Albert Was Right

**[NARRATION]**

Back in Room 3A, Nick Kremp remained settled on the edge of his bed, a small candle flickering between his hands. A token for Orlandus. A moment for himself.

**[NARRATION]** The door flew open.

**BARON (dryly):** So this is where they put the dissidents.

**[NARRATION]** Baron von Queef stepped inside, dragging a single suitcase behind him. It hovered half an inch off the floor, shimmering faintly with spatial enchantment—the kind of spell that reeked of old money and magical nepotism. Nick didn’t look up. He didn’t flinch.

**NICK (flatly):** Didn’t realize they were redecorating.

**BARON:** Oh, I insisted. Mother thinks I’m being punished. I think I’m making a point.

**[NARRATION]** Baron raised his fingers. The far wall flared with conjured strain. Char smeared the plaster as black letters branded themselves into permanence.

**[NARRATION]** The scent of scorched arrogance curled through the air. The letters pulsed faintly, radiating psychic residue like heat off a forge.

**BARON (mock-thoughtful):** Bit on the nose? Or just nose-adjacent?

**NICK (sharply):** You think that’s clever?

**[NARRATION]** Baron didn’t answer. He crossed the room to the empty half—Orlandus’s half—scrubbed too clean to be comforting. He began to unpack.

A wand stand. A set of robes that folded themselves. A book titled _Domination Through Diplomacy_, which winked at Nick as it hit the desk.

**[NARRATION]** Nick stood. Slowly.

**NICK:** You know what he meant to people here. To _me_.

**BARON (casual):** I know what he meant to _you_.

**[NARRATION]** Nick froze.

The words hadn’t been spoken aloud. They pressed into his thoughts—sharp, uninvited, and suffocating.

**[NARRATION]** Baron smiled. Not kindly.

**BARON (telepathically):** You think if you’d spoken up sooner, he’d still be here? That Albert would’ve spared him if you’d just found the right words?

**[NARRATION]** Nick said nothing. The candle between his fingers wavered but held its flame.

**BARON (aloud now):** You’ll see soon enough. Some of us were born for this. The rest…

**[NARRATION]** He gestured vaguely—toward the window, the school, the horizon. Toward nothing.

**BARON:** Well. They’re just scenery.

**[NARRATION]** Nick sat back down. The flame wobbled. Refused to die.

Behind him, the scorched words glowed faintly on the wall. Not a mural. A manifesto.

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**[NARRATION]** _End of Episode 2._