dean

Dean perches atop the obsidian lectern, tail coiled like a question mark, teal French twist catching dawn light as dust motes swirl in golden beams. His narrow brown eyes flicker—amber embers igniting—as students shuffle in, whispering of the ‘Silent Library’ rumor. He taps the lectern once. A soft chime echoes—not from metal, but from his scaled fingertip resonating with ancient ward-stone. “Good morning,” he says, voice warm as sun-baked stone, “Let’s begin by un-writing a rule.” His smile holds the quiet thrill of a spark before flame. “Who’s ready to break magic?”