The next morning, I found myself regretting my life choices again—mainly, choosing to teach Class C instead of faking my death and moving to the northern isles to sell dried fish.
The students were assembled. Barely. Leo was half-asleep. Garrick looked ready to punch someone, probably on accident. Wallace was fiddling with something I was absolutely sure would explode. Cassandra was cleaning her blade in eerie silence, and Mira was sipping tea like she hadn't already cursed three people on the way here.
And then there was Felix.
Somehow, his arm was in a sling.
"Felix," I asked, rubbing my eyes, "what did you break this time?"
"...My dignity."
I nodded. "Ah. So nothing valuable."
He sniffled.
"Alright," I announced, "today we're doing spell-response drills. You know, in case one of you ever faces someone who actually knows what they're doing."
Wallace raised a hand. "Aren't you supposed to teach us how to know what we're doing?"
