They were definitely making . And both of them were starting to notice it.

  The minutes dragged with unbearable slowness, marking the passage of time with cruel patience. The books were disappearing from the tables, yes, but at a ridiculously human pace, infuriating for two people who preferred to solve problems with explosions or with magical elegance rather than manual labor. Miria placed both hands on a table full of crooked, badly stacked volumes, observing the remaining pile as if it were a personal enemy silently mocking her.

  “This will take us until next season,” she murmured with aristocratic dryness.

  “Wimp,” Fer replied from the floor, surrounded by open books as if they had been victims of a small natural disaster caused by her lack of patience.

  “Ugh, I am not exaggerating! If we keep this up, the goblin will retire before we finish.”

  Feralynn looked up, following Miria’s gaze toward the central desk. The elderly guardian was seated with his back straight, reading with almost ceremonial concentration. However, at that precise moment, he yawned. Long. Deep. His long ears folded slightly, betraying accumulated fatigue.

  "Hmmm...?"

  "And now what could that empty head of yours be thinking?"

  "Heh! Got it."

  la creatura!

  Then, Fer narrowed her eyes, like a predator who had just detected a crack in her prey’s armor.

  “What?” Miria asked, still irritated.

  “Nothing.” Feralynn stood up with feline ease. “Just going to the bathroom.”

  “Are you serious, right now?”

  “Do you want me to do it here? Unlike you, I can use a bucket.”

  Miria rolled her eyes in annoyance, but let her go. After getting permission, she took longer than necessary. When she returned, she carried something hidden in the pocket of her hoodie. She pulled it out discreetly: a small glass vial with dried petals ground into powder inside, a faint violet color.

  Miria frowned. “What is… that?”

  “Sleep flowers,” Fer replied lightly. “Smiley gave them to me for insomnia.”

  Miria could not help but tense. “Why would the headmaster give you something like that? Wait, insomnia?”

  Fer shrugged. “Nightmares. Nothing interesting. Are you going to lecture me or help?”

  Why would you have so many night...nevermind.

  “You are planning to drug a poor old man to get your way out of here…This is a new low, even for someone like you.”

  “Oh, come on! I won’t put that much, okay? He drinks a bit and takes a nap! Unless you want to stay here all damn day.”

  "Is that really the best solution you could have come up with?"

  "Yup!" Fer said, feeling proud for drugging old people. "I'm a genius! Right?!"

  "..."

  Miria’s gaze shifted slowly to the steaming cup of tea beside the goblin. Then back to Fer. She sighed in defeat, massaging her temple.

  I cannot believe I am seriously considering this. Gloria would kill me.

  “How the hell do you plan to put that in his tea?”

  Feralynn smiled with that insolent half-curve that announced trouble. “Let me handle it.”

  “That never ends well.”

  “Just shut up and distract him, will you.”

  Miria exhaled in frustration, but advanced toward the desk with impeccable composure.

  “Excuse me, sir. I would require a clarification regarding the classification of advanced transmutation treatises. There is an inconsistency in the third volume.”

  The goblin looked up, clearly pleased by a legitimate academic inquiry of such level.

  "But of course, Miss Frostweaver. Let me guide you."

  He began explaining with almost obsessive meticulousness, pointing with a bony finger toward a specific wing of the library. Meanwhile, Feralynn was no longer where she had been a second before. She moved with unsettling fluidity, sliding between tables, crawling under a shelf without a sound. It wasn't youthful clumsiness; it was training. It was muscle reacting without asking permission.

  She appeared behind the desk. Uncorked the vial, and with grace the ground petals fell into the tea. She closed it again and retreated before the explanation on transmutations reached its second paragraph.

  [Malicious giggle]

  When he finished, he took the cup. Drank. Barely frowned. “Curious flavor…” he murmured, but took another longer sip and returned to his reading as if nothing had happened.

  Miria returned to Fer among the shelves.

  “Nothing happened, genius.”

  “Shh, shh. Give it a second,” she replied with suspicious calm, not taking her eyes off him.

  The nodding began subtly. Then more pronounced. Until they saw how the old man fell face-first onto the desk with a dry thud and an immediate, deep snore that vibrated through the silence.

  Miria and Feralynn looked at each other. A crooked smile appeared first on Fer’s face. Then on Miria’s, smaller, more elegant, but equally complicit.

  “Not bad, for a savage,” the noble commented as she approached the desk to retrieve her catalyst gloves.

  She put them on with ceremonial precision. The air changed texture. A faint bluish pulse ran through the space. The remaining books began to vibrate, to rise in ordered lines following her commands, floating as if obeying an invisible choreography. Feralynn whistled softly and placed a hand on her shoulder naturally.

