Obsidian dormitory smelled like boiled cabbage, old stone, cheap soap, and resentment.
In other words, honesty.
Gold Hall smelled like citrus polish and inherited money. Silver residences smelled like lavender wards and controlled ambition. Zenith quarters probably smelled like whatever flower rich people chose when pretending superiority had a fragrance.
Obsidian had no patience for perfume.
Its corridors were narrow, its lamps underfed, its doors marked by scratched brass numbers instead of carved family crests. The walls sweated when the clouds passed too close beneath the floating island. Somewhere below, pipes knocked like nervous bones.
Ren walked half a step behind me with a tea tray held against his chest as if it might block arrows.
"Young master," he whispered, "students are watching."
"They have eyes."
"They are using them very intensely."
"Good. Perhaps one of them will discover a hobby."
