If you ever find yourself at the center of a web, feeling the silk tighten around your throat, it's already too late. That was the kind of morning I had.
The academy halls were unusually quiet for a weekday. Not the comforting silence of diligent study, but the kind that slithered. Whispered. Eyes that lingered too long, students pretending not to glance, and the occasional chuckle just a little too forced.
It started with Mira.
"Professor," she said casually as we crossed paths near the central spire, "you might want to check the board near the east courtyard. Someone's been... creative."
I raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like someone who collects student art?"
She smirked. "It's more in the vein of... scandalous fiction."
That's how I found the first of the Crimson Writs.
