Toven returned to the table with a sharp exhale, his footsteps heavier than before. He dropped back into his chair, fork scraping against the edge of his plate as he sat.
Mireilla gave him a sidelong glance, her voice softer than usual. "Don't take it to heart."
"I didn't," Toven muttered, stabbing a piece of roasted fowl and shoving it into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, then added with a grumble, "But it's annoying."
Mireilla smirked faintly into her mug. "Can't refute that."
Caeden set his cup down with quiet precision. "Lucavion warned us it would be like this. And he's making sense. Kaleran said much the same back when he was overseeing us."
Toven's brows furrowed, but he didn't argue. He remembered it well—Vice-head Kaleran's measured tone, his warning as sharp as any blade.
The ice, the wall between noble and commoner—it might look solid, but it was brittle. One clash of mana, one word too sharp, and it would fracture. And when it did, the cracks could run deep.
