The morning began suspiciously well.
I woke up feeling fresh, alert, and entirely innocent of yesterday’s chaos, as if none of it had ever happened. My head was clear, nothing hurt, and there wasn’t even a polite hint of weakness. For once, every bone and muscle I’d somehow managed to abuse over the past few days seemed perfectly content.
On the bedside table sat a breakfast tray, and beside it lay a neatly folded uniform and a small student token. I picked it up and, at last, felt like a proper Academy student. Well. At the very least, I now had official proof that I legally existed.
While I was inspecting the badge, another skeleton nurse appeared. Unlike Yarson, this one behaved professionally and handed me a form to sign, confirming that I was fully recovered and no longer required medical supervision. Clearly, after yesterday’s excessive enthusiasm, Yarson had been sent off for corrective training. Or exorcism. Hard to say.
I ate quickly, pulled on the uniform, pinned the token in place, and stepped out into the corridor with a sigh. And honestly — the Academy at dawn was breathtaking. Soft light poured through the tall windows, a gentle chill lingered in the gothic corridors, and the quiet echo of footsteps carried an unsettling mix of comfort and anticipation.
My first day as a proper Academy student. Almost proper, anyway, given that I still had absolutely no idea how roughly half the magic here functioned. Still, details. I’d cope.
With that level of optimism, I headed to my first class.
On the way there, I slowed my pace, distracted by the posters lining the corridors. They weren’t decorative — they were instructional.
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Each one featured a different creature and a disturbingly practical guide on how to deal with it.
I stopped in front of one devoted entirely to spirits.
There were illustrations, diagrams, and neat little labels. Shadows. Phantasms. Quite harmless. Then apparitions and spectres, moving steadily up the scale. And right there, staring back at me with hollow eyes, was Ormi — the thing from the underground. Classified as a Ghost-Class Entity, Medium Threat Level.
Comforting.
So they weren’t synonyms after all. I’d always thought ghosts, apparitions, spectres, and phantasms were just different names for the same problem. Apparently not.
At the bottom, in bold ink, came the truly alarming entries: Wraiths. Wraith Guards. Tenerants. Each marked with alphanumeric threat codes — Level A5, D13 — and increasingly creative warnings about “capacity for bodily harm.”
They formed a neat sliding scale of how badly you could die.
Good to know.
As I lingered, voices drifted down the corridor — hushed, conspiratorial.
“That’s her. From the infirmary.”
“Weil threw her through a portal. Then Dean Grey carried her back himself.”
“On his arms!”
“She was practically glowing with his magic. Weil said so.”
“So obviously they’re sleeping together.”
“Well. If he carried her, then clearly.”
I didn’t turn around. I simply kept walking.
Honestly, if everyone already believed I was the dean’s secret lover, perhaps no one would feel the urge to fling skin-stripping curses in my direction again.
Silver linings.
The lecture hall was old and grim, with towering windows and high cabinets layered in centuries of dust. I barely stepped inside before locking eyes with Anastasia Weil. She stared at me with the unmistakable look of someone who had not forgotten yesterday’s incident. Marvellous, I thought, as a chill crept down my spine. As if accidentally enchanting a skeleton hadn’t been quite enough attention for one lifetime.
I hadn’t even managed to sit down properly when a robed ghost burst into the hall — presumably a long-dead student who’d never quite graduated — and drifted straight towards Weil. She frowned, but apparently some messages outrank classroom discipline.
“Miss Orlova,” she said coldly, her gaze snapping back to me, “you are summoned to the dean’s office.”
