During the free period, the hundred or so first-years scattered into their usual cliques, eager to enjoy the hour-long reprieve before their next class—History. The halls buzzed with leftover energy from the chaos stirred up in both Combat and Alchemy earlier that day.
"That damn woman," Braydon grumbled, sticking a finger in his ear, "I can still feel the ringing." He complained loudly to his group of lackeys as they strolled through the corridors.
Randolph walked beside him, unusually quiet. Normally, he'd parrot whatever Braydon said, but today, something was clearly bothering him.
"What's your problem?" Braydon asked, a note of irritation creeping into his voice.
"I… I lost the medicines my father gave me," Randolph muttered bitterly.
"Those phials?" Braydon scoffed. "You're still hung up on that? It's just a few potions. Your family can afford another batch without blinking."
