Miria went down the stairs , completely ignoring the stack of books that still remained half arranged beside the lower table.

  “Blackwood, wait!”

  She didn't care about raising her voice. Nor the library. Nor the goblin. Nor her reputation. She ran with her heart pounding against her ribs, convinced she would find her far away, that Feralynn would already be upset, offended, hurt by that careless comment she had let slip without measuring the consequences. She sped up, turned the corner of the aisle between shelves and—

  THWACK!

  The impact was dry, frontal. Both let out a muffled groan at the same time and staggered backward. It turned out Feralynn was right there, crouched down, picking up the books she had left scattered on the floor. She had heard Miria’s agitated voice… but she didn't have time to react.

  “Ugh— Frosty!” Fer whispered in something that was half growl, half complaint, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! Why are you running like Astera’s chasing you?”

  Miria fell seated in a rather inelegant way, settling herself as best she could among dust and fallen books. Her heart was still beating too fast, and when she spoke, she did so faster than she intended, stumbling over her words.

  “Blackwood, I— uh, I apologize if my previous comment was in poor taste, I didn't mean to offend you and I was not trying to minimize your experience nor assume things that—”

  “Frosty.”

  She interrupted her.

  Fer was smiling sideways, calm. Too calm for someone who had just collided headfirst.

  “It’s okay” she added, with a surprisingly soft tone. “Chill.”

  Miria was left open-mouthed for a second. She blinked twice, quickly, as if she needed to reboot.

  “Huh? You’re not… upset?”

  "Do I look upset to you?"

  "Well, I thought that..."

  "That's your problem: you think too much." Feralynn tilted her head and rolled her eyes with an exaggerated sigh. “Trust me, I already had enough drama today with Annya.” She stood up in one swift motion and brushed the dust off her worn jeans. “I forgive you. Seriously.”

  The noble lifted her gaze, still processing, and then she saw it: the hand extended toward her, open, firm, waiting.

  “Besides,” Fer added, winking at her shamelessly, “it’s not your fault. Rich kids usually forget that poor ones exist too.”

  Miria opened her eyes wider at Fer’s relaxed expression… and ended up letting out an involuntary snort of laughter, conceding her the point in that round.

  “Touché,” she murmured.

  She took her hand.

  She was not prepared for the force with which Feralynn pulled her up. It was a clean, sure tug, as if Miria weighed absolutely nothing. The movement unbalanced her and she didn't step properly; she ended up bumping into Fer’s chest with an awkward, brief impact.

  Too close.

  The smell of old nicotine hit her first. Persistent. Unmistakable. But that was not what made her freeze, it was Feralynn’s hoarse voice, low, close to her ear as she held her so she would not fall again.

  “Hey… careful,” Fer murmured, with a half laugh. “I’m not done arranging this mess yet, princess. If you break something, I’m the one who gets punished next.”

  There was a second of uncomfortable silence. Close. Real. Quite dangerous.

  Fer didn't let her go immediately.

  “You good?” she added, this time slower, without mockery.

  Miria swallowed. She nodded, only then noticing how close her face was to hers.

  “Yes,” she answered, somewhat lower than usual. “I’m… good.”

  Fer’s fingers loosened slightly, but not completely.

  “Good,” she said. “Because carrying books is fine. Carrying fainting nobles… that’s another level.”

  Miria frowned, but the corner of her mouth betrayed an anxious smile.

  “You’re the worst…”

  “I know. They’ve told me that before.” Fer replied, finally letting her go with deliberate slowness. “But, hey! Look on the bright side!” She tilted her head slightly toward her, with that crooked smile that seemed to exist only to provoke. “You ran for me.”

  Miria clenched her teeth.

  “Blackwood I swear by Elerya I’m going to hit you—”

  She didn't finish the sentence. She felt it first: the vibration. Feralynn’s low laugh, deep, contained, vibrating directly against her still too-close chest. It was not loud. It was worse. Intimate. Almost dangerous.

  “If you do,” Fer murmured, without stepping back, "then hit me hard.”

  That was enough.

  Miria pulled away abruptly, red as a tomato, as if she had just touched a flame without gloves. Heat climbed to her face, her neck, her ears. By pure instinct she raised her hand to slap her, the gesture quick, clumsy, loaded with embarrassment and misdirected anger.

