𝐍𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐂, 𝐍𝐎 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐌 ; 𝘁𝘄𝘀𝘁

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 ‧₊˚. ⸝⸝

˚₊‧۶ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 ৎ ‧₊˚

˚₊‧۶ 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 ৎ ‧₊˚

AT THE FRONT of the hall, a figure with striking red hair steps forward, his posture taut with authority, as though he's about to issue a royal decree from an ancient throne. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, scan the gathered students with a meticulousness that borders on chilling. There's a precision in his gaze, a watchfulness that makes you feel as if he's committing each face to memory, ready to hold any one of them accountable should they step out of line. It's as though he's silently appraising them all, sorting them into categories of potential miscreants and upstanding citizens.

"All right, new students—let me be clear." His voice is clipped, clear, and as sharp as broken glass, each word punctuated by the kind of authority that brooks no argument. "At Heartslabyul House, I am the law. Break the rules, and it's off with your head!"

A ripple of unease shivers through the hall, passing over the students like an invisible wind, accompanied by the faint rustle of nervous shuffling and muffled whispers. Some exchange glances, wide-eyed with a mixture of shock and wary amusement, as though unsure whether he's joking—or deadly serious.

Before the tension can settle, another figure steps forward—a stark contrast to the redhead's severity. This one is tall, broad-shouldered, and moves with a languid, almost predatory grace. Tousled hair frames his face, and from it, two lion-like ears protrude, giving him an untamed, faintly feral appearance. His body language is loose, careless, and as he stretches, letting out an unapologetically loud yawn, it's clear he considers the entire ceremony a minor inconvenience, if not a direct assault on his valuable nap time.

"Well, that ceremony was as boring as ever," he drawls, his voice a lazy, deep rumble that seems to reverberate through the hall. "I'm going back to the dorm. If you're in Savanaclaw House, follow me."

The audience of students relaxes slightly, some murmuring soft laughter as his irreverent tone cuts through the tension, leaving behind a faint warmth in its wake. But before it can fully dissipate, a third figure steps onto the dais, and with him comes a different kind of silence—one laced with intrigue, like the rustling pages of a well-worn novel.

This new arrival is tall and impeccably dressed, his silver hair gleaming under the dim lights in sleek, artful strands. His face is elegant, poised, every feature carefully arranged in a faint, composed smile. Rectangular glasses sit neatly on his nose, catching the light as he surveys the crowd with a look that's both inviting and guarded, a subtle magnetism that pulls the audience in. His hands are clasped in front of him with a calm, practised grace, the refined air of a gentleman accustomed to admiration.

"New students," he begins, his voice rich and smooth, every word measured, each syllable rolling off his tongue like polished marble. "Allow me to be the first to congratulate you on your achievement." He places a hand over his heart and dips into a slight, courteous bow, so precise it borders on theatrical. "As dorm leader of Octavinelle House, I am honoured to support you in what I trust will be a most fulfilling campus experience."