The days following my father's letter blurred into a suffocating haze of political maneuvering. The Academy, once a place of learning and social games, transformed into a battlefield. And I was the prize.
It began subtly—whispers in corridors, pointed looks from faculty members, and the sudden appearance of unfamiliar officials in the common rooms. But within forty-eight hours, the subtlety evaporated. The war for Rosalind Thorne was waged in the open.
The Academy council chamber became the epicenter. Normally a staid forum for administrative matters, it now hosted daily sessions that spilled out into the surrounding corridors, their doors unable to contain the raised voices within. Representatives of the Church and Crown faced each other across the polished oak table like generals before a battle, their armies of lawyers, theologians, and political operatives arrayed behind them.
