The headmaster's office at the Grand Academy had always been a sanctum of controlled power, a room that smelled of ancient parchment, expensive ink, and the quiet, unshakable authority of centuries of tradition.
Now, that authority felt like a hollowed-out husk. The silence in the room was no longer peaceful; it was oppressive.
Dust motes danced in shafts of sickly, filtered light that struggled to pierce through the haze still hanging over the northern district.
The tremors from the cataclysmic clash earlier had left their mark: fine spiderwebs of cracks spidered across the marble floor, and small fragments of debris lay scattered in the corners like forgotten bones.
Along the far wall, the portraits of past headmasters, great wizards who had shaped the course of history, hung askew, their painted eyes seeming to watch the room with silent judgment.
