The ceremony ended like a dying breath—hollow and unsatisfying. The Grand Hall, once filled with the rustle of silk and the weight of a thousand judgmental stares, slowly emptied, leaving behind an echoing silence that was more unnerving than the noise had been.
I lingered in my seat, a solitary shadow in a sea of empty chairs, watching the way students gave me a wide berth as they filed out. Their footsteps quickened as they passed my row, their gazes a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity. That fear was a tangible thing, thick and intoxicating, almost as real as the faint, coppery scent of the blood still drying on my collar.
Headmaster Evelyn remained at the podium, her fingers steepled, her posture ramrod straight. She watched me with the unnerving patience of a spider observing a fly caught in its web. When the last student had finally scurried out, her voice cracked through the empty hall like a whip.
"Ashen Crimson."
