---
Benches scraped. Conversations erupted like shaken soda. Fizz and John did not need words; they traded a look that was mostly arithmetic. Between them, with the right angle, a third-class beast was a problem, not a crisis. But attention was another predator.
"Too much noise if we show off," Fizz murmured.
"We do not need to," John said. "We need five points. Ten cores. We can do that and pretend it was hard."
Meanwhile others around them.
The benches breathed out a hundred little noises as the crowd stood, then kept not quite leaving. Heads tilted toward John and the orange spark at his shoulder like iron to a quiet magnet.
"Look at those two," a boy in a too-new cloak whispered. "They just glared at each other. That is either murder or a plan."
"A plan," his friend said. "With them it is always a plan. Murder is for people who run out of plans."
