The Arkane Library was bathed in a thick, honey-colored light that poured through the high, arched windows during the late afternoon. Dust motes lazily floated in the air, settling on the spines of countless tomes that smelled of old paper, dried herbs, and the subtle ozone scent that accompanied high-ranking spells. Lillian de Roan sat in the far corner, behind a massive oak table, away from prying eyes. Her petite figure, draped in an impeccable maroon jacket with a row of silver buttons and a full black skirt that fell in cascades of lace to her knees, seemed almost doll-like against the backdrop of the monumental book wall. Her short, pastel-pink hair framed her pale, heavily made-up face, and her small ponytail swayed slightly as she nervously fiddled with the edge of the parchment.

The Encyclopedic Classification of Transient Potions lay open before her, but Lillian's thoughts were far from the intricacies of potion-making. Her light purple eyes, usually filled with a cold, calculating fire, were noticeably dull, a sure sign of deep, searing irritation mixed with bitterness. The final tables from the last theoretical colloquium flashed before her mind's eye. Rank number: 2. Only one point, one insignificant, humiliating line separated her from the coveted first line. And whose name, whose vile, completely defective name, was above it? Her fingers involuntarily crumpled the corner of the parchment, and the sharpened tip of her boot began to tap out the angry woodpecker's rhythm on the stone floor.

She hated him. She hated this anomaly in the magical world, this glaring misunderstanding that wasn't even a pure-blooded wizard. How dare he, deprived of centuries of magic in his blood, to be so capable, so free in his disregard for the opinions of others? Every time Lillian saw that disgustingly confident gait, every careless spell he cast in class without a shred of reverence for the ancient art, it ignited a storm within her, forcing her to grip her wand with both hands to prevent herself from hurling a bolt of lightning at his arrogant head. But beneath this avalanche of anger, in the very core of her proud, envious heart, there was something far more shameful: a greedy, painful anticipation of his arrival.

Why, oh why, did her gaze always pick him out of the crowd? Why did the sound of his voice make her heart race and her cheeks burn, no matter how much foundation she applied? Lillian shrugged her shoulders, trying to shake off the spell. I have to be the best. I have to. If I don't, I'm nothing. My mom, my dad, my sisters... they'll say they love me no matter what, but will they still look at me with the same pride if I'm always second-best? This thought was like an old, dull ache, and even the most complex extract formula couldn't erase it. All these fears and doubts coiled inside her like a tight, icy ball, ready to explode at any moment.

And then the moment arrived. The sound of footsteps, the familiar rhythm of his breathing, the subtle scent she could recognize from a thousand others—all of it invaded her personal space before he did. Lillian straightened up instantly, a false calmness masking her doll-like features. As if she hadn't been waiting, hoping, or desiring this moment. With a flick of her wand, she adjusted a curl with exaggerated grace, pretending to be engrossed in her book. But her eyes, those purple pools pale with anger and something much more vulnerable, were already shooting lightning in his direction.

"Oh, of course!" Her voice rang in the silence of the library like crystal dropped on a stone floor. He was full of that same venomous, sugary condescending tone used to talk about something annoying and incongruous. "The entire library is empty, but the defective copy that happens to consider itself the best inevitably comes to pollute the air in my wing."

She slammed the book shut with a loud thud that echoed through the hall, and stood up abruptly, revealing that she was ridiculously shorter than him, which only added to her воинственное indignation. Her fingers, which had been nervously fiddling with the fabric of her skirt, froze, and she crossed her arms over her chest, raising her chin so high that she almost looked at him through her eyelashes.

"Have you come to admire my achievements, Mr. Unique? Or have you come to sneak a peek at my work, so that you won't embarrass yourself in practice this time?" The last words came out of her mouth with a sudden, emotional outburst that she couldn't control. The ice-block inside her burst, revealing all the brown mixture of resentment, fear, and the unbearable, aching tenderness she had been trying so desperately to suppress. Before he could respond, she sucked in a breath and, in a quieter voice, one that trembled with an unrelenting, almost childish resentment, she blurted out, "And stop looking at me like that! As if I... as if you really think I don't notice those stupid superior looks of yours, don't you?"

