Obsidian students bled in quieter colors.
Gold heirs made noise when injured. They shouted names, houses, legal threats, and the specific rank of whoever would pay for the insult. Silver students cursed with trained restraint. Iron students pretended pain was a test and usually failed by the third breath.
Obsidian students apologized.
A girl with a cracked collarbone apologized to Seraphina for staining her sleeve. A boy whose left eye had gone white from echo-light apologized to Veylan for slowing the line. Someone with half a uniform and no shoes apologized to the floor after tripping over blood.
That was how the academy trained the lowest tier.
Not to survive.
To be convenient while dying.
I hated it with a calmness that felt dangerous.
"Stop apologizing," I said.
Three injured students flinched.
Wrong tone. Cedric's tone. The one servants obeyed because fear was cheaper than trust.
I exhaled through my nose.
