Soren had always believed you could measure any disaster by the number of times the bells rang before breakfast.
Today, the peal was on its seventh sweep, and the echo still chased itself along the high vaults of the dormitory corridor as he laced his boots and joined the column of half-woken students filing out to the parade ground. Seven was a new record. Even Jannek, who'd once slept through an electrical fire, looked up from his cot and muttered, "They're not going to stop, are they?"
Soren gave him a flat look, then fell in at the end of the line, shoulder to shoulder with a cluster of second-years who made a show of yawning with every step. The air on the landing was cold and full of old polish; his breath smoked in a thin ribbon, immediately erased by the crowd's collective exhale.
