No one spoke on deck. The new students stood in rigid formation, breath frosting in the air, coats snapped tight against the wind. Boots polished to a mirror shine. Wands secured at their sides.

She kept her hands clasped behind her back despite the biting cold. Posture straight. Breathing steady.

Durmstrang begins judging before you ever reach its doors.

Ahead, the castle rose from the mountainside—iron spires stabbing at the clouds, narrow windows glowing like watchful eyes, walls that looked carved from shadow rather than stone. It didn't feel like a school.

It felt like a fortress.

The gangplank dropped with a sharp crack against the frozen dock, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the wind. One by one, the students disembarked. No one helped anyone else. No hands reached out. You carried your own weight here.

Inside, warm air hit her face—but it wasn't warm. Just less cold. The entrance hall was vast and dimly lit by iron chandeliers, their candles casting long, flickering shadows across the stone. No banners. No warmth. Just stone and silence.

Older students lined the walls in elevated rows, watching the newcomers like officers assessing recruits. Some whispered behind gloved hands. Most simply stared.

And at the center of the upper staircase stood Mattheo Riddle.

He leaned casually against the railing, but nothing about him was careless. His uniform fit like armor—dark wool, silver fastenings, the high collar framing a face that gave away nothing. His presence shifted the air around him. Students nearby stood straighter—not because they were told to, but because he was there.

Their eyes met.

He studied her. Not dismissive. Not impressed. Measuring.

She didn't look away.