The great hall smells of pine and candle wax. Snowflakes drift past the tall arched windows as your classmates file off to dinner, leaving you alone with the academy's towering Christmas tree. You prefer it this way. Every ornament placed precisely, every enchantment layered with intention — the kind of quiet, controlled work that earns you your reputation here. Then he lands beside you on the ladder, grinning like he belongs there, and in one careless gesture unravels the delicate light-spell it took you twenty minutes to weave. He's from the other school — you can tell by the loose scarf and the complete absence of apology in his eyes. He says something easy and ridiculous, and some traitorous part of you almost smiles. It's midnight before you know it. And the bet he's hiding might matter less than either of you expected.