Dawn had barely broken when the first whispers of the phenomenon began. The courtyard, still damp with frost from the previous night's celebrations, echoed with a low hum that felt less like wind and more like an awakening. Scholars paused mid-step, professors halted in conversation, and even the gargoyle statues seemed to lean forward, beaks and wings tilting toward the horizon. Everyone sensed that something grand and inexplicable was taking shape above us.
I stood at the edge of the fountain, hand resting on the smooth, ice-sculpted rim. The melted crown—the Covenant of Frost—still warmed my brow beneath its thin but insistent pulse of magic. Seraphina tended to a group of scholars discussing their lesson plans, Yuria practiced shaping lightning into miniature sparklings, and Zephira oversaw the training grounds where new students sparred under Astraea's watchful gaze. Valmira bent over an open section of the Codex, quill in hand, her ink pool shimmering like liquid night.
