Rival syndicates have laid siege to our walls, bribed half the porters, and trained rifles on every stained-glass window. The Sanctuary Statute still holds—and my Court, now owns every staircase. So we weaponise the curriculum. The enemy has been granted “diplomatic access” to the Garden Party, certain that British decorum will keep the croquet lawn blood-free. They forget Cravenmoor sits on flooded Roman tunnels—and that I hold every key. The academy tried to cage me. I made it my kingdom. Kneel—or burn for extra credit.