Four hours had passed since Freya's speech.
And now—just as the sky bled into evening, everyone stood outside, gathered once again.
But this time… all eyes were on her.
Freya Winterbane.
She stood tall at the center of the open space. Around her, the ever-present circle of elites remained—Zyon, Evelyn, Art, Leon, Amelia, Lilith, and Celeste.
Each one wore a faint smile. Their presence alone offered a false sense of stability to the anxious students huddled in small clumps.
Freya, however, kept her expression unreadable.
Then Art moved.
He strolled up casually, his hands shoved in his coat pockets, posture lazy but voice sharp with that signature cutting amusement.
He leaned in slightly and patted her on the shoulder. "Now, that's the child of a war commander. Manipulative with a pinch of grace. Bravo."
His voice was low—only for her ears—but it struck harder than any scream.
