The training field behind west wing was colder than most.
Colder than it had any right to be.
Storm clouds gathered above without promise of rain, just a heaviness that pressed against the bones. The wind carried whispers some Shinrei-born, others born of tension.
Three students stood in a loose triangle beneath the cracked banner of Team 9.
"Alright, kids," came the voice of their mentor, low and easy, but with a weight that made the ground seem shallower.
Solen Drayvahn.
Crimson Veinwalker.
Scarlet cloak. Burnt-silver eyes.
"We've got a mission."
He grinned, all teeth and shadow.
"...Tomorrow."
Silence.
"Whatever," Ceyla Nox muttered. Her arms were folded, her gaze sharp, angry, electric. She didn't look at them—didn't need to. The storm around her spoke louder than her voice.
Juno Arkai stepped forward. His movements were precise, deliberate—ritualistic.
He bowed low, palms pressed together in a warrior's gesture.
"Understood, Sensei."
