The black Ashveil carriage rolled to a stop before the grand gates of the academy. It had been a month. A month of healing, training, and planning. A month of silence.
Azrael stepped out onto the familiar stone path. The air was different now. The nervous energy of the first day of the term was gone, replaced by the steady, settled hum of academy life.
Students walked in small groups, laughing and talking, their faces relaxed.
He, however, was a ghost returning to a world that had moved on without him.
He walked towards the second-year combat division hall. As he moved, he felt the atmosphere shift around him.
The quiet conversations would die down as students passed him. Heads would turn. He heard whispers, but they were different now.
The fear was still there, a lingering shadow of his old reputation. But it was mixed with something else. Awe. Curiosity. Respect.
He reached the lecture hall late. The class was already in session. He pushed the heavy oak door open.
Creak.
