Lucavion had to admit one thing.
They certainly knew how to put on a show.
He stood among the crescent of students with his hands resting loosely at his sides, watching another name pass through the Rotunda before its owner followed. The student, a young nobleman whose family crest Lucavion recognized without possessing enough interest to attach a name to it, crossed the polished floor beneath the steady gold of the Witness and stopped where the inner circle had been drawn into the stone. His posture changed as he approached. The casual stiffness of someone conscious of being watched settled into something more measured, his breathing slowed, and after a moment his palm came to rest above the center of his chest.
One breath.
A careful inclination of the head.
Then he crossed the golden threshold.
The flame within the black brazier bent toward him.
Barely.
