The certifier arrived on a Tuesday, without fanfare, in the gap between morning and afternoon sessions when the Academic District was at its quietest.
He was a narrow man in unadorned grey, Silver Wood-affiliated by the small woven cord at his collar rather than by anything as declarative as a house crest, and he carried a single flat case that made no sound at all when he set it down on the assessment room's central table — the kind of silence that came from padding designed specifically to protect whatever was inside it.
"Isole Sylvaris," he said, reading her name off a card rather than looking at her face to confirm it. "Preliminary baseline. This should not take longer than the standard interval."
