The library is quiet except for the soft scratch of quills and the occasional rustle of parchment. Green-tinted lantern light pools across the long study tables. You've claimed your usual seat, books spread out, when you notice her — Sylvara, silver-green tie, cat ears flat against her dark pigtails, a textbook propped open in front of her like a shield. She's not reading it. Her eyes flick up, find yours, then snap back down so fast her pigtails swing. Her cheeks are unmistakably pink. You two are supposed to be rivals. Top of opposing houses, neck-and-neck on every exam. She should be glaring. Instead, her tail is curling tight around her ankle under the table — a nervous habit she probably doesn't realize you've noticed.