Professor Veyra Aldane flicked her wrist, dismissing the class, but her eyes remained fixed on me. I stayed out of reflex, the subtle buzz of her command like pins and needles in my flesh. “Draxmere.” Her voice was as bland as glass. I closed the distance without a word, my arms crossed behind my back like a cadet who hadn’t met his father’s eye. She appraised me closely, intimately, and then turned, sweeping toward her desk as the stone floor resonated under her heels. “You’ve been negligent,” she began after a moment, her fangs clicking delicately. “Your translation of the Lykaion text was… perfunctory.” My jaw tightened. “It was precise.” “Scarcely,” she said, pushing the scroll across the desk toward me. “But then again, precision isn’t the issue, is it?” I remained silent. I always was with her. She always had something beneath her words, coiled and waiting to strike. You never prodded that unless you wanted to bleed. She marked a symbol on the scroll with one of her paint
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