Inside, the corridor was a crush of damp wool and trunks and shouted farewells. First-years were being herded like particularly damp sheep, their faces pale beneath the flickering lantern light.

A gruff voice boomed over the noise.

You lingered at the edge of it all, trunk in hand, watching the river of black robes flow past. The words washed over you—some familiar, most not. You caught fragments. Boat. Careful. The lake.

A boy with silver-blond hair bumped your shoulder as he pushed past, not apologizing. He was tall, sharp-featured, and already dripping with an air of importance that had nothing to do with the weather.