The moment Isolde stepped into the circle, the atmosphere reshaped itself.
Not broke.
Not shifted.
Reformed.
As if every conversation, every shared breath, every gaze had simply been waiting for her.
And maybe they had.
Because this was Isolde—the fiancée of Prince Adrian. Not merely a noble, but the one tethered to the future Crown. Her rank alone placed her second only to royalty among the Lorian students. But what drew the circle in now wasn't just title. It wasn't just legacy.
It was presence.
The silk of her voice. The fluidity of her movement. The way her lavender eyes skimmed the gathering—not with judgment, not even with scrutiny, but with command.
Effortless.
The group parted without thinking. A gentle sweep of shoulders. A few murmurs. Soft nods.
"Of course," someone breathed.
"Lady Isolde… an honor—"
"Please, join us—"
