Lucavion sat cross-legged on the narrow bed, the parchment spread across his knee. The lanternlight painted his features in soft amber, flickering shadows across the sharp edges of his jaw.
The schedule stared back at him, each time slot stamped with a cruelty too precise to be coincidence. Three a.m. weapon drills. Double-stacked evaluations. The worst of every possible overlap neatly crammed into one week, as if someone had carefully asked, What would be the most inconvenient set of times for this particular boy?
'Kind of expected this much,' he thought, tapping a finger against the inked grid. He let out a breath—half sigh, half laugh. Actions, after all, had consequences.
Antagonizing nobles, mocking professors, calling a crown prince his friend—all of that left a trail. And trails, in a place like this, were always followed.
