Blackthorne Academy rose beyond it, a sprawling mass of black stone and turrets, its windows glowing faint gold against the grey dusk. The train slowed, hissed, and stopped.

Y/n stepped onto the platform. The air was cold, sharp with pine and iron. Other students moved around her—boys in dark uniforms, girls in deep crimson—but they all seemed to move with purpose, as if they knew exactly where they were going.

A tall figure waited at the end of the platform. An older man, gaunt and silver-haired, holding a lantern that burned with a pale blue flame. His voice carried over the noise without effort.

At the front of the hall, a massive book rested on a stone lectern. The Proctor stopped beside it. The pages turned on their own, flipping faster and faster, until they settled on a single page.

Then it was Y/n's turn.

The Proctor looked up at Y/n, something unreadable flickering behind his pale eyes.