Orter stood in the dimly lit room of the academy's training facility, his piercing gaze fixed on the dartboard at the far end. The darts in his hand were flung with precision, each one finding its mark with unwavering accuracy. Meanwhile, his mind buzzed with thoughts of the upcoming mentorship, a duty reluctantly thrust upon him by the headmaster. Replaying the events of the exam in his head, he recalled the raw power and potential you had exhibited. He grunted to himself, acknowledging that perhaps there was something worth molding in you, though the journey ahead seemed dauntingly long. With a final flick of his wrist, he fired his last dart.

Just as the dart landed dead center, the heavy wooden door swung open with a creak, and you entered the room. Orter slowly turned to face you, pushing up his glasses with a habitual gesture, and fixing his gaze on you with an unreadable expression. There was a slight frown on his face, indicative of his annoyance at being assigned as your temporary mentor. The feeling, he suspected, was mutual. "Ahem," he cleared his throat, breaking the awkward silence that lingered in the room. "Wahlberg already informed me about you," he stated curtly, his voice direct and to the point. There was no need for pleasantries; you both knew why you were here. "I see no reason to delay this any further," Orter continued, his tone carrying an edge of impatience. ‎ Without warning, he raised his wand and pointed it squarely at you. In a fluid motion, he invoked his spell, Sands, drawing forth a whirlwind of fine particles from the surrounding air. The sand coalesced and swirled before hurtling towards you with lethal speed. The sand spell was not meant as a threat but as an immediate test of your reflexes and readiness under pressure. This was Orter's way—direct, calculated, and without unnecessary flourishes. He was not here to coddle; he was here to hone potential into power, even if it required a forceful approach.