Amberine had a theory that waking up before dawn rewired your mana flow in all the wrong ways, jostling the natural rhythm that kept a mage's mind and spirit in delicate balance. At this particular moment, with the sky still washed in the pale blues and grays of daybreak, she felt that imbalance keenly. A fierce yawn forced its way out, and she nearly dropped the battered crate of spellbooks she was in the process of moving. The crate smelled faintly of mildew and a comforting hint of cinnamon—possibly from the spice-laced ward someone had tried (and failed) to set on the books ages ago. Either way, the scent reminded her she was definitely not curled up in her warm dorm bed where she believed, with every fiber of her being, she rightfully belonged at such an early hour.
"Waking up this early should be illegal for mages," she mumbled around the tail end of her yawn, chin tipped toward the cracked ceiling beams. She wanted the universe to know she was protesting.
