Michael arrived early to his ancient languages lesson, only to find several unfamiliar students already waiting inside. Judging by the azure markings stitched along the inner lining of their robes, they were second-years.
The moment he stepped in, conversations hushed. A few pairs of eyes followed him, and then came the whispers.
"That's the guy…"
"I heard he's a maniac."
Michael's brows furrowed, catching fragments of hushed voices—each one about him. His stomach sank. So the rumor's already spread.
At first, he assumed Braydon was behind it, but he quickly dismissed the thought. There was no way Braydon would admit to losing consciousness in front of his own cronies, not unless someone dragged it out of him under torture.
Was it Magnus? he wondered, sliding into a seat along the edge of the classroom, middle row. From there, he'd have a clear view of the room while keeping his back partially guarded. But what would he gain from spreading this?
