I sat at the edge of the chair in the Dean’s office, my knees pressed together, palms slick against the fabric of my uniform pants. The room smelled faintly of ink and old wood polish, and the ticking clock behind me did nothing to ease the pounding in my chest.
Across the wide oak desk, Dean Marlowe read my letter of apology—or rather, glanced through it like she was skimming a grocery list. My heart sank a little with every second her eyes darted across the page. She didn’t even pause on the words I’d rewritten five times last night, the ones that were supposed to show her I was genuinely sorry.
When she finally looked up, her sharp blue eyes caught mine. “Cadet Rougeworth,” she said, voice calm, composed. “Why did you choose to major in War and Combat Strategy?”
Her tone wasn’t accus
