The principal's office was nothing like the rest of the Academia's cold, sterile halls. Here, the air felt heavy, not from dust or disuse, but from the sheer weight of decisions made inside these walls.
Tall bookshelves loomed against the dark-paneled walls, stuffed with tomes whose cracked spines hinted at decades—maybe centuries—of accumulated knowledge and rules.
Sunlight filtered through the high windows in sharp beams, casting long shadows across the ornate carpet, and the smell of old parchment mixed with faint traces of bitter coffee.
Vonjo slouched into the plush leather chair in front of the principal's desk, his body language oozing boredom despite the obvious importance of where he was.
His eyes roamed lazily over the framed certificates, faded photographs of past graduation classes, and the glinting ceremonial dagger mounted above the desk—a relic from a time when Academia heads still fought on the frontlines.
