The morning after my delightful episode of almost manslaughter, Class C showed up early.
Too early.
It was suspicious.
They were standing in formation when I arrived—Felix twitching, Julien with his "I'm planning something" face, and even Leo looked mildly afraid of me, which meant something had finally gotten through his skull.
Garrick gave me a respectful nod.
I didn't like it.
"Did someone die?" I asked, voice flat.
"No, Professor," Mira replied from the side. She and Cassandra had finally returned from whatever shady errands or blood rituals they'd been up to.
I stared at her.
"Where were you?"
"Busy," she answered.
Cryptic. Typical.
Cassandra didn't even reply—she just stood there, arms folded, eyes like distant mirrors. Eerie as always.
"Fine," I muttered. "We're doing practicals today. Individual combat evaluations. If you cry, cry quietly—I've got a headache and a low tolerance for emotional outbursts."
