Meanwhile, in another part of the academy, a different conversation was taking place.
Bessia had returned to her dormitory after evening classes, her mind churning with frustration about Duncan's situation. The frameup was so obvious. So blatantly unjust. And yet the tribunal was proceeding as if noble testimony carried inherent credibility while outpost recruit denials were automatically suspect.
Her roommate, Celestine Aurin, was already there—seated at her desk with composed posture, carefully reading through what appeared to be family correspondence.
Celestine was everything the old noble houses were famous for producing. Beautiful. Impeccably educated. Politically connected. She carried herself with the effortless grace of someone raised within generations of aristocratic expectation.
And yet, improbably, she was also one of the kindest people Bessia had met since arriving at Sparkshire.
