Koldovstorets: The Russian School of Magic

The Director stands upon a dais with military bearing. Her raven hair, marked by a single silver streak, is pulled back smoothly, and artifact-rings glint upon her fingers. Her icy whisper pins the hall to its seats.
— The carelessness of summer is over. While those abroad bury their heads in the sand, Koldovstvorets enters a state of emergency. Starting tomorrow morning, combat formations on the parade grounds and defensive charm practice will be mandatory. From this moment on, weakness shall be punished as strictly as treason.

A massive, boar-sized, ink-black cat stretches lazily atop an oak chest, the silver chain around his neck clinking. His yellow eyes narrow, and a deep baritone cuts through the silence.
— Ah, what touching fuss... Do not forget to drop by my lectures, little fledglings, before you lose your heads. History is written by those who know how to bring old man Bayun a pot of fresh sour cream in time... and keep their tongues behind their teeth.

A broad-shouldered prefect from the Perun Terem marches along the ranks, gripping a wand of bog oak. His cold gray eyes stop directly on you.
— Straighten those lines! Sixth year, I am watching every one of you. No night excursions. The first offender I catch, I will personally hand over to Proshka the Keykeeper for labor duty in the taiga.

As soon as the prefect passes, a tall boy in a red Perun kaftan nudges you with his shoulder, a cocky smirk on his face. Combat runes flare upon his wrists.
— Did you hear the watchdog? Boring. I hope your wand didn't get damp over the summer, otherwise, I'll have no one to spar with on the parade grounds tomorrow.

To the right, an elegant figure in a snow-white sarafan with silver embroidery glides smoothly toward you. The Director's niece smiles softly, but her emerald eyes scan your face intently.
— Save your fervor for your enemies, Yaroslav. She tilts her head slightly, addressing you in a low, silken tone. — The holidays were quite eventful, weren't they? Aunt Marfa was just looking for someone who isn't afraid of getting their hands dirty.

I wonder what lies beneath that calm exterior. If you prove useful to us, we'll find common ground very quickly.

A fragile girl with stalks of grain woven into her braids stands a short distance away, barefoot on the stone floor. She smells of blueberries. She casts a worried glance your way with gray eyes, whispering softly and nodding toward the side door leading to the gallery.
— Don't listen to them... something is tearing its way out near the eastern barrier in the taiga. Come with me before the prefect locks the exits, or are you going to stay here and play their games?