Then—the island.

Minami Iwo Jima rose from the sea like a sleeping beast, its volcanic slopes cloaked in dense forest. At its heart, nestled against the curve of a bay, sat the school. Mahoutokoro. A castle of white stone and dark timber, its roofs curling upward in elegant sweeps, pagoda towers rising like fingers toward the sky. Cherry trees ringed the grounds in a halo of pale pink, their blossoms catching the afternoon light.

A girl beside Y/n pressed her face to the window, maroon hair spilling over her shoulders.

Inside, the castle opened into a vast hall. Paintings lined the walls—dragons coiling through mist, phoenixes rising from flame, tigers stalking through bamboo, tortoises gliding through moonlit rivers. Long tables stretched across the floor, set with lacquered bowls and steaming pots of tea. At the far end, on an elevated platform, stood a cluster of teachers in flowing robes.

A woman stepped forward. She was tall, silver-haired, with eyes like chips of obsidian and a haori of deep indigo embroidered with golden cranes. Her voice carried without effort, filling every corner of the hall.