The dream, the vision, the memory-that-was-not—it clung to me like a second, frozen skin. I moved through the familiar routines of the Academy, but the reality of it felt thin, a painted curtain over a yawning chasm. My hands, holding a quill in Magical Theory, remembered the coarse grip of reins and frozen leather. The gentle sun through the lecture hall's stained glass was a pale imitation of the brutal, clarifying glare off the snowfields of Frosthold.
The aftermath of the tea party was a buzzing, distant thing. Whispers followed me. There were looks of wary respect, simmering resentment from Cassian's circle, and pure curiosity from the rest. I was the girl who had outplayed Lady Seraphina. This was a minor yet shocking twist in the social saga of the Academy. They thought the tremor in my hands was lingering fear from the poisoning attempt. They thought the shadows under my eyes were from sleepless nights of anxiety.
