Chapter 6

Freya POV

After Draven landed on what Edward curtly identified as "the main courtyard," we crossed a sprawling plaza paved with black stone that seemed to drink in light rather than reflect it.

A pair of guards—both with scaled skin and eyes that glowed faintly amber—nodded at Edward without a word, stepping aside to let us pass through an archway tall enough to accommodate a giant.

Beyond it, the corridor opened into the Academy's interior proper, and that was when everything I thought I knew about architecture stopped making sense.

The walk through Moordale Academy's interior was nothing like I'd expected.

I'd thought—well, I don't know what I'd thought. Moving staircases, talking portraits, students rushing between classes with armfuls of ancient tomes.

What I got instead was a strange hybrid of medieval castle and ancient library, as if someone had taken a Gothic cathedral and filled it with enchanted artifacts and spell-woven tapestries that rippled with their own inner light.

Edward led me through a series of long corridors with vaulted ceilings that disappeared into shadow. The walls were white stone, carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift and move when I wasn't looking directly at them.

Every few meters, we'd pass a window that looked out onto impossible views—floating islands, inverted waterfalls, dragons circling through clouds that glowed faintly pink in the strange light.

But it was the other students that really caught my attention.

A boy with curved ram horns sprouting from his temples stood near a shimmering notice board covered in moving parchments, scrolling through class options with one clawed finger.

Further down the corridor, a girl with translucent dragonfly wings hovered about three inches off the ground, chatting with someone who appeared to be made entirely of living crystal. They both glanced at me as we passed, their conversation stopping mid-sentence.

I tried not to stare, but it was impossible.

Everywhere I looked, there was something new and impossible. A group of teenagers with cat ears and tails were clustered around a water fountain, laughing together. Near a doorway that seemed to lead into a library, someone who looked mostly human except for their pointed ears and the fact that their feet didn't quite touch the ground was having an animated conversation in a language I'd never heard before.

And all of them—every single one—turned to look at me as we passed.

I felt the weight of their stares like physical pressure. Whispers started rippling through the corridors， but Edward's presence cut through the murmurs like a blade. People instinctively stepped aside as we passed, though their eyes never left me.

My face burned. I hunched my shoulders, trying to make myself smaller, and moved closer to Edward's back. He didn't acknowledge the whispers, just kept walking with that same measured, purposeful stride, but I noticed his posture shift slightly—not threatening, exactly, but projecting an aura of authority that made people instinctively step aside.

We passed through what looked like a teaching wing, with classrooms visible through open doorways. In one room, students were practicing levitation, making various objects float and dance through the air.

In another, someone was demonstrating fire magic, conjuring flames that shifted through different colors—red, blue, white, green—before dissolving into sparks. The instructor, a woman with silver hair and pointed ears similar to Edward's, was directing the practice with graceful gestures, her robes swirling with embedded runes that glowed softly.

None of it should have been possible. All of it was.

I wanted to stop and stare at everything, to process what I was seeing, to maybe sit down for a minute and have a complete mental breakdown. But Edward kept walking, and I had no choice but to follow, my canvas shoes squeaking slightly on the polished stone floor.

After what felt like an eternity of corridors and staircases and bridges that connected one impossible building to another, we finally emerged into a circular waiting room.

The temperature dropped immediately. The room was smaller than the corridors we'd been walking through, with walls made of white marble that seemed to glow faintly from within.

The ceiling was a transparent dome, offering a dizzying view of the floating islands above and the strange pink-gold sky beyond. In the center of the room sat several black leather chairs arranged around a low table, and in the corner, an antique grandfather clock ticked away with mechanical precision.

I wasn't alone.

Two other people occupied the waiting room. A middle-aged woman in deep blue robes sat ramrod straight in one of the chairs, studying a glowing parchment scroll that floated in front of her. Her face was severe, all sharp angles and thin lips pressed into a disapproving line.

Next to her, fidgeting nervously and scratching at one of his wolf ears, was a young man who looked maybe college-aged. His tail—an actual wolf tail—swished anxiously behind him.

The woman glanced up as we entered, her eyes sweeping over me with that same clinical, assessing look I'd been getting from everyone since we'd arrived. The kind of look that said I was something strange and possibly dangerous that needed to be catalogued and filed away.

For a second, my stomach clenched with that familiar urge to make myself smaller, to apologize for existing in a space I clearly didn't belong in.

Then something in me shifted.

I hadn't asked to be here. I hadn't done anything wrong—hadn't hurt anyone, hadn't broken any laws, hadn't committed some terrible crime that warranted being stared at like I was a circus exhibit. If these people wanted to waste their energy judging me based on something I couldn't control, that was their problem, not mine.

And honestly, this whole mindset—this refusal to internalize other people's judgment—would be perfect for the heroine of that romance novel I'd been planning.

A girl who, when faced with relationship drama or emotional crisis, doesn't immediately spiral into self-doubt and endless "what did I do wrong?" loops. Someone who can stand firm in her own worth without falling apart. That's it! That's what we need for a strong female lead in 21st century!

The thought was absurd enough that I almost laughed. Here I was, standing in a waiting room about to meet a headmaster in this magical world, and I was mentally designing character traits for a novel I'd probably never get to write.

But somehow, thinking about it that way made everything feel slightly less overwhelming. Like I was observing the scene from a distance instead of drowning in it.

I straightened my shoulders and met the woman's gaze directly, not challenging, just… existing. Refusing to shrink.

"You seem calmer than you were earlier, Miss Granger."

Edward's voice startled me. I glanced up to find him watching me with something that might have been approval, though it was hard to tell with his perpetually unreadable expression.

"I just figured," I said, surprised by how steady my own voice sounded, "that if I'm going to be stared at anyway, I might as well not let it bother me. I haven't done anything wrong, so why should I carry the weight of other people's judgment?"

Something flickered in Edward's eyes—definitely approval this time, mixed with what might have been respect. "A practical philosophy."

"Plus," I added, feeling slightly reckless, "I just realized this would make a great character trait for the heroine in that romance novel I've been planning—you know, if I ever get the chance to write again in this place."

The corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't quite a smile, but it was close. "Perhaps you will surprise yourself, Miss Granger."

I felt a tiny bit of tension ease from my shoulders. Then, riding that small wave of confidence, I blurted out, "You can just call me Freya, you know. 'Miss Granger' makes me feel like I'm about to get detention."

He paused, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he gave a short nod. "Freya, then. And you may call me Edward."

It wasn't exactly warm, but it was something. A hairline crack in the wall of formality between us.

The grandfather clock's ticking seemed to grow louder in the silence, each second marked by a heavy mechanical thunk that made my already frayed nerves jump.

The clock struck twelve with a series of deep, resonant chimes that seemed to vibrate through the floor. On the final chime, the door at the far end of the waiting room swung open silently, revealing darkness beyond.

Edward glanced at me, one eyebrow raised. "Shall we?"

I followed him through the doorway and couldn't help but wonder what was waiting for me there.