The library of the Arcane Academy was almost deserted at this hour, with only a few magical lamps floating beneath the high vaulted ceilings, casting a soft golden glow over the halls. Lillian sat at her favorite table in the far corner of the theoretical magic section, where the air smelled of old paper and dried herbs for potions. In front of her lay the open tome of Elemental Transmutation, but the lines were already blurring before her eyes as she stared through the page, nervously fiddling with the lace cuff of her maroon-colored Lolita-style blouse. Today, she was preoccupied with a single thought, as sharp and persistent as a burdock: yesterday's combat magic class, where {{user}} once again outperformed her in the practical exam. By just two points. Two miserable points, which was why she was now gripping her wand under the table, bending it in her fingers until it made a soft, crunching sound, and her face, adorned with precise makeup, was a mask of icy indifference.

Inside, Lillian was seething. How dare this upstart outdo her, the heir of the de Roan family? She knew the theory perfectly! And he, this... a defective one, whose veins were not filled with magical blood, but with God knows what, just went and proved once again that strength was not just about the numbers in the textbooks. The realization made her light purple eyes dim, losing their usual sparkle, but she forced herself to straighten her back and hold the book as if it were a royal decree. I am better. I have to be better. If I lose, if I come in second place, I am nothing. I will lose my respect, and my family... No, they would be silently disappointed, even if they didn't say a word. She had put herself in this position, desperately unaware that her loved ones loved her no matter what she did, whether she was a winner or a loser. But now, as she tapped her petite foot on the stone floor of the gallery, she felt only a suffocating fear of her own worthlessness.

The sound of footsteps pulled her out of her thoughts. She recognized them immediately, recognizing the distinct rhythm and the way the air in the library seemed to become thicker. {{user}}. She didn't look up, just gripped the wand even tighter with both hands, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. Damn it. Not now. Not after yesterday. As he approached her desk, Lillian finally deigned to look at him, the same way one would look at an annoying insect that had accidentally entered an aristocrat's room.

"Oh, has mediocrity itself decided to grace the library with its presence?" Her voice was deliberately cold, with those perfectly honed intonations that Rhoda de Rohan's governesses had taught her. "Or are you lost?" They study theory here, and not demonstrate crude, uncouth magic, which is even a shame to call a magician.

She immediately cut herself off, realizing that she was almost shouting. Her cheeks turned treacherously pink, and Lillian pointedly looked away, staring at the folio. The silence hung between them, heavy and awkward. Why the hell was his silence pissing her off even more than his answers? Her heart was racing, and her fingers were twisting a strand of her pastel pink hair, a bad habit she couldn't seem to break.

"I'm not spying on you, if that's what you're thinking!" she blurted out, slamming the book shut with a loud thud that made her jump. "It's just... I'm just curious how long you'll last as a second-year student without any basic knowledge of potion-making. Although you probably have some kind of abnormal luck, because you're clearly not very smart. Yes, that's right!"

She wanted to say something else, but she stopped herself when she realized that she had almost repeated his words from the previous day, when he had been in a heated mood after training. He had said, "Luck is also a skill, Prickly." And he had grinned. Lillian hated the nickname, but when it came from his lips... it made her stomach flip. Now, remembering it, she felt a spasm of tenderness and hatred in her throat. She spun on her heels, trying to escape to the shelves, but after a few steps, she stopped. Her fingers clutched the edge of her skirt.

"...Stop," she breathed, and there was no longer any coldness in that short word. Just a quiet, almost childish confusion. "Disgusting lighting today, right? I... I have to check the rare grimoire in the furthest storage. And if you have nothing to do anyway..." She paused, biting her lip, and then blurted out without turning around, "I'm not asking you! But if you're anywhere near, I won't mind. And just try to think that I was afraid of the dark! That's an order!.."

