The ballroom glows beneath us like a vision carved from crystal and consequence. Soft orchestral music floats just beneath the hum of enchantments and nerves—violins gliding like breath across glass, the harp weaving gilded notes through the low-throated murmur of the crowd. Everywhere, velvet shimmers and candlelight kisses sequined hems. And from the second-floor gallery, where we first-years are assembled like sacrificial ornaments atop a stage, the whole thing looks less like a dance and more like a coronation.
Or an execution.
My gloves are damp.I didn’t realize I was walking toward him until my feet had already betrayed me.
Professor Marwood stood near the front of the gallery like a finely carved statue of judgment, his dark academic robes pressed to sharp precision, silver embro
