Soren's first breath sent frost plume curling from his lips, the exhale white against the unlit courtyard.
The campus lamps burned two blocks west, but this far up the old battlements the only light was false-dawn gray, thin as a blade.
He pivoted on the stone, feeling the grain beneath threadbare sandals. Every step scored by fifty generations of other restless initiates, desperate, hopeful, bored stiff as statues waiting for first bell.
His sword scraped the air.
Not the practice blade issued by the armory, with its clubbed tip and splintered handle, but his own, Refraction, an absurdly fine piece to risk even for shadow drills. He kept it wrapped in winecloth out of habit, only pulling it free when he was sure the walls were empty.