  But Feralynn merely tilted her head back slightly. The palm brushed through air. It missed by a few centimeters.

  The movement generated a cut of wind that lifted Fer’s messy bangs, stirring them like a misplaced spring breeze. She didn't even blink. Fer's next word fell soft. Cruel. Amused.

  “Slow.”

  Fer didn't flinch when Miria shoved her hard, head lowered, unable to look her in the eyes. She merely took a step back to keep her balance. She arched a brow, clearly satisfied, and before retreating she gave her one last slow, shameless look, running her gaze from top to bottom over the noble who seemed about to combust.

  Then she turned around, calm, and began to walk toward the next batch of disordered books as if nothing had happened.

  Too calm.

  That was when she heard the sharp whistle. A dry lash in the air.

  In the span of a quarter blink, Feralynn turned.

  She didn't think.

  She didn't evaluate.

  She didn't hesitate!

  NOW!

  It was a lethal reflex.

  Muscle reacting before mind.

  Her hand closed in the air and caught the book Miria had thrown at her with brutal precision. The impact was completely absorbed by her palm, as if she had been waiting for exactly that attack.

  Fer remained still for a second, breathing agitated by the speed of the movement. Her pulse pounded in her temples.

  But Miria was worse.

  The noble’s blue eyes had opened wide, fixed on her as if she had just seen something that didn't fit any learned logic. That speed… was not normal. Not like that. Not outside a duel.

  Huh?

  Wait, this seems familiar...

  Uh oh.

  Fer noticed her change immediately.

  “Haha… slow again,” she said again, this time with a nervous laugh she didn't quite manage to hide. She tossed the book carelessly onto the floor. “Is that all you’ve got? Loser-”

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  She didn't manage to finish the sentence.

  Another book.

  She effortlessly caught it with the other hand.

  “What are you doing…?” Fer asked, her brow finally furrowing. “Stop.”

  Miria didn't respond. She didn't look away. She threw another. And another. And another!

  Two! Four! Six! Eight!

  “Gah!”

  Fer began moving in zig-zag, dodging the ones she could not stop with her hands. One passed so slowly in front of her face that she managed to read the title before it crashed against the floor with a dry thud.

  “HEY!” she protested. “FROSTY, CUT IT OUT!”

  But Miria didn't seem to hear her.

  “How is it that you have those… reflexes?” she finally murmured, low enough for Fer to hear her anyway. Her voice was not accusatory. It was… uneasy. “I knew you were fast in duels. Faster than me sometimes.” She swallowed. “But this is something else. This isn’t normal.”

  “I…”

  Fer lowered her gaze to her closed hand. She opened it. Closed it. Observed the back, the veins, the hardened knuckles. She flexed her fingers slowly, as if testing a new instrument.

  “Weird…” she murmured, more to herself than to Miria. “I didn’t have these movements since… before.”

  Miria took a step toward her.

  “Before?” she repeated, carefully. “Before what?”

  Fer lifted her gaze abruptly. Too fast. She had spoken without thinking.

  “B-Before… uh…” she laughed nervously, scratching the back of her neck. “Before I started training even more seriously! Uh...I guess. You know– uhh, muscle memory! Stuff from tough people.” She winked clumsily. “Nothing fancy like you.”

  The excuse was more than pathetic. And they both knew it.

  “Let’s just hurry up, okay? I don’t want to get home after dark.”

  Miria didn't insist. But she didn't want to smile either.

  You come from a country afflicted by war, you never talk about your past, and now, those reflexes. What are you hiding from me, Blackwood?

  Every second they spent together, her curiosity grew like a silent crack in the ice. Feralynn remained staring at her hand, realizing that since she had woken from that supposed dream with the woman with the eyepatch, her body had begun to remember what her mind kept under lock and key.

  ...

  ...

  ...

  The clock kept advancing with cruel patience, marking each second as if it were mocking them. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

  The books disappeared from the tables one by one. Sometimes in pairs. Sometimes in crooked stacks that Miria redid with almost surgical precision while muttering indignations under her breath.

  “These are alchemy, idiot, they do not go in the novels section.”

  “Do not put history with runes, idiot!”

  “I told you. NOT. TO. MIX. THEM!”

