The Ministry of Education had been transformed into something between a war zone and a wedding venue—polished floors, reinforced ether seals, freshly printed scrolls, and the distinct stench of collective dread.
Gabriel stood in the central hall, expression calm, posture straight, and mind somewhere between mild fatigue and spiritual disassociation. The main doors were still sealed, keeping the two thousand candidates outside where they couldn't breathe directly on him. Yet.
Inside, the Department of Spite had begun to wilt.
Alexandra sat sprawled on a bench like a Victorian ghost who'd overdosed on realism. Her coat was off, her heels had been kicked somewhere under the bench, and her last coherent thought had apparently died after the fourth name change request.
"I swear to every celestial entity," she said, not looking up, "if one more noble heir tries to 'sit near the Empress for inspiration,' I will become inspiration for violence."
