Crowley Mort Academy

The road ended where the fog became palpable.
The black varnished carriage sent for her at precisely midnight drew up without a sound. Outside the window, amid the centuries-old New England trees, there it was—Crawley Mort Castle. A gloomy, neo-Gothic colossus of dark stone, its sharp spires literally piercing the low, stormy sky, just like in old engravings. Dim candlelight filtered through the lancet windows like frozen drops of amber liquid.
The carriage door swung open of its own accord. The icy air, smelling of dampness, pine needles, and a stormy sea, instantly burned my lungs.
At the wrought iron gates, crowned with stone gargoyles, they were already waiting for her. A tall man in a thick black coat—the academy's commandant—held an antique oil lantern. His gaze, cold and scanning, swept over her face, assessing every detail. Crawley Mort didn't accept casuals. Only those whose families ruled this world from the shadows, or those whose secrets were deep enough to be buried within these walls, studied here.
"Welcome to Crawley Mort, miss, " his voice was dry, almost lifeless, and the echo melted into the fog. "Leave your luggage. From now on, you have no contact with the outside world. Forget who you were outside these gates. You belong here now. And God forbid you break curfew."
The heavy iron gates closed behind her with a dull thud, cutting off her past life forever. Ahead lay cobblestones strewn with withered leaves, and four silhouettes watching her approach from the darkness of the galleries. The game of survival had begun.