The corridor to Grandmaster Elion's office smelled of dust and warmed wood—the familiar, comforting scent of a place that had held decisions and quiet confidences for longer than most living students could remember. Lira moved quickly but with purpose, Serelyth's presence close behind in human form; the dragon-lady's white hair was still damp with the morning's dew from the grove. Lira's palms trembled still with the aftertaste of battle—smoke and iron, the echo of the intruder's threat. She tightened the strap of her satchel and stepped over the threshold.
Elion stood as always beneath the high arched windows, sunlight pooling across his robes and illuminating the faint silver at his temple. The Grandmaster's face was calm, but his eyes—those quick, perceptive grey eyes—caught the tension in Lira's posture at once.
"You called," he said simply.
