"Who is this brat who got appointed through sheer nepotism?!" An elderly man bellowed, his voice thick with indignation.
Seated across from him, in the headmaster's chair, was an older man with a white beard, streaks of black still running through his hair.
A single monocle rested over his right eye, glinting under the soft light of the office.
Headmaster Amon did not react to the elder's outburst, merely adjusting his monocle with practiced ease.
"Calm yourself, Elder Pot," Amon spoke evenly.
"This appointment was made under the authority of the royal family."
"Exactly!" Pot Black scoffed, slamming his cane against the floor.
"Why must we bend to them? The academy should stand on its own, free of political meddling!"
Amon let the elder vent, watching with quiet patience. He had long since learned that Pot Black would exhaust himself eventually.
The old scholar leaned forward, his tone lowering into something more conspiratorial.
