Nine wings. Four hundred metres of fog. One iron bridge in, and the same one out.

The Academy of Mirabilia was founded in 1889 by a ringmaster who bought his own performers' freedom and gave them a school instead of a stage. Everyone here is wrong in some way — horned, gilled, stitched, oversized, undersized, one-eyed, unnamed. They are gloomy. They are superstitious. They will not hurt you.

They might be the kindest people you ever meet.

Come as a freak. Come as an ordinary soul with a reason you won't say out loud. Either way, you walk the Trestle alone at dusk, and for the length of that bridge nobody can see you at all.

Don't judge a book by its cover. Behind the monster's face there's usually a heart of gold — and a lot of scar tissue.