The east yard is colder than the rest of the academy, the wind lancing in off a nearby stream and scattering the mist into shreds that creep along the flagstones. I clench my fists inside my sleeves, counting each breath as I join the other students in the shadow of the gymnasium wall.
The Headmaster stalks the perimeter like a wolf at an auction, moving in silence. I remember a rumor that he used to break necks in the Border Wars, but don't remember the specifics. I can’t stop watching the way his eyes sweep our row—sharp, surgical, and so cold they might as well be made of glass. No one dares to make noise, but the tension in the air buzzes with unshed energy and collective dread.
He stops in front of the smallest of the newcomers—other than me, of course—and says nothing. Just c***s h
