The air in Professor Flint's laboratory was thick with the scent of ozone and singed aura.
Dust motes danced in the lone shaft of moonlight slicing through the high, arched window, illuminating swirling motes of residual aura—a dull, ghostly blue against the perpetual gloom.
Eija, a third-year student at the Veridian Academy, adjusted her brass-rimmed spectacles, pushing them higher on the bridge of her nose.
The frames felt cold against her skin. She clutched a sheaf of parchment, its edges slightly frayed from repeated handling, and swallowed hard before stepping fully into the oppressive silence.
Professor Flint didn't look up from the massive obsidian table where he was dissecting a crystalline sphere that pulsed with faint, erratic light.
His silhouette was bulky, framed by the haphazard stacks of books and arcane equipment that cluttered every surface.
His movements were precise, almost predatory, his thick, scarred fingers working with unnerving speed.
