"In a room full of trained fighters, the most dangerous person is the one who learned to survive on the streets."
***
"Excuse me, Professor." A girl in the second row raised her hand. Honey-blonde hair pulled back in a practical braid. The kind of voice that said she'd been trained since childhood never to speak out of turn. "Where is Professor De Clare? We were told she would be—"
"Professor De Clare," Blackthorne cut her off, those pale eyes locking on like targeting systems, "is handling a faculty dispute. Something about jurisdiction and teaching methodologies. Above your station, girl."
He took a step forward. His shadow swallowed half the formation. The morning sun vanished behind his bulk like it wanted no part of whatever came next.
"I'll be overseeing your physical conditioning until she deems you worthy of her direct attention."
