The sun hung low over the horizon, its golden light spilling through the wide glass corridors of the academy. Students poured out in clusters, chatting and laughing — though even their laughter sounded tense this day.
The rumors of war were spreading faster than the news itself, and the unease in the air was almost tangible.
Trafalgar walked quietly through the marble hallway, hands buried in his pockets, the faint echo of his boots following him. Classes had just ended — History with Professor Rhaldrin, then two hours of some other class — and all he wanted now was silence.
'Finally,' he thought, exhaling. 'One day of peace, and it already feels like a damn miracle.'
He stepped outside, where the red-orange sky stretched over the academy's gardens. Bartholomew was waiting for him by the gate, his usual nervous energy written all over his posture — shoulders hunched, fingers gripping a small pouch that clinked faintly with coins.
