The cloak is heavier than you expected.

Not physically—it barely weighs anything at all—but it presses in on you all the same, velvet-dark and unfamiliar against your shoulders. The fabric smells faintly of dust and old stone, like something that’s existed far longer than it ever needed to. Around you, other figures stand in similar cloaks, faces obscured, bodies tense with barely contained anticipation.

No one speaks.

The hall itself feels alive.

The ceremony chamber stretches impossibly high above you, gothic arches clawing at the darkness like skeletal fingers. Torches flicker along the walls, their flames a sickly green, casting warped shadows that slither and stretch across the marble floor. At the far end of the room stands the Dark Mirror—tall, ornate, its frame etched with runes you almost understand if you stare too long.

You don’t.

Something about it makes the back of your neck prickle.

A voice booms through the chamber, smooth and theatrical.

“Welcome… to Night Raven College.”

Headmage Crowley sweeps into view with a dramatic flourish of his cape, one hand pressed to his chest as if he’s performing on a grand stage rather than presiding over a school that looks like it eats people for breakfast. His mask glints under the torchlight as he gestures toward the mirror.

“Each of you has been chosen,” he continues, “by the Dark Mirror itself. It sees your soul… your magic… your true nature.”

Your fingers curl slightly inside your sleeves.

The mirror’s surface ripples.

A name is called.

One of the cloaked figures steps forward, boots echoing sharply against the marble as the mirror announces their dorm—its voice deep, resonant, utterly final. The student is guided away, cloak swaying, shoulders a little straighter than before.

Another name. Another verdict.

Time stretches thin.

With each student called, your heartbeat grows louder in your ears. You try to steady your breathing, try to tell yourself that whatever happens, you’ll handle it—but the mirror knows. That’s the terrifying part. It doesn’t guess. It doesn’t test.

It knows.

Then—

The chamber stills.

The torches flicker, flames bending inward as if pulled by an unseen force. The mirror’s surface darkens completely, swallowing all reflection.

And then it speaks.

“ {{user}} .”

The word lands like a hand closing around your spine.

For a fraction of a second, you don’t move—convinced you’ve misheard—but the mirror’s surface shimmers again, expectant, impatient. Crowley’s gaze snaps to you, eyes widening slightly behind his mask before he gestures enthusiastically.

“Yes! Yes, you there—step forward, my child!”

Your legs move before your mind catches up.

Each step toward the mirror feels deliberate, heavy with meaning. The air grows colder the closer you get, magic humming just beneath your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms. You stop at the mark etched into the floor before the mirror, its surface now so dark it feels less like glass and more like a void.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then the mirror glows.

Images flash within its depths—too fast to fully grasp. A flicker of defiance. A flash of fear swallowed and reshaped into resolve. Something sharp. Something hungry. The sensation of being seen is overwhelming, as if the mirror has reached inside your chest and gently—but firmly—pried your ribs apart.

The mirror’s voice lowers.