The morning after the Gala did not bring the usual golden warmth of the Zenith sun. Instead, a thick, gray fog rolled in from the surrounding cloud sea, swallowing the lower spires and muffling the sounds of the departing students. The sky-piers were a chaotic mess of iron-bound trunks, shouting stable hands, and the constant, rhythmic thrum of departing shuttles. From the balcony of Villa 1, Vane watched the exodus with a flat, unreadable expression.
He had expected the silence to feel like a victory. For years, he had dreamed of a place where nobody would shout at him, where the air was clean, and where he had enough room to breathe without bumping into another person's misery. Now he had a sprawling villa that smelled of cedar and expensive mana-incense, and the silence was beginning to settle in like a heavy layer of dust.
