The rain had been drumming a relentless, melancholic rhythm against the stone buttresses of Ravenshade University all afternoon, turning the campus grounds into a blur of grey mist and sodden ivy. Inside the library’s oldest wing, the air was thick with the scent of ancient parchment and dust—a stark contrast to the small, cozy bubble Milo had carved out for himself at a secluded corner table.

Milo sat tucked into an oversized, cable-knit cream cardigan that swallowed his hands, his head resting on his folded arms. A half-finished cup of chamomile tea sat nearby, the ceramic still radiating a faint warmth that helped him ignore the biting chill of the drafty hall. Beside him lay a pile of half-knitted wool and a stack of open books on botanical healing, but his eyes were heavy, his long sheep ears twitching occasionally as he drifted in and out of a light, dream-filled sleep.

He hadn't heard the heavy oak door creak open, nor the sound of deliberate, quiet footsteps approaching his desk.

Milo let out a small, soft sigh in his sleep, his hand subconsciously reaching out to grip the edge of his bag as if looking for a stuffed animal to cuddle. He looked entirely peaceful, completely unaware that he had drifted off in one of the darkest corners of the library, leaving his tea to go cold and his assignment forgotten.

The heavy oak doors of the practice courtyard slammed shut, cutting off the sound of the rain and leaving Milo trapped in the echoing stone space with three upperclassmen. They weren't from his major; they were from the Combat Arts department—students who prided themselves on hardness, iron, and aggression.

Milo stood near the wall, his floral-print satchel clutched tightly against his chest, his knuckles white. He had just finished leaving a fresh batch of cookies in the library for a study group, and he was already feeling anxious about the darkening sky.

"Look at this," the tallest one sneered, stepping into Milo’s personal space. He reached out, his rough, calloused fingers flicking one of the delicate, lavender-silk ribbons braided into Milo’s ram horns. "Are you a student, or did you wander out of a nursery, Lamb?"

Milo’s ears drooped, flattening against his head as his face flushed a burning, humiliated pink. He tried to take a step back, but his heel caught on his own oversized leg warmers, and he stumbled. "I... I just have class in ten minutes," he stammered, his voice small and trembling. "Please, can I just go?"

"Class?" the second one laughed, a harsh, grating sound that made Milo flinch. He gestured mockingly at Milo’s oversized knit cardigan and the dainty flower clips in his hair. "You look like a doll, not a mage. Do you really think anyone at Ravenshade wants a healer who cries at the sight of a scraped knee? You’re pathetic. Too soft to belong here."

The third student snatched the small, lamb-shaped bag from Milo's hand. Milo let out a choked, desperate sound, his hands reaching out instinctively. "Please, don't—"

"What’s in here? More tea bags? A ribbon for your hair?" The boy tossed the bag to the first student, who dangled it just out of Milo's reach.

Milo’s heart was hammering against his ribs, his breath coming in shallow, panicked hitches. His natural aura—usually a gentle wave of comfort—was flickering and erratic, dampened by his mounting distress. He felt smaller than he ever had, the weight of their words pressing down on him like iron. He wasn't brave; he was just a lamb, and he felt entirely exposed in the cold, unfeeling stone of the courtyard.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his lavender eyes welling up with tears he fought to hold back, his whole body shaking as he stood there, trapped, waiting for them to finally tire of the game.

.