A few days had passed in a blur of ritual and repetition, the sharp edges of that morning in the library worn smooth by the steady rhythm of routine. The Academy, in all its gothic precision, had a way of lulling one into submission—its silence polished, its corridors always cold, its order ironclad. No one had suspected anything. Not the professors, not the Council Not even Atlas, And ingrid, whose sharp tongue and sharper instincts had been oddly quiet of late, as though even she had grown tired of peeling back every curtain in search of secrets.
And so, I moved carefully through those days—speaking less, listening more. Letting my bones settle again beneath my skin. Letting the suspicion fade. Or, at least, pretending it had.
Even Professor Marwood’s dance rehearsals had become—if not
