Pending meant the story had not forgiven us. It meant the knife had only changed hands.
Pending was the story's favorite kind of threat: unfinished, patient, and already reaching for the next throat.
The Healing Hall had too many windows.
That was the first sign the academy had learned nothing.
A room full of injured students, political witnesses, fractured routes, and one public liability candidate should not have enough glass to supply a sniper with optimism. Astral Zenith disagreed. Its medical wing glittered beneath afternoon light like beauty could disinfect consequence.
Seraphina closed the curtains herself.
All of them.
A priest tried to protest until she looked at him.
I admired that look.
From a distance.
Preferably with furniture between us.
"Sit," she said.
"I am sitting."
"Stop preparing to stand."
"That is a separate skill."
"Retire it."
Liora, leaning against the wall with a bandaged forearm, snorted. "She is getting better at ordering you around."
