Valeria Embercrown hated emergency rooms.
Not because they smelled of blood, panic, and cheap disinfectant. Those were honest smells. They admitted something had gone wrong.
She hated emergency rooms because nobles entered them carrying lies and expected the wounded to bleed politely around them.
Astral Zenith's crisis command chamber was worse than any infirmary.
No one called it that, of course.
The plaque on the door read: TEMPORARY DUNGEON INCIDENT COORDINATION HALL.
A very academy name.
Long enough to hide fear behind syllables.
Valeria stood at the left side of the crescent table with one gloved finger resting on a stack of incident reports she had no legal right to possess. Around her, instructors, registrars, house observers, tower functionaries, and two Church representatives argued in voices polished thin by self-preservation.
Gate Eleven was contained, according to the first report.
Gate Eleven was under observation, according to the second.
