By the time Rey entered the magic training hall, the rest of the class was already seated, or at least pretending to be.
Jett was lounging near the back beside Morrigan, his legs kicked up on the bench in front of him like he hadn't just disappeared in a burst of light and left Rey to fend off a mob of adoring fans.
He looked far too relaxed for someone who participated in a public brawl five minutes ago.
Rey stormed in, panting, shoulders tense. His hair was still wind-tossed from the fight and running, and his sleeves were ruffled and uneven.
He looked exactly like someone who'd been through a warzone and sprinted straight to class afterward.
Dozens of eyes followed him, whispers rising like smoke.
"You're late," the instructor called out from the front.
She stood tall, a woman with short silver hair cut in precise layers, her high-collared indigo robe flowing with every slight movement. Her presence alone demanded attention firm, composed, and sharp as cold steel.
