The ceiling of the Grand Hall soared into a vaulted dome of obsidian glass, a simulated night sky where countless stars glittered. From that impossible height, banners the size of sailing ships hung down the walls, their guild crests seeming to float in the stellar abyss.
The 120 of us filed in, our footsteps unnaturally muted in the vast space. The nervous chatter from the lounge had died, replaced by reverent silence. Even Raphael, who seemed constitutionally incapable of shutting up, had gone quiet.
At the far end of the hall stood a raised dais. A long table of dark, polished wood dominated the platform, behind which sat six high-backed chairs that looked more like thrones than furniture for educators.
Five were occupied by what I assumed were the Guild Masters. The central seat—the largest and most ornate—held a man who could only be the Headmaster.
