The sun had barely dipped below the horizon when I reached the dormitory gates, its dying light painting the sky in hues of bruised purple and blood orange. The Academy's towering spires cast long, skeletal shadows across the cobblestone paths, and their stained-glass windows glowed with the last embers of twilight, like the watchful eyes of ancient, sleeping beasts.
I stepped into the cool, echoing silence of the hall, the heavy oak door closing softly behind me, shutting out the last vestiges of the day. My coat was dusted with dried leaves from my walk through the gardens, and my boots, still caked with the grime of the training grounds, echoed across the polished marble floor as I walked toward my quarters. The day had been a long, draining affair—a whirlwind of political maneuvering, veiled threats, and the constant, gnawing pressure of my own ambition.
"Master," a soft, familiar voice called out, pulling me from my thoughts.
