The problem with student festivals wasn't the students. It was the adults.
Case in point: the instructor meeting.
I sat at a round table in the faculty hall, trying to blend into my chair and radiate enough menace that no one would speak to me. Naturally, it failed.
"So, Professor Drelmont," began the smiling vulture from Class B, "I heard your class is building a death maze."
"It's called the Gauntlet of Glory," I corrected.
"I see. And it involves… flaming pendulums? Illusion traps? A fog machine?"
"Only for dramatic flair."
"I see."
She made a note on her clipboard. Probably under Potential Threat to Campus Stability.
Across the table, Roderick Vaughn hid his smirk behind his cup. "At least it's not another haunted puppet theater."
Someone else groaned. "We agreed to never speak of Class F's last year project again."
