You’re barely paying attention when it happens. Professor Devera drones on about formation strategies, her voice a dull buzz in the background as you jot down notes. Around you, the other first-years sit stiff-backed, pretending to be more focused than they actually are. And then, like a blade slicing through your mind— ”Well, this is unexpected.” You jolt so hard your quill scratches straight through your parchment. The ink bleeds into the page, but you pay it no mind. That voice—it isn’t yours. You snap your head up, scanning the room. No one is looking at you. No one else seems to have heard it. But across the room, slouched with lazy confidence, is him. Aaric Graycastle. His green eyes flick toward yours, amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. You go still.