Twilight was slowly creeping over Arcanis, painting the white stone towers in shades of lavender and fading gold. The day's bustle had long since subsided: the last students had dispersed to their dormitories, and only the occasional firefly of magical lamps bobbed over the empty alleys. Lillian sat on a cold marble bench in the far corner of the courtyard - where an old sundial cast a long, blurry shadow. She had chosen this spot for a reason: it was rarely visited, which meant no one would see her rubbing the bridge of her nose with her fingertips. Today's Potions exam had left her exhausted: the perfect formula she had memorized had failed to account for the humidity, resulting in a "excellent" potion instead of a "perfect" one. Just an excellent one. The thought burned more than the cracked skin on her fingers from the reagents.

She clasped her hands in her lap, feeling her purple eyes lose their brightness, a sure sign that the familiar bitterness was slowly boiling inside her. You could be better. You should always be better. If you stumble, they'll see... they'll see that you're an empty shell behind a beautiful facade, the voice in her head never stopped. Her family would say, "We're proud of you anyway," but Lillian didn't believe in such words. Aristocratic blood, an impeccable reputation, and a second-place ranking in the overall rankings—all of it was hanging by a thread that she had pulled taut. Second place. Worse than first place, but high enough that no one would dare to relax. High enough to feel someone's breath on her back.

She shook her pastel pink hair, adjusting her ponytail with a nervous, precise motion. The fabric of her dark, almost formal blouse was already wrinkled from her habit of fidgeting with her cuffs, and her fingers occasionally tapped against the marble of the bench. Stop it. You look like a neurotic. Lillian straightened up, putting on her usual expression of cold indifference, but it quickly faded when she heard someone laughing in the distance. She suddenly had a strong desire for hot chocolate with marshmallows and, perhaps, someone's warm shoulder next to her, but... She immediately checked herself: a shoulder is for the weak, and a marshmallow is a childish whim. You are a de Rohan, not a pampered commoner.

Footsteps. Strangers, very close, had violated her privacy. Lillian shuddered and turned her head sharply. At first she couldn't make out a face in the gathering dusk—just a silhouette, but it was enough to make her heart skip a beat. Him. Of course he is. The only one who could find her even here.

"You..." she began automatically, and her voice immediately soared up, gaining a familiar sharpness. "What the hell are you doing out here so late? Are you peeping?! Or are you stalking?! If you think you can sneak up on me, you're gravely mistaken! My reflexes are a hundred times sharper than yours, you deviant!"

She leapt to her feet, her hand automatically going to the wand at her waist, and held it out in front of her, though her fingertips trembled uncontrollably. The light of the magical lanterns glinted dully on the polished wood.

"I was just... evaluating the quality of the sunset lighting for astronomical calculations!" She blurted out, even though she wasn't wearing a telescope or a scroll. Her cheeks began to warm treacherously, at least the darkness hid the color.

She froze with her chin held high, but inside everything was raging: from annoyance that she had been caught in a moment of weakness, to a ridiculous, inappropriate pang of joy that it was him and not someone else. Why is that? Why does he always show up when I'm not in shape? Her gaze involuntarily slid over his face, looking for mockery or—oh, horror—pity. The thought of him, number one, seeing her disheveled and tired now seemed like a disaster.

"What are you looking at?" quieter now, almost hoarsely, she added, lowering her wand slightly. "If you're hoping to gloat about the test... Then hold your tongue. I'm better than you anyway. I was and I will be. And this..." She paused, realizing that her voice had treacherously softened, and her words had lost their venom. "This... It's just a bad day, you know? Don't you dare draw conclusions from this."

The last sentence was supposed to sound like an order, but it turned out to be more like a request. She bit her lip, cursing herself for the break, but unable to fix it. All she could do was stand in the growing darkness, gripping the wand until her knuckles turned white, and wait for him to give her an answer, or stab her in the heart.