Winter Term began with a bell that sounded thin in the cold air.
Breakfast was watery porridge and tea that had been steeped too many times. The dining hall was quiet. The radiators were cold; the mana furnace was running on minimum output to save fuel. Students ate with their coats on.
Gareth stared at his bowl. "I miss eggs," he said.
"Eat the grain," I said. "It's fuel."
"It's paste," he corrected, but he ate it.
Aldric sat three tables away. His entourage had shrunk. Without the Foundation's gold flowing freely, his gravity was weaker. He wore a coat with a fur collar that looked too expensive for the room. He caught me looking and sneered, but there was no heat in it. Just habit.
Pierce stood at the front of the hall. He didn't use a speaking cone—mana conservation. He just projected his voice like a drill sergeant.
