West couldn't tear his eyes away from the sky.
What was once a canvas of soft hues laced with warm golden dust—those ever-floating, gentle particles of magic that shimmered across the air like pollen from a celestial tree—had vanished completely.
Even the fireflies, those glowing little spirits that often danced lazily around the Academy grounds, were gone, as though they had sensed something far beyond their comprehension and fled.
The skies had darkened, not with clouds, but with something more... uncomfortable. Something terrifying. The kind of gloom that didn't come with thunder, but with silence—deep, and cold.
The very air had changed. It was stilled, weighed down with invisible pressure. You could feel it when you inhaled, taste the metallic trace of disruption. Even the softest of sounds—a cough, a rustle of robes, the scratch of boots—seemed unnaturally sharp.
Everyone knew why.
