Morning sunlight spilled across the grand academy courtyard, painting marble pillars and golden arches with a deceptively gentle glow. Birds chirped in manicured trees, singing ignorant songs that failed to convey the very real tension vibrating through the gathered assembly. Rows of anxious students, nobles, teachers, and faculty stood at stiff attention, eyes glued to the raised platform where the headmistress an elderly woman with hair like polished silver and nerves apparently forged from pure steel cleared her throat with more caution than I'd ever heard from a public speaker.
And, frankly, I understood her perfectly.
Because standing just a few feet behind her, arms crossed and faces locked into identical expressions of sinister anticipation, were Verania and Sylvithra my dearly beloved mothers.
