Blackthorne College rose beyond the iron gates—ancient stone, ivy-choked walls, and towers that caught the last of the dying light. Everything about it felt older than memory, heavier than time.

Students spilled onto the platform in waves of black and house colors. Caldris gold. Valemont crimson. Nyxmere violet.

They both knew who he meant.

Hajime stood at the edge of the Caldris cluster, composed as carved stone. His blazer was immaculate. His tie was straight. His eyes—calm, brown, unreadable—swept the platform once, and stopped.

On her.

Just for a moment. Then he looked away, as if the glance had never happened.