The gates of Valmere opened at midnight.
The wagons rolled into the main courtyard, steam rising from the horses' flanks into the cold air. The academy was asleep, mostly. A few lanterns burned in the watchtowers, and the infirmary windows glowed with the steady yellow light of a place that never closes.
I climbed out of the wagon. The ground felt hard and flat after the shifting snow of the pass. My knees popped. The bandage on my wrist was stiff.
"Unload," I said. It came out as a croak. I cleared my throat. "Gareth, get the Centurion to the shed. Cover it. I don't want the juniors gawking at the damage."
"On it," Gareth said. He looked exhausted, his face smeared with soot from the stove, but he moved with purpose.
Students spilled out of the transports. They looked like ghosts returning from a war—hollow-eyed, wrapped in blankets, limping. But they were moving. They were helping each other down.
