The ghost escort floated ahead of me like a silent shadow, emitting a faint glow. He never once looked back, just glided forward as if deeply committed to the concept of inevitability. A strict, wordless guide — very on brand for a dark academy.
The corridor was narrow and dim, its walls wrapped in old stained-glass panels depicting strange scenes with indistinct figures. Every detail seemed to whisper the same message: You’re not welcome here, but turning back is no longer an option.
Just hours ago, I’d been quietly impressed. Beautiful corridors, gothic charm, a certain morbid elegance — the sort of place that made you think, yes, I could get used to this. Apparently, being summoned to the dean’s office has a way of ruining first impressions.
All I could do was clutch my student token a little tighter and follow my mute guardian to whatever administrative doom awaited.
Eventually, we reached a massive blackwood door adorned with something resembling an ancient crest. The ghost stopped and inclined his head slightly — presumably the afterlife-approved version of wishing someone good luck — and I stepped inside.
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The reception area greeted me with something entirely surreal.
One skeleton, wearing a regulation apron and armed with a cloth and a bucket of soapy water, was diligently polishing the windows. He had a very particular working rhythm — precise, methodical movements, his skull bobbing gently as if to an imaginary tune. If not for the whole being a skeleton thing, I might have thought he was genuinely good at his job.
Another skeleton, far more imposing and radiating authority from his empty eye sockets, sat behind a large writing desk. He held a parchment and carefully wrote something with a quill, dipping it into an inkwell with bureaucratic solemnity. Unlike his cleaning-focused colleague, this one clearly held a serious position. He wore something that could generously be described as a uniform — essentially a skeletal take on a business suit. The only thing missing was a name badge, but his severe posture made it obvious: this was the local equivalent of a secretary.
He lifted his head slightly, and his empty eye sockets appeared to fix on me. I swallowed and offered a polite nod — just in case etiquette still applied beyond the grave.
I briefly considered asking whether he handled visitor intake, then decided against it. This didn’t feel like a place where curiosity was rewarded.
While I was trying to work out my next move, the door behind me opened and a young man in his mid-twenties entered the reception area. He wore a black robe bearing the Academy’s emblem. His dark hair was slicked back, neat and controlled. He looked perfectly ordinary — not handsome, not unpleasant, just there.
He gave me a brief glance, then walked over to the door of the adjoining office, knocked, opened it a crack, and said quietly:
“Professor, your ward is here.”
He turned back to me, smirked faintly, and gave a quick wink.
“Wait here. He’ll call you in. And don’t worry — he’s in a good mood today.”
As if that information could possibly provide comfort within these walls.
