The team emerged from the dungeon into pale afternoon light. The training grounds were crowded with students who had already completed their examinations. Some sat on the grass, exhausted. Others stood in clusters, comparing experiences. A few looked toward the eastern entrance as Aren’s team appeared—the last team to exit. The standby medical staff saw the blood first. They were already moving before Seraphina had taken three steps, their eyes fixed on the dark stain spreading across her torn uniform. One of them—a woman with short gray hair—reached her first, hands already glowing with diagnostic magic. “Blood—she’s injured! Get the healing kit!” Seraphina raised a hand, stopping her. “I’m fine. I healed myself. The wound is closed.” The medic’s eyes swept over her, assessing. The uniform was torn, the fabric soaked dark red. But the skin beneath was unbroken. No wound. No blood. Nothing. “You healed yourself?” The medic’s voice was skeptical. “This much blood—” “The claws

The days after the examination had blurred together. Seraphina had thrown herself back into her routine—classes, training, research—trying to pretend that everything was normal. But nothing was normal. She woke each morning with her hand pressed to her chest, half-expecting to find blood. She caught herself holding her breath, then gasping, as if her lungs had forgotten how to work. And she watched Aren. He had agreed to work together. He had shared what he’d found in the dungeon—the breach in the outer wall, the disabled runes, the suspicion that someone inside the Academy was responsible. But he hadn’t explained how he knew. He hadn’t explained anything. She couldn’t stop thinking about the spell. The word he’d spoken as she lay dying. The light that had pulled her back from a place she couldn’t describe. The feeling of her heart starting again, of air flooding her lungs, of her body remembering how to live. What was that? The question followed her everywhere. It followed h