Light and darkness have nothing in common.
~
SAINT DURMAN
In the depths of burgundy halls, where corrupt elites and self-centered professors walked with their heads high and their victims six feet low, was a professor who repented of his dark career...
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"Fuck me, is this place gorgeously haunted," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. The imposing structure before us seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy, its gothic infrastructure reaching towards the inky night sky like grasping fingers.
"And dripping with the riches of the world," Marina added, her voice tinged with a mixture of awe and trepidation. The opulence of the estate was undeniable, from the gilded gates to the meticulously manicured grounds that stretched as far as the eye could see.
The house—no, calling it a mere house would be an insult—the mansion in which the meeting was to be held (should I even call it a meeting, or would 'banquet' be more fitting?) had Mari and I frozen in place. We sat shivering in our gowns, our fingers clutching the plush leather seats of the car, unable to muster the courage to step out into the cool night air.
We remained glued to our seats, paralyzed by fear at the prospect of venturing into what could only be described as the golden den of predators. The ornate facade of the mansion seemed to watch us with hungry eyes, waiting for us to make our move.
A sickening feeling crept up from the pit of my stomach, urging me to flee, to put as much distance between myself and this place as possible. But I shook it off, desperately trying to convince myself that it was merely the gin I had consumed two hours ago playing tricks on my mind. Yet, even as I attempted to rationalize my fear, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly, irrevocably wrong.
My blue doe eyes, wide with apprehension, met Mari's brown ones, both of us continuing to gape in fear at the looming medieval mansion before us. Our trance-like state was only broken when a guard, his face an expressionless mask, tapped firmly on our window. The sound echoed through the car like a gunshot, startling us back to reality. It was time, he informed us with a curt nod, for the banquet to commence.
I gulped down the saliva that had been pooling in my mouth, my throat constricting as if trying to prevent me from entering this den of luxury and danger. Turning to Marina, I noticed the visible goosebumps that had erupted across her skin, a physical manifestation of the fear we both felt. But what confused me more than her obvious discomfort was the look of utter hatred that had twisted her usually calm features.
Marina had always been the quiet one in our duo, her silence a comforting constant in my life. But the amount of hatred etched into every line of her face at that moment spoke volumes, conveying more emotion than I had ever seen her express before.
It was as if years of pent-up rage had suddenly found a scapegoat, directed squarely at the mansion and whatever—or whoever—awaited us inside.
That same look of loathing had appeared on her face when she had read aloud the letter I had been given. The memory of that moment sent a fresh wave of panic through me. Speaking of the letter, its contents had me seriously contemplating not just leaving, but outright fleeing from the school.
