Ashwood's assembly room stretched wider than I remembered, impossibly vast, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadow, the chandelier above me swaying though there was no wind, its golden crystals catching a light that did not exist. The rows of seats—usually occupied by students, chattering, fidgeting, breathing—were filled instead with masked faces. Unmoving. Watching. Not speaking.
I couldn’t move my arms. The realization arrived slow, like thick syrup sliding down the back of my neck. My wrists were bound by iron cuffs, cold and biting into my skin with each slight shift. I looked down—my skin was pale, bruised where the metal kissed bone, my hands resting limply on the arms of a high-backed chair I did not recognize. Carved wood. Blood-dark. Older than time itself.
A low murmurin
