The last words of Baron Lucienor's greeting faded into polite applause as the students began to drift deeper into the mansion.
Vencian moved with the slow current, shoulder brushing fabric and travel cloaks, aware of how the space compressed them. The house was respectable rather than grand. High ceilings tried to give the illusion of generosity, yet the corridors narrowed quickly, guiding bodies forward in careful lanes. Servants stood along the walls, ready and waiting.
Lucienor inclined his head toward the professors, satisfaction clear on his face as the formality concluded. He was a compact man, silver hair cut close, posture practiced from years of hosting people who mattered.
Professor Marothil stepped forward first. His assistant hovered half a pace behind him, hands folded, eyes alert. Professor Davisen followed, broader in the shoulders, his own assistant carrying a leather folio pressed to her chest.
