Adam stepped into a classroom where lighting reflected like a golden coat over the mist swirling between desks, their surfaces worn by the scratches of thousands of quills. Darkness gnawed at the corners of the room, making it seem as if a colossal beast had beaten them off.
He recognised this mist—eerie, mentally oppressive—though not as overwhelming as when he had crossed it years ago, it was indisputably the same one: the mist of the dead.
Obscured by its swirls, with only two green eyes shining through, a man stood behind what Adam recognised as a heavy desk, revealed by the knocks of a stack of parchments against the hard timber.
"To your seats," the man said, the mist parting to reveal the scarf tied around his jaw. But it did nothing to hide the burns that painted irregular patterns of sombre skin across his face.
