"Princess."
The word stopped her mid-stride. Not because of who said it, but because of how. Sweetly.
Priscilla turned slowly.
The three from the back row stood there—uniforms immaculate, hair arranged in perfect, identical precision. Each carried that same gleam in their eyes, the kind she had seen since childhood in court corridors: the shine of people who had been told they could do anything, and believed it.
One of them—tall, dark braid pinned over her shoulder—smiled like it was a courtesy. "Leaving so soon? The exam only just ended."
Priscilla's expression didn't change. "I prefer quiet."
"Do you?" another said, a short blonde with the quick, cutting tone of someone used to being heard. "That's strange. I thought you preferred standing out."
The third girl—silent so far—shifted closer, her eyes sweeping the corridor. No teachers. No witnesses. The faint hum of the runes overhead covered small sounds well enough.
