"You called for me, headmaster," I said as I stepped in.
"Yes, Miss Florence, have a seat." he motioned towards the couch. I'd rather stand since I'm covered in dirt and blood.
"It's quite fine, don't worry about anything. Have a seat." He said as I reluctantly sat down.
"Miss Florence, do you perhaps partake in tea?" I nodded and he went to prepare tea.
I'm astonished by this office. I've seen my share of grand halls and secret chambers but this place puts them all to shame. I should have expected as much, given it's perched so high you can look out and see every stone and shadow of the academy spread out below, nothing to block the view, nothing to hide behind.
The smell hits me first: parchment, candle wax, the dry hush of old leather bindings. It sinks into my soul, strangely soothing me. I've always loved the scent of old books the quiet promise of secrets between brittle pages.
I take a step further in, eyes drifting over shelves that stretch forever. Some books are stacked so high they look ready to topple, yet somehow they don't. Little devices hum and click on narrow tables, tiny cogs and glass tubes whirring softly like they're alive, whispering to each other in a language only they know.
Portraits of past headmasters and mistresses hang above the shelves, half-shadowed in the light.
A phoenix feather quill rests beside a parchment cluttered with spidery script. Ink glistens, still wet, catching the light like a spilt midnight. By the far window, the stone gargoyle perched on the sill almost ready to leap back into the night sky it came from.
Everything here feels alive, ancient, waiting. It's like the room itself is holding its breath — weighing me, measuring what I'm about to do. And as I stand there, breathing it in, half tempted to forget why I came at all.
"Isn't this room wonderful? I haven't made any adjustments yet. It still awes those who come here." he said as he brought tea.
My first impression of him is based on distrust. The fact that he called me right after the practical means he knows something or what I'm hiding. He pours the tea and places it in front. I don't drink it right away as etiquette suggests. Instead, I look at and question him.
"Headmaster, if you call for someone. Isn't it polite for the other person to see the face of the one who asked for them?"
"Dear me! How could I have forgotten to take my robe off?"
Now that he had taken his robe off. I can assess him. The only time I saw him was in the palace three years ago when his appearance was different from his current one. I wonder what his true appearance is. His appearance, the one I saw at the palace, was of someone in their fifties. Yet, his current one is of a man in their thirties. I must admit he is quite a looker for his age.
He has the kind of face that draws your eye before you realise you're staring sharp yet almost delicate, like a statue half-finished by a sculptor who knew how to hide secrets in stone. Pale blond hair falls in loose waves, just long enough to brush his lashes when he tilts his head down, half-shadowing those cold, thoughtful eyes. They're a pale blue, too clear to read easily the sort of eyes that look through you while giving nothing back.
His mouth is set in a line that might soften into a smile if he ever let it, though you know better than to expect it. There's a quiet calculation to the way he holds his gaze patient, as if he's always listening to things no one else can hear.
He wears plain black pants and a loose white shirt, sleeves pushed up carelessly, the fabric soft but wrinkled at the cuffs, like he's been too busy chasing secrets to bother looking neat. Dark boots, scuffed at the edges a man who could step into shadows at any moment and drag you with him, if he decided you were worth the trouble.
"I believe you must be wondering why I called for you," he says, voice smooth as he lifts the porcelain cup to his lips. He takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving mine. "It's simple. I wanted to see the face of the one who was bold enough to try and find the location of the Altar of Erebus."
I know this looks very well. He's testing me. He wants to know if I found it or not. Too bad for him because two can play the same game. I raise my cup, the steam brushing my face as I meet his gaze dead-on. The porcelain clinks softly as I set it back down. A smile curls at my mouth.
"What do you think, Headmaster?" I ask, voice edged with mock sweetness. "Do you think I found it… or not?"
The air between us tightens, so thick it could choke a lesser fool. Silence claws at the walls. For a heartbeat, I think I see something flicker in those cold eyes and then he laughs. Not a polite chuckle, but a full, sharp laugh that echoes.
"You really are the spitting image of that rascal," he says, shaking his head like he can't decide if he's amused or just resigned. "How is it possible that both of you gave me the same answer?"
My smirk slips, just a fraction. What nonsense is he spewing now? Has he lost his mind at last?
"You're the second person in the history of the academy to try and find the location of the Altar of Erebus. Do you know who was the first person who dared to try?"
I lean forward. "And who was that, if I may ask?"
"That person… was Ronan Florence. Your father."
Father was the first person to try to find the location of the altar, but why would he need to find that altar? Wasn't he used to say nobody had ever defeated him when they were in the academy? The only person he ever surrendered to was mother. So why the altar? What prompted him to find it.
The headmaster watches the flicker of questions I can't quite hide. His lips twitch not quite a smile, not quite pity. "You're wondering why, aren't you? Why did Ronan Florence wanted to find that place so badly?" He sets his empty cup down with a soft clink. "I could tell you. I know exactly why he went looking."
