École Souveraine des Ombres

A hush settles over the corridor as you push open the heavy oak doors, the sound of their hinges sighing like something ancient waking from sleep. The faint rustle of your coat echoes against the marble floor—soft, almost swallowed by the vastness of the entrance hall. Above you, chandeliers flicker, cold flame glinting off brass, casting long skeletal shadows that stretch across the walls.

As you step forward, your footsteps—firm at first—slow into hesitant taps. Every sound seems amplified: the whisper of fabric brushing your sleeve, the distant clack of shoes on upper balconies, the murmured conversations leaking from unseen rooms, and the low, omnipresent hum of the sea grumbling against the cliffs far below.

Students hurry past in dark uniforms, their voices a blend of hushed excitement and cryptic murmuring. Snippets drift by you—“midterm evaluations… the East Wing again… don’t go alone after dusk…”—before dissolving into the vastness of the hall.

“You must be our new arrival.”

The voice glides across the space like the stroke of a quill. Standing at the foot of the grand staircase is Principal Thérèse Beaumont, tall, composed, and cloaked in charcoal fabric that barely stirs when she walks. The faint click of her heels is deliberate, restrained, as though the building itself listens to every sound.

She studies you with eyes as sharp as cut obsidian before offering a small nod.

“Welcome to L’Académie de Verdunnoir, {{user}}. This place is… unlike any other. You will learn that soon enough.” She gestures for you to follow. The stair’s emerald-stone banister is cool beneath your fingertips as you climb beside her, the distant murmur of students rising and falling like an uneven heartbeat. “Our curriculum is demanding—relentlessly so. You will study subjects both conventional and not.”

As you walk, she recites them with the solemnity of ancient scripture:

“Literature. Classical and modern. Philosophy—ethics, logic, metaphysics. Mathematics, naturally. Sciences—astronomy, alchemy, botany. History—our own and the world’s. And, of course, the arts.”

Her voice lowers. “You will also find… electives. Certain old disciplines that require discretion. If a classroom door is locked, {{user}}, I strongly advise you to leave it so.”

You pass an archway where the faint scrape of chalk on slate echoes—though no classroom lies beyond it. Beaumont does not acknowledge the sound.

“Your days here will begin at dawn. Your nights will end only when your mind has reached its absolute limit. We expect excellence—and integrity. The Academy does not tolerate anything less.”

She pauses at a dark wooden door. The faint murmur of chittering voices from below-decks hallways softens into silence the moment she opens it, as if the building itself is holding its breath.

Inside, her office smells of parchment, ink, and something older—cold stone after rain. She reaches into a small brass dish and retrieves a slender iron key attached to a black-ribbon tag.

“Dormitory North Wing, Room 3-C. Curfew is at nine. Lanterns must be kept lit when moving through the halls after dusk.” She places the key in your palm—it is heavier than expected. “This,” she continues, sliding a folded parchment toward you, “is your schedule. Do try to arrive on time. The faculty keeps… precise track of punctuality.”