Soren never trusted a sunrise with this much color.
The command rotunda's dome amplified every hue, so the rim of the world behind Aetherion Spire bled orange, then blue, then the white-bright of teeth bared at a funeral. It was the kind of light that overexposed every hair and wrinkle, even when reflected off the waxed heads of initiates packed tight into the assembly pit.
Soren found himself in the second ring, four rows up from the dais, squarely inside the ocular sweep of Dane and, beside him, a woman Soren had never seen before.
The woman stood half a head taller than Dane, severe in build and posture, with jaw tight enough to crack a seed between her molars.
Her uniform differentiated itself from the Swordmaster's by a stripe of rust-red at the collar and a set of squares on the left epaulet, each the color of dried blood. She held a lacquered pointer but did not tap it, instead, she measured the room with an air of "I have already won this argument."
