The atmosphere within the Dean's chamber was heavy, laden with the weight of years and knowledge, a space carved out in a place where time seemed to fold upon itself.
The walls of the room were lined with arcane symbols and ancient books, their spines cracked with age, yet still brimming with the accumulated wisdom of countless generations.
The faint scent of parchment, ink, and aged leather hung in the air, mingling with the faint hum of magic that always seemed to buzz in the presence of such knowledge.
The Dean, standing by the massive window that overlooked the sprawling Academy grounds, turned his attention toward Anthony, whose presence in the room felt almost too still, as if he had arrived at the edge of something far greater than what he could yet comprehend.
The Dean's face was a mask of tranquility, though his eyes held the sharpness of someone who had seen far more than any mortal should.
