The morning Archbishop Castellan arrived began with rain.
Not the heavy kind. The thin, persistent kind that fell so quietly you didn't notice it until your shoulders were soaked through. The academy's leyline weather instruments had reported clear skies an hour ago. The rain had arrived anyway, on no schedule the leyline grid recognized, falling in a way that made the air taste faintly of stone and old incense.
I noticed it as I stood on the western balcony at sunrise. The cloud sea below the academy had an unusual stillness — the slow currents that normally moved between the floating islands had paused, as if the world was holding its breath.
I'd been awake since four. Sleep had not been a serious option.
Lucien joined me on the balcony at six-thirty. He was already in formal dress — the dark Drakeveil house colors, fitted to the line, the smile at its ceremonial setting. The version he wore when he expected to be observed by people who would draw conclusions from how he stood.
