A carriage pulled by four midnight-black horses rolled through the gates, its wheels crunching over gravel that seemed too clean, too deliberate. The driver, pale and silent as a marble statue, reined the horses to a stop before the grand entrance. A cobblestone path stretched ahead, lined by ancient oaks whose leaves whispered in a language you couldn't quite catch.

The doors of the Academy opened before you could knock—not by any hand you could see. A wave of cool air, faintly sweet with the scent of old stone and wax candles, washed over you. Inside, the hall was vast and cathedral-like. Chandeliers of black iron and dripping white candles cast long shadows across marble floors. Portraits lining the walls turned their heads in unison, watching.

A voice, smooth and low, cut through the silence.