The dining hall opened before them in a wide sweep of polished stone and warm lamplight. The vaulted ceiling—inscribed with soft glow-runes—cast a gentle radiance over the long rows of tables. Mid-morning was an awkward hour; too late for breakfast, too early for lunch. Because of that, the space was comfortably sparse. A few students lingered over late meals, hunched over notebooks or talking in low voices, but there was no crowd to navigate.
A welcome reprieve after the dome's chaos.
The aroma wards carried scents of roasted chicken, broth, freshly baked rolls, seasoned rice, sweet root sautéed in butter, and three varieties of spiced soup. The Academy never failed in reminding students that, for all its harsh expectations, it had the resources of a small kingdom.
