A cold, persistent rain lashed against the windows of the Headmaster's tower, streaking the thick glass and blurring the high spires of Azurefall into gray, watery ghosts.
Magister Kellan stood in Alistair's office, staring out at the storm. He hadn't slept in two days. Reports of demonic incursions along the coast had doubled. The new "Wartime Protocol" squads were green, clumsy, and terrified. Squad 7's disastrous first drills were a prime example of the rot. Dain's rage, Ilya's recklessness, Kaelan's fear, Lia's trauma—they were a microcosm of the Academy's unreadiness.
Kairen's sacrifice had bought them time, but Kellan could feel that time running out, slipping through his fingers like sand.
