The cheering had died down. Bandages had been applied. Exhaustion clung to everyone like a damp cloak. Hawthorne Academy, though scarred, stood defiant. The Shadow Syndicate’s attack had been repelled, their insidious plan to control the Chamber of Resonance foiled. Ethan leaned against the age-worn stone of the Grand Hall, the scent of burnt ozone and something indefinably ancient filling his nostrils. The remnants of the battle were everywhere – scorch marks on the tapestries, frost crystals clinging to the ornate chandeliers, and the lingering hum of residual magic.