The squad gathered in an empty training room on the third floor—a neutral territory that none of them claimed as their own. It was late evening, past the time when most students had returned to their dormitories. The fluorescent lighting cast harsh shadows across the sparring mats, making the space feel clinical rather than intimate.
Silas arrived last, as was his habit.
Duncan stood near the far wall, arms crossed, expression carefully neutral. Mara sat cross-legged on one of the benches, her twin daggers resting beside her—she was never without them anymore. Adam leaned against the doorframe, observing with that quiet intensity that made people uncomfortable when they noticed it. Bessia occupied the center of the room, hands folded in her lap, looking like she was attending a funeral.
Maybe she was.
"So," Duncan said when the silence had stretched too long. "Ashmar."