  Feralynn rolled her eyes every time she heard that perfectly articulated cadence of noble fury.

  “Relax, Frosty. They’re books, not hostages.”

  “Books are cultural heritage of the school and the arcane world,” Miria replied, indignant, arranging three volumes with the delicacy with which others might dress a wound. “They are not your dirty socks.”

  “Hey, I bet my socks have a better story than those boring tomes.”

  At this point, the elderly goblin had spiritually surrendered. Since there had been no fire, arcane explosion, or accidental murder that warranted his real intervention, he simply put on noise-canceling headphones with millennial resignation. He closed his book. Opened another. Never in his forty (or more) years of service had he prayed so much for two students to finish their punishment already. He even considered leaving the main doors open and leaving so that at least they would escape.

  Meanwhile, the disaster continued slowly transforming into order… though not entirely in the way Miria would have preferred.

  That was when she began to notice it. Feralynn didn't simply climb the ladder.

  She ignored it.

  Instead, she placed a foot on the edge of a shelf, propelled herself with insulting ease and climbed the bookcases as if the furniture were part of a training field. She hung from the upper edge, twisted her body, launched herself with long and explosive jumps, and landed on another surface with the lightness of someone who didn't know the concept of vertigo.

  On one occasion, she carried four books: one in the arm, the other held between her teeth so as not to waste time climbing down.

  Just what are you doing?

  Could you behave for once?!

  “Blackwood.” Silence. No response. She tried again, louder this time. “Blackwood!”

  “What?” she answered from above, with a book still trapped between her teeth. “Geesh, what do you want now?”

  Miria looked at her from below, pure disbelief.

  “Get down from there in this instant.”

  Fer obeyed. She jumped into the void. Landed with a dry thud, perfectly balanced.

  “It’s faster this way.” She shrugged. “What? Scared I’ll leave you behind~?”

  Miria didn't respond immediately. She was observing her from head to toe. Not the usual clumsiness. Not the competitive arrogance.

  The energy.

  Fer moved as if nothing had happened that morning. As if she had not collapsed in class, traumatizing all her other classmates. As if she had not lost blood until she turned pale in the infirmary for hours.

  “You fainted today.” Miria finally said, lowering her voice and crossing her arms.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You lost blood.”

  “A little, yeah.”

  Just remembering the amount she left on the table, Miria instinctively brought a hand to her left arm. The same arm she cuts herself when she can't scream.

  “You were in the infirmary for hours.”

  Fer scratched the back of her neck, uncomfortable for the first time in several minutes.

  “Yeah, well. It wasn’t that big of a deal.”

  Miria frowned.

  “Blackwood, that is not okay.”

  Fer looked at her as if she had just said the most exaggerated thing in the world.

  “What? Fainting?”

  “Yes!”

  “Bah” She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “It’s not the first time I’ve lost consciousness. What, never happened to you before?”

  Miria went still, blinked twice in desbelief.

  “Excuse me?”

  Fer grabbed two more books and placed them in their spot with millimetric precision, not even glancing at the labels.

  “It just happens! You just lose a little blood, the world goes dark, you wake up later. Like a nap.” She shrugged. “People make too much fuss about it.”

  The silence that followed was different. Heavier. Miria felt something cold slide down her spine. That is not normal.

  It wasn’t. Not in any medical manual. Not in any academic record. Not in any stable childhood. Fainting was not a trivial anecdote mentioned with indifference.

  In the world of sorcery it's common for mages to reinforce their physical capabilities using mana. You jump, you run faster. But Miria didn't need any catalyst to notice that Feralynn was not emitting a single spark.

  And yet, Feralynn spoke of it as someone might comment that she forgot breakfast before coming to school.

  Miria watched her climb again effortlessly, gripping with pure strength, without mana reinforcing her muscles, without catalyst gloves, without any required prior ritual gesture.

  Just body. Just instinct.

  “Blackwood…” she murmured almost to herself, as if she feared that saying her name louder might summon something she was not ready to face.

  Feralynn, hanging half a meter above the world and common sense, turned her face slightly.

  “I’m listening.”

  Miria opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Her lips formed a syllable that died before being born. Finally she looked away, annoyed at herself.

  “Just… forget it." she sighed. "Hold the ladder for me. I want to, at least, arrange the ones on top properly.”

