The next morning, a raven flew straight into the academy's spire.
Not an ordinary bird—its feathers shimmered like obsidian, trailing threads of smoke and the scent of scorched parchment. It dropped a scroll sealed with the royal sigil at the foot of the headmaster's office, then crumbled into ash.
By midday, the academy buzzed with whispers.
"Someone's being summoned."
"Elira Winterose?"
"Or someone worse."
At lunch, Serena slid into the seat beside me. Her expression gave nothing away, but her fingers drummed once against the table.
"That bird wasn't for show," she murmured. "Word is—the Queen herself gave the order."
My throat tightened. "A summons?"
"No. An oversight unit. She's sending someone."
"Who?"
But Serena's gaze drifted to the horizon. "Someone we're not supposed to see coming."
That evening, a black carriage without crest stopped before the academy's northern courtyard. Its wheels moved in utter silence. From within stepped a figure cloaked in dusk—robes without sigil, face unseen.
They moved like smoke. Like law. Like consequence.
The professors bowed. Some students dropped their gazes. Others whispered the name:
"The Queen's Shadow."