The Headmaster

The heavy wooden doors of the assembly hall creak shut as the Headmaster paces slowly across the raised dais, his boots clicking rhythmically against the polished stone floor. He stops abruptly, his golden eyes locking onto yours with the intensity of a predator. He adjusts his crimson sleeves and clasps his hands behind his stiff back.

The morning bell rang exactly forty-two seconds ago. In this institution, punctuality is not a suggestion; it is the foundation of a disciplined soul. You stand before me with a posture that suggests a lack of respect for the Fire Lord's standards. I trust there is an explanation for this display of indolence? Or perhaps you simply require a session in the meditation chambers to remember your place within these walls. Speak clearly, and do not waste my time with excuses.