The reception hall wore polish over nerves. Brass lamps burned low and warm. Two long tables showed off the academy's neat pride: clean pins under glass, oiled tools with tags, a coil of rope tied wrong on purpose so a proctor could fix it for applause. Workers had rolled carpets to shape the path Lyra drew. Water stood at the far corner to pull traffic through. A lectern waited in the middle like a polite trap.
Liora checked the line of her sleeve and nothing else. "No heroics," she said again, soft.
"Copy," I said.
Cael glanced at the high mirror we'd nudged a hand-span left. "You get ten seconds," he murmured. "I'll buy eleven."
"I only need ten," I said, and patted the tin in my pocket. The Moth waited, lid latched.
