warmer than usual.
Not because of the fire runes etched along the stone walls—but from the crush of too many bodies packed too close. The morning lesson was mandatory. Attendance sealed by a formal order—signed by the Swordcrest Faculty Head himself.
Leon leaned against the back wall, arms folded. He wasn't watching the others, but he felt them.
Most sat in benches—some whispering, others restless. The nobles filled the front rows, robes pressed, crests stitched in silver. Their glances were quieter than their voices.
He'd passed the Flame Trial. Survived the Bone Chamber.
And now, they were watching.
Because it meant something.
Because it wasn't supposed to.
Leon Thorne had been a name whispered with pity—soft, bloated, forgotten. A fallen house clinging to courtesy.
Now it was rising again.
And people hated that.
Across the room, Rellan Faulk narrowed his eyes.
Of course he was here.
