The walk from the detention block to the headmaster's study was a short one through covered cloisters, but it felt like a procession through a gallery of whispers. The news had spread through the Academy like wildfire. Students and faculty alike paused in corridors or peered from windows as I passed, flanked by the two guards assigned as my "protection" and with Kaelen a silent, formidable shadow at my side. Their stares were no longer of mocking pity or scandalized glee but of something heavier: awe, fear, and rampant, burning curiosity. I was no longer Rosalind Thorne, the disgraced, love-struck villainess. I was Rosalind Thorne, the woman who had stood toe-to-toe with a poisoning conspiracy and, through sheer icy logic, had walked away unscathed while a marquis's daughter was dragged to the dungeons.
