The hallway of the Royal Academy's administrative wing was usually a sanctuary of quiet efficiency.
It smelled of old parchment, floor wax, and the subtle ozone tang of preservation magic.
Seraphina Ashwood valued this silence. It was predictable. It was orderly.
She stood by the faculty mail slots, sorting through a stack of requisitions for fire crystals.
Her movements were precise. Snap. Sort. Stack.
Two junior instructors stood nearby. They were discussing the merits of wind magic in naval combat.
They stopped talking abruptly.
Seraphina felt the shift in the air before she heard the footsteps.
The rhythm was wrong for an academic. It was too heavy. Too authoritative.
She turned.
A man in the gray and crimson livery of the High Court stood in the doorway. He held a scroll case sealed with black wax.
He scanned the room. His gaze landed on Seraphina. He did not look apologetic.
"Lady Seraphina Ashwood?" the man asked.
