"Master!"
The shout shattered the tense quiet of the encampment.
Violet paused mid-motion, her hand hovering over a map of the Northern Wastelands. She turned slowly, her robes settling around her petite frame.
Elara was sprinting toward the command tent. The girl had lost all semblance of decorum. Her breathing was ragged, her face flushed with a mixture of exertion and lingering terror. Behind her, Mira and Kaelin stumbled along, looking equally disheveled.
Dust kicked up around their boots, drawing the attention of every idler in the vicinity.
A frown etched itself onto Violet's porcelain face. Her eyes, sharp and discerning, flicked to the perimeter.
Dozens of male disciples from the Kingslayer Academy and the Wind Mage Academy had stopped their drills. They gathered around, their gazes glued to the torn robes of her students.
Greed, lust, and mockery painted their faces. They weren't looking at the injuries; they were looking at the exposed skin beneath the rips.
