The Academy was a beautiful, buzzing hive, and the fallout from Seraphina Vale's disgrace was its newest, most delicious nectar. Whispers flowed through sun-drenched corridors and lingered in the shadows of the library stacks. The story mutated with each telling: Rosalind Thorne, the quiet, sullen daughter of a distant duke, had unveiled a masterful trap. She had produced documented evidence, outmaneuvered the crown prince's favorite, and emerged not just unscathed but vindicated.
I moved through this hive, a foreign insect with a stolen shape.
The wary curiosity was a tangible force. In Magical Theory, students I'd never spoken to offered hesitant smiles. In the refectory, a group of third-years from minor noble houses made a point of vacating the end of their bench, a silent invitation. It was respect, of a sort. The respect accorded to a suddenly dangerous animal.
