The marble shone like bone under spelllight — beautiful, impersonal, merciless.
The marble hall was colder than usual.
After the tribunal — a spectacle more than a sentence — silence clung to me like frost. Whispers trailed behind me—some soft, some sharp. A few students stepped aside. Others stared.
Serena walked beside me, arms crossed, chin high. "You should be used to this by now."
She wasn't just a peer. Serena Halden was the daughter of a northern noble line — a family older than most royal houses, though less politically ambitious. She had an uncanny way of knowing things before they became news, of showing up just as decisions were about to be made.
People called her aloof, even cold. But behind that distant gaze was a mind built like a chessboard — quiet, deliberate, always three moves ahead.
"Doesn't mean I enjoy it."
We passed a line of noticeboards. Pinned papers fluttered in magical wind currents. One parchment, freshly added, bore a list of disciplinary hearings.
"My name isn't there," I noted.
"Because this isn't just discipline. It's theatre. And everyone thinks they know their roles."
We stopped at a pillar. A line of carved runes glowed faintly across its surface—an old message relay system for quiet communications. Serena reached forward and tapped a rune.
A soft glow. Then words:
"Flameheart never died."
I stared. "Who would dare?"
"Someone who remembers," Serena muttered. "Or someone who wants to make sure you do."
The runes flickered again.
"Watch the echoes."
Her jaw tightened, just for a second — a crack in the composure. Whatever this game was, she was already playing it too.
She looked at me. "It's beginning."
And just like that, the hall no longer felt cold.
It felt loaded.
I wasn't just watching anymore. I was preparing.