The faint hum of the ship's engines resonated through the polished floorboards, steady and unchanging. In her private cabin, Seraphina sat by a wide desk, her long pale-pink hair falling neatly over her shoulders, a ribbon of imperial blue woven into a small braid that draped across her front. The lamplight glowed against her marble skin, her expression calm yet impossible to read.
Before her lay reports: rosters of injured students, disciplinary notes, and the latest council records she had compiled after the incident. As president of the student council, it was her duty to keep order. As the heir to Valor, it was her duty to project strength. Neither role allowed hesitation.
Her pale eyes—sometimes pearl, sometimes icy blue depending on the light—scanned the papers. Nicolas's absence weighed heavily on them. Even now, the name felt carved into every margin, every decision delayed.
