"The most dangerous people aren't the ones who want to kill you. They're the ones who look at you and see raw material."
***
Professor Isolde De Clare walked in like she owned the place. No, worse than that. Like she'd already conquered it and was just now bothering to collect.
Her instructor's robes hung loose on a frame that had no business teaching anything except maybe advanced murder. The dark fabric couldn't hide shoulders built for war or curves that made the whole "scholarly academic" look into a joke. She was tall. Built through violence, not study. And she moved through the room like she'd sized up every single threat in the first two seconds and found us all wanting.
A wild mess of chestnut hair fell to her waist. Half of it was pinned back by what looked like a decorative hair clip but was definitely a weapon. The scar through her left eyebrow caught the lamplight, silver and old and permanent. Someone had tried to kill her once. They'd failed.
