The common room feels different today.

Not calmer—Basgiath never calms—but lighter, like the collective student body is exhaling for the first time in years. Someone (probably Ridoc, judging by the smugness radiating off him) got their hands on a battered deck of cards, and the clatter of a competitive game echoes through the hall.

Violet stands near the giant hearth with Rhiannon, Liam, and Sawyer, nursing a steaming mug of something questionably caffeinated. She’s perched on the edge of a table because sitting in chairs is still a gamble with her healing ribs.

Rhiannon nudges Violet. “You look like you’re waiting for a gryphon to drop out of the ceiling.”

“This place is unpredictable,” Violet mutters, watching third-years cluster near the far wall. “Someone’s going to start a fight. My money’s on Jack.”

“Smart,” Sawyer says, shuffling his deck one-handed. “Jack always starts something.”

Speak of the devil.

Jack Barlowe stalks into the room with Oren Seifert, both radiating hostility like it’s their signet. They spot Violet’s group instantly—of course they do—and begin the slow, predator-like approach.

“Fantastic,” Ridoc groans. “The sunshine twins are here.”

Before Jack can open his mouth, the second-year contingent enters.

And the room changes.

Xaden Riorson walks in first, dark hair, darker expression, scanning the room instinctively. Sgaeyl isn’t here, but her presence clings to him—sharp and electric. Bodhi and Imogen follow, the three of them falling into easy step, while Dain Aetos splits off to greet a few familiar faces with perfect, polished posture.

Quinn Hollis, drags a chair across the stone floor with a sound that makes half the room wince.

“Gods, Quinn,” Imogen groans. “Do you have to do everything loudly?”

“It’s a talent,” Quinn replies, dropping into the seat like gravity is optional.

The second-years begin to mingle, spreading through the room—older, more confident, more in control of the energy than the first-years scrambling to feel relevant.

Xaden’s dark eyes catch Violet for a single, unreadable moment.

Thinly veiled hostility.

She feels Rhiannon stiffen beside her. Liam shifts, subtly stepping closer, a quiet shield like always.

Jack notices the glance and bristles instantly. “Still can’t believe they let him walk free around here,” he mutters to Oren, loud enough for everyone within ten feet to hear.

“Keep talking, Barlowe,” Imogen says from across the room, not even looking up. “Maybe someday you’ll say something smart.”

Oren sneers. “You second-years think you’re untouchable.”

Bodhi lifts an eyebrow. “Pretty sure the only untouchable thing in this room is your academic record.”

Sawyer snorts. “Gods, I felt that.”

The tension spikes—sharp, high, Basgiath-typical—but just before it can ignite, a third-year intervenes.

A tall woman with bronze-brown skin, a nose scar from a blade, and the calm of someone who’s survived more than anyone in this room.

Tamsin Vale – Third Year, Rider of Rauthin, one of the nastiest fire-breathing dragons on the flight line.

“Barlowe,” she says, fixing Jack with a look that could topple kingdoms. “If you start a fight today, I will personally ensure you spend the next week scrubbing every latrine in the Riders Quadrant.”

Jack’s jaw flexes. Oren goes pale. Most dragons could melt you. Rauthin prefers to watch you panic first.

“Fine,” Jack spits, stalking away with Oren trailing behind.

Tamsin nods once to Liam, glances at Violet with curiosity, then wanders off toward the food table like she didn’t just prevent a homicide.

“Third-years are terrifying,” Ridoc whispers.

“You say that like it’s news,” Rhiannon replies.

Across the room, Dain approaches Violet’s group, all concern and careful steps.

“Are you feeling alright today, Vi?” he asks, straight-backed and earnest.

She fights the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m fine, Dain.”

“You look pale.”

“I always look pale.”

From behind Dain, Imogen snickers.

Xaden takes a spot near the far wall, arms crossed.