The afternoon light filtered in through the tall glass windows, pooling across the marbled floor in warm streaks. The dining hall, ever grand in its architecture, echoed with the mingling of hundreds of voices, utensils against porcelain, and the occasional laughter from the noble tables clustered at the front.
At a long table tucked near the far wall—one of the few spots with a view of the training courts below—the five commoner students sat, trays in front of them, a quiet pocket of conversation in the crowd.
Lucavion was in the middle of slicing into something roasted and overpriced-looking. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say they're trying to make up for the sleep deprivation with lunch quality."
Toven grunted. "If they serve fish paste tomorrow, I'll know it's a trap."
"Fish paste is a trap," Mireilla muttered, poking at her rice with visible distrust. "The last time I ate it, I hallucinated a ghost elk telling me to drop out."
