By the time Damien's car rolled to a halt at the academy gates, the air had already shifted.
The school grounds looked the same—pristine, well-kept, expensive enough to remind you it catered to the children of influence—but the energy was different. Less noise. Fewer cliques loitering around. A general undercurrent of focus that cut through the usual morning haze.
Monthly exams.
Even the fourth-year elites had to kneel to them.
Damien stepped out of the car, adjusting the cuffs of his academy jacket as the doors hissed closed behind him. The driver didn't say a word—he knew better—and the vehicle slipped away without ceremony.
Vermillion's entrance garden sprawled out in its usual overdone glory. Neatly trimmed hedges, illusion-glass fountains designed to reflect the academy crest with every ripple, and perfectly symmetrical walkways paved with imported blue-gray stone. A modern shrine to wealth and image.
Today, it was quieter than usual.
