Scholomance Athenaeum didn't have much bustle today. The corridors were holding its breath. The gossiping whispers that usually filled the corridors were now hushed, urgent things, punctuated by fearful glances.
The news of the refectory incident, the slap, the roar, the brutal, soundless dismantling of Arzhen Vasiliev, had spread like a shockwave, leaving behind a landscape of silent dread.
It was into this charged quiet that Professor Baswara and Serayu arrived, their teleportation a stark crack of displaced air in the Headmaster's private courtyard.
They strode, Baswara's usual academic rumble replaced by a palpable, bristling urgency, Serayu a silent, violet-eyed shadow at his side.
They found Lazuardi in his office, but he was not at his desk. He stood by the window, staring out at the too-quiet campus, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his knuckles white.
Baswara didn't bother with greetings. "Where's the boy?" he demanded, barking into the quiet.
