Morning sunlight flooded the eleventh-floor dining lounge of the Spire, reflecting off polished marble floors and silver serving trays. It was a room built to celebrate the elite, but as Alex crossed the threshold, all he felt was the dull, throbbing ache radiating from his right hand. The fresh white linen wrapped around his palm remained completely hidden beneath the long, tailored sleeve of his uniform jacket, but the lingering heat of the Arc-Cannon still throbbed through his damaged mana flow.
He approached the large mahogany table claimed by the Magic Department's first-years, immediately noticing the quiet tension around the porcelain teacups.
Emma sat near the head of the table. She had arrived early, her posture immaculate, and had deliberately arranged the seating so that she occupied the chair directly to the right of Alex's empty place—the exact spot Maya usually claimed for herself.
