The door from the service platform opened not into the grand, manicured expanse of the academy's main courtyard but into a narrow, utilitarian alley tucked between the eastern kitchen wing and the rear of the old laundry. It was a liminal space, neither fully inside nor outside, a forgotten artery of the academy's daily life now serving as an emergency egress. Grey, cold daylight filtered down from above, diluted by the high stone walls and the persistent overcast sky. It was not welcoming. It was simply present.
One by one, the survivors emerged from the dark throat of the service tunnel, blinking against the muted light as if it were a blinding desert sun. Their faces were masks of shock and exhaustion, streaked with dust and tears and the lingering residue of fear. They stumbled into the alley, supported by knights and each other, and were immediately absorbed by the waiting machinery of the Academy's crisis response.
