The commencement address was always given by someone distinguished, someone the Academy could point to and say, look, this is what four years here can turn a person into. This year's speaker was a broad, silver-haired man in ceremonial Imperial blues, medals across his chest catching the light every time he moved, introduced by the headmaster of ceremonies as Grand Marshal Corvin Alderain, class of some year long enough ago that most of the graduates in front of him hadn't been born yet.
He had a warm voice. That was the thing Vane noticed first, before any of the words themselves mattered. Not booming, not performative, just warm, the kind of voice that made a room lean in without meaning to.
