Two days later, under a pale sky and wind that carried the sharp scent of mountain pine, I walked beside Cassandra through the Academy's east courtyard. I'd expected her to ask questions on the way—what to say, what not to say, how to act in front of vipers in fine robes—but she said nothing. She wore her uniform like armor, her face a mask carved from polished ice. Most students would've fidgeted, stumbled through anxieties, maybe even asked to skip this suicidal family field trip.
Cassandra merely walked.
The Drelmont estate annex loomed at the far end of the academy grounds, separated from the main campus like a plague ward dressed in marble. Ornate columns, statues of ancestors who probably murdered their way into the family tree, and that damned crest—a silver serpent biting its own tail.
As the guards opened the double doors, I took a breath and muttered, "Keep your head down, speak only when addressed, and if someone offers you tea, assume it's poisoned."
