The air inside the late Professor Caelan Draemyr's office was oppressive, almost suffocating.
The smell of aged wood, ink, and something faintly metallic hung in the air, like the remnants of secrets clinging to the room's walls.
The office wasn't mine by right—I was only acting as a stand-in instructor—but for now, it was mine to use.
I sat at the desk, staring at the surface that bore countless scratches, burns, and gouges.
Marks of a life lived dangerously, I guessed.
In front of me was a box, one of the few belongings left behind by Draemyr.
Officially, the academy would have handled his estate, but from the looks of it, they hadn't managed to clear this room before assigning it to me.
Good.
This was my chance to find answers—not just about the man himself, but about the strange world of firearms that he had introduced me to on the night he tried to kill me.
That pistol he had wielded, the one I'd barely managed to wrest from him, was still seared into my memory.