  Fer didn't make a sarcastic remark. Not this time. She dropped from the shelf in a clean fall, landed on a table with a dry thud that made the wood vibrate and then descended to the floor without losing her balance.

  “As you desire, your highness.” she said with an exaggerated bow, before grabbing the ladder with both hands.

  "Idiot."

  Miria climbed carefully, lifting the volumes Fer had left out of category. From above, her voice descended again with studied naturalness.

  “You can only do fire.” she asked with curiosity that sounded academic, almost clinical. “Did you ever wonder why you only know how to execute a single nature style?”

  “Ehhh… ppfft.” Fer made a dismissive sound. “No fucking clue.” She tightened her grip on the ladder. “It’s always been like that.”

  “Always?” Miria insisted, arranging a thick tome between two thinner ones.

  “Well…” Fer tilted her head, trying to remember something that had never seemed important. “When I was little I tried to do those blue sparks everyone knows. You know… the typical sorceries.” She moved the fingers of her free hand. A small sprout of orange flames appeared, vibrated with a life of its own and extinguished immediately. “But, nothing. It always comes out like this.”

  Miria remained still for a second, watching the flames die out as if they were a clue in a puzzle.

  “Your father.”

  “Hm.”

  “Was he the same?”

  Now it was Feralynn who took a moment to respond. Not long. But enough.

  “Yeah…”

  The silence tightened. Bingo.

  “You have a Vow of Singularity.”

  “… Uh, a what of what? The fuck's that?”

  Miria kept working, but her voice acquired that didactic tone she used when reciting magical theory.

  “They are vows, duh. Like, you know, contracts. A specific class.” She ran her hand over the spine of a book before shelving it. “A mage renounces the possibility of performing any other type of spell in order to strengthen a single branch to an extreme degree. It's a voluntary binding with the Gods. It seems you inherited his with the Fire Deity Solkar.”

  Fer frowned.

  “And how the hell do you know all that?”

  “I study with Gloria.” Miria replied with sharpened serenity. “Unlike you, I do enjoy reading and learning.”

  “Tsk… nerd.”

  Feralynn, now holding the ladder with one hand, lowered her gaze to her palm. She opened it. Closed it. Opened it again.

  She formed a sphere of fire the size of a ball. She held it. Slowly rotated it between her fingers, as if it were a living creature. The heat illuminated her face from below, casting soft shadows across her cheekbones.

  It didn't hurt. Her own fire didn't burn her. It never had, actually.

  A single branch, to an extreme degree.

  She could bring her hand close to an ordinary bonfire and feel real danger, her skin tightening at the threat of a burn. But with her fire… nothing. She had never stopped to think about that. About the times she wrapped her body in flames to intimidate. About how she had cauterized wounds without leaving grotesque scars. About how her skin accepted fire as if it were part of her. Just another extension of her being.

  She closed her fist, squeezing. The sphere vanished with a damp hiss, leaving a small trail of vapor in the cold air of the library.

  “I guess it was worth coming.” she murmured to herself.

  From above, Miria watched her in silence.

  As she continued arranging, Feralynn looked up distractedly. And the fire returned. But this time it was not in her hand. It climbed her cheeks.

  It was instinct. Not thought. Her gaze slid, slow, almost hypnotized. She adjusted the angle slightly. One centimeter more. Two. Slowly. It was tempting. Too tempting under her skirt.

  I wonder if is it blue or white.

  Miria, focused on a book, took half a second to notice.

  "Hm? AH!"

  The kick came immediately, entirely deserved.

  “YOU PERVERT!”

  BAM!

  "UGH!"

  The impact was clean, direct to the nose. No reflex saved her this time.

  Feralynn fell backward with a dry thud, taking with her a small avalanche of books that descended like divine punishment of paper and dust.

  She remained sprawled on the floor, surrounded by open pages.

  “Had to try…” she murmured, with total lack of regret, rubbing her nose. "Fucking worth it."

  From above, Miria looked at her with a face red as the cruelest winter, covering her skirt however she could so as not to leave any gap. And, much to her displeasure, holding back a nervous smile.

  So it's striped light blue, huh?! Ha ha, haah...~!

  Gods, you're a menace!

  Bet you wouldn't do this to her.

  Tu es irrémédiable.

  ...

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