He leans back, folding his hands neatly as if to lock the secrets between his fingers. "But you're not ready, Miss Florence. Not yet. Some truths rot the tongue of the one foolish enough to taste them too early."
"Please tell me, I need to know those answers." I plead. If he knows those answers I'm desperately looking for. Then this person might know the whole truth too.
"Miss Florence, I can't tell you just yet." His voice softens, but there's iron beneath it, immovable. "It isn't time. Not yet."
He shifts in his chair, the wood creaking as he leans forward, His eyes pin me in place they hold centuries, and they hold my father's ghost too.
"I made a promise to Ronan," he says, and there's something almost weary in the way his shoulders drop when he speaks my father's name. "A promise to watch over you when you set foot in these halls. To keep certain doors closed until you are strong enough to open them yourself."
He lets the silence settle between us like a weight. I can feel the words he's not saying pressing at the edges of the room, clawing at the back of my mind like restless shadows.
"That's all I can offer you now," he says at last. His gaze drifts to the window behind me where the sky bleeds dusk into night. "A warning… and a question: how far are you willing to go, Miss Florence, when the truth finally claws its way to your feet?"
He lifts his hand slightly, dismissing me with a flick of his fingers but I can feel it. This isn't over. His eyes say it. The secrets coiled in this office say it. And somewhere deep in my bones, the same fire that burned in Ronan Florence smolders awake, promising that when the time comes, I won't hesitate to pry every secret from this place, even if I have to break it apart with my bare hands.
I'm right back where I started. Full circle how fitting. I thought I'd tear through this place and leave it behind before it even learned how to speak my name. But now? Now I can't. Not yet.
I need to get stronger, stronger than whatever waits in the dark, stronger than every secret they think they can bury. I need to carve my mark so deep they can't scrub it clean when I'm gone.
But why? Why was Father looking for it? The Altar of Erebus — what did he want with that abyss when he already had the world at his feet? What was he hunting for in the dark that he couldn't find in the light?
And what did he leave behind for me to find now?
"Ronan, your daughter is just like how you were fierce, determined, never backing down even once. Why did you have to be that way? If only…." He thinks to himself as he looks at the door. Even with this great power of mine. I couldn't help you.
I made my way to the place where the new students were told to gather for orientation. The need for answers gnawed at me like a festering wound, but first this filth, this stench of blood and dirt I needed it off my skin. A bath, then the next battle.
I washed the grime away until the water ran dark, scrubbed until my skin stung, until I looked like someone who hadn't just carved through monsters and secrets in the dark. Then I slipped into the new uniform my armour for the next six years. Stiff fabric, crisp lines, the academy's sigil stitched like a brand above my heart.
When I stepped out, the air hit my skin like cold steel. I didn't pause at my reflection. I didn't need to see it. I knew what I was now something this place wouldn't know how to contain.
I headed straight for orientation, cutting through the maze of halls and stone courtyards. I crossed that threshold like a blade drawn from its sheath. This place thinks it can tame me.
Let it try. This is war.
I'm done choking on secrets and half-fed lies. If suffering is the price etched into my bones, so be it. I'll relish every second of it.
Let them shove me down into the pit, bury me where no light dares crawl. Let them think I'll rot there, harmless and forgotten.
They've no idea. When the abyss becomes my throne, I'll drag myself out of it, fingers raw and teeth bared, and I'll make them watch as I tear their pretty world apart vein by vein.
I won't just survive their darkness I'll become something far worse. And when they beg for mercy, I'll remind them I was never carved for mercy at all. I'll smile while I'm ripping them to shreds.
The orientation hall was decent enough though I doubt they ever imagined this many would survive. They should thank me. I'm the reason half the monsters in that forest are rotting in the dirt instead of dragging their precious prodigies away in pieces. But gratitude isn't something people like them give to people like me. That's fine. I don't need it.
They've pinned the rankings up for all to gawk at a neat little list to show who's worth keeping and who's expendable. My name sits at the top, of course. Theory. Practical. No contest. They can pretend to be surprised, but deep down they know there's nothing here that can outdo me — not yet.
Their stares haven't changed. Still cold, still sharp at the edges, like they're afraid to look too long in case the frost bites back. Let them be afraid. I'm comfortable in the cold it's warmth that unsettles me, warmth that feels like a lie.
I'm scanning the hall when Professor Esther approaches, her steps careful, her eyes giving too much away.
"Miss Florence," she says, voice smoothed over with courtesy. "As our top student, it's tradition for you to deliver the welcome speech at orientation."
Perfect. I was wondering how to carve out my authority in this nest of hollow bloodlines and brittle pride. Seems the stage is already set for me.
I let a slow, cold smirk ghost across my lips. "Of course, Professor Esther. It would be my pleasure."
To be continued.