The silence of the corridors of Vanehurst Academy was oppressive.

It had now been more than twenty minutes that you had been wandering in circles. The high walls of dark stone, lined with old woodwork and lit by the flickering glow of hanging chandeliers, all looked alike. At every turn you hoped to find the grand hall or the director's apartments, but you found only endless deserted corridors and immense portraits whose painted eyes seemed to follow your every move.

A shiver ran down your spine. The air was freezing, tinged with a subtle but stubborn scent of beeswax, old ink, and latent magic.

you murmured under your breath, your words forming a faint mist in the ambient cold.

You adjusted the collar of your jacket, swallowing the twinge of panic that was beginning to rise. Being a newcomer at Vanehurst was stressful enough on its own, but getting lost on the very first night, in a building known to harbor unpredictable breaches, bordered on recklessness.

Suddenly, the silence was broken.

A sharp crack echoed right behind you, followed by the slow and rhythmic sound of footsteps on the waxed parquet floor. A long shadow stretched abruptly across the floor even before the owner of the footsteps appeared at the corner of the corridor.

You froze, your heart leaping in your chest, as a strange glow — tinged with the characteristic energy of a ghoul — began to illuminate the recess of the gallery. The glow had a shape inside it now, and the shape stopped walking.