No one ever tells you that peace is quiet until it breaks. There are always warning signs a hush in the hallways, the scent of burnt ozone in the air, the distant thrum of magical wards on edge. But sometimes, peace shatters so suddenly that all you can do is pick up the pieces and pray you're not cut too deeply.
It was just past midnight when the trouble began.
I was in the common room with Velka, plotting the next morning's "Conflict Mediation Breakfast" ("Nothing says harmony like pancakes!" according to Mara's latest manifesto) when Riven burst in, wild-eyed and breathless. Behind him trailed a swirl of magical sparks and, if I wasn't mistaken, the faint aroma of smoldering cinnamon.
"Don't panic," Riven wheezed, which, naturally, had the opposite effect.
Velka leapt to her feet. "Riven, what did you do?"
