The wind whipping down Fish Street smelled of crushed brick dust, lime steam, and the sharp, coppery stink of academy shame. Pella Rook stood ten paces from the thrashing carrier spirit, her fingers resting lightly on the brass measuring tongs in her apron pocket. For two seconds, a dark, poisonous voice whispered in the back of her mind: Walk away. Let it fail. Let the College clean up its own mess. Let Kel Dorr stand before the Senate in chains and explain why his grand summoning destroyed a street.
The spite was sweet, heavy, and intensely tempting. Kel had humiliated her in public. He had stood on the high dining terrace laughing. Meanwhile, she packed her apprentice trunk and surrendered her bronze badge. If she turned her back now, no one could legally blame her. She was a decommissioned student with no standing, no power, and no guild insurance. The ruin of Fish Street would be pinned entirely on Master Sorell and his arrogant golden loops.
Then she looked up at the second-floor window. Behind the cracked glass, old widow Martha was holding her daughter’s newborn child, her face gray with terror as the brickwork groaned around her top door beam. Below them, two dockers who had helped Eren haul timber three days ago were trapped behind an overturned hand-cart, unable to cross the impact zone. Spite was an expensive luxury, and it was always paid for in other people’s blood.
