The winds howled, bringing a chilling breeze that grazed Santiaga's skin.
He stood on the small island, looking back at the complex. He chuckled; he was homeless a few days ago, and now he had a place that was too big for him.
The stars were alive tonight—no clouds, just endless dark speckled with pinpricks of light.
Santiaga stood near the edge of the island that was almost below the academy's main island, his grey hair catching the moonlight, tousled slightly by the wind. The steady glow from the mansion behind him cast his shadow long across the grass, but he barely moved, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.
