'I had an entire schedule planned! I was going to turn their shoelaces into snakes!
Instead of a new plaything, Orion had been shoved into an itchy uniform, stripped of his magical authority, and ordered to sit in a room full of snobby eleven-year-olds to keep an eye on some pampered, undoubtedly annoying six-year-old aristocrat.
"Excuse me."
A snooty, high-pitched voice interrupted his tragic inner monologue.
Orion slowly turned his head, resting his cheek on the desk.
Standing next to his chair was a boy with slicked-back blonde hair, wearing a uniform that had been illegally modified with real gold trim. He looked like the kind of child who regularly reminded the servants how much his shoes cost.
"You are sitting in the shadow of my designated zone," the snooty boy declared, crossing his arms. "I am Lord Percival of the Golden Marches. My family holds the primary mining leases. Move your chair, peasant. You are interfering with my aura."
Orion stared at him.
