A week had passed, and to Elion's surprise, everything in the academy settled into a strange, almost peaceful rhythm.
Classes went by without incident. No confrontation with William. No sudden attacks or dramatic showdowns.
And the summons from the DC was yet to come, which was odd.
William still glared at him whenever their eyes met, but the guy did nothing.
His once-imposing group had more or less dissolved after the incident.
Elion still saw the remaining loyalists gathered together sometimes, but their numbers were smaller, and they avoided eye contact whenever he passed.
The rest of the boys in class treated Elion like he carried an infectious plague.
Even those who had only teased him lightly before kept a nervous distance, whispering behind his back.
They weren't afraid of him physically; they were afraid of retribution.
It seemed every guy believed he had a metaphorical guillotine hanging over his neck, and Elion could drop the blade whenever he felt like it.
