The lecture hall smelled like burnt coffee and old paper—the comforting, official stink of Fate Academy. Sunlight came through stained glass that didn't bother to be religious: clockwork angels and ledger scales, all bronze filigree and institutional pride. Ellis Brewer barreled through the doors with the kind of momentum that threatened the fresco. He was late. Of course he was late. But he was late in gold pants. They were wrong—someone had told him the color would "recalibrate" his jinx. Someone in the thrift annex of the Archives, an old clerk who collected discarded vestments and bad advice. The pants were sequined where sequins were inappropriate for academic use. They flashed like a dare as he moved, and the whole room took a breath. A dozen heads snapped. A freshman spilled pen ink. Even the professor, who hadn't blinked in twenty-seven Veil-years, looked up properly surprised. "Mr. Brewer," Professor Halvorsen said, the tone that meant either "entrance" or "expulsion," depending on what came after the comma. "This is a lecture on Material Causality, not a carnival. You must—" "Show up flamboyantly or not at all," Ellis said, sliding into a seat with theatrical relief. He kept his voice soft, sardonic armor against the room; he expected the snickers. He expected the eyes that always measured how many steps separate an apprentice from a catastrophe. "Your house has been contacted about—" Halvorsen began. "I'm aware," Ellis said. He had rehearsed the line in his