  Miria ignored the gesture, although... the slight blush on her cheeks betrayed her.

  "Pretty neat spell, huh?" Fer casually said.

  "Quiet. Don't make me loose focus."

  Don't you know what personal space is?! Get away, you reek of smoke!

  As the books slid toward their respective sections, Feralynn frowned slightly, remembering something. “Hey. I never really asked. Why did you punch that girl in the eye? Isn't she part of your group of spoiled dolls?"

  Miria didn't stop moving her fingers, directing the volumes with surgical precision. “It was just a misunderstanding.”

  “Uh-huh. Yeah. Most refined girl from the whole planet who punches the shit out of someone because of a small misunderstanding.”

  "Fine, fine!" Miria repeated, frustrated. “She was being annoying and, she mocked.”

  “You?”

  “No.”

  Fer took a step closer.

  “Then why did you punch her?”

  Miria maintained her composure for a few seconds, but Feralynn’s silent insistence wore her down more than any provocation. “She mocked your fainting,” she finally confessed. “She said it was pathetic. That you were pretending to get attention.”

  Fer blinked, surprised.

  “And then she mentioned my brother.” Miria’s voice lowered a tone, almost imperceptibly. “That was the last drop.”

  Feralynn tilted her head slightly. “Your brother…”

  “I know. He disappeared.” The word remained suspended between them. “It is not pleasant, you know. House Frostweaver lost the jewel of its crown, and… I am not there to replace him. No matter how much society advances. They don't tolerate heirs being women. Let alone young girls.”

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was dense.

  “Siblings are… annoying, most of the time, even when they don't mean to be,” Miria continued, her gaze lost for a second. “But, when they are no longer there… they leave an unbearable void. As if the world had lost a shape that kept it in balance.”

  Fer shrugged, though her eyes were not indifferent. “I didn't have one.”

  Miria looked at her more attentively.

  “As far as I know, never. But I think it was for the best. I suppose it would have ended badly,” Fer added with a humorless half laugh. “Where I was born, I don't think something like that would have ended pretty.”

  Miria watched her with growing intensity, remembering the superhuman reflexes, the physical strength without magical reinforcement, the way her body was bound to a single element, and the fact that she was the only prodigy in everything she knew of the school.

  “Your reflexes are not normal. Your strength is not either. And you don't use mana to reinforce yourself.”

  Feralynn looked away, clearly embarrassed.

  “It's better if you don't know.”

  “Blackwood…”

  “Someday.” Her voice softened slightly. “Maybe someday I'll tell you everything.”

  "I see..."

  …

  …

  …

  Finally, the last book slid into place with a faint magical click, as if the library itself sighed in relief. The shelves returned to perfect order, the air stopped vibrating with Miria’s spell, and the elderly goblin continued snoring over his desk, unaware of the academic crime committed in his tea.

  Miria removed her gloves with calculated slowness, observing the result with sober satisfaction. “Well,” she said, lightly shaking her fingers to dispel the arcane residue, “that was… efficient.”

  “Well! That was fun,” Fer corrected, placing her hands on her hips. “We make a good duo. We should rob a bank next time. I crack the vault and you float the bills.”

  “And if we get caught?”

  “I’ll say it was all your idea.”

  Miria could not help letting out a small laugh that she shared with her. When everything was over, she tilted her head slightly, studying Feralynn with an expression that tried to be casual and didn't quite succeed.

  “The dance isn’t far away.”

  Fer blinked once.

  “I know, so?”

  “You plan to invite Miss Oak, don’t you?”

  The reaction was immediate and catastrophic. Feralynn inhaled air where she should not have, began coughing with absurd violence, bending slightly forward as if someone had punched her invisibly in the stomach.

  “What?! Why are you asking—?”

  Miria arched a brow, but a soft smile formed on her face. Too soft for her own liking.

  “Oh, come on. It was more than obvious.”

  Fer straightened, red up to her ears. “Of course I’m going to invite her,” she muttered with false harshness, crossing her arms. “There’s nothing weird about it.”

  “Of course not,” Miria replied with delicious serenity. “You are so… easy to read.”

  There was something in that smile that wasn't just mockery. A slight tension, almost invisible. A small edge threatening to emerge.

  Feralynn narrowed her eyes. “And you? Do you already... have someone?”

  Miria held her gaze a second longer than necessary. “Isaac Goldbrand.”

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “The heir of House Goldbrand. Fire. He’s my age.”

  Fer made a vague gesture with her hand. “Ah. One of yours. They don’t mix with the rabble.”

  “One of his, you mean,” Miria corrected with slight hauteur. “He is… suitable, I suppose. He personally offered, said he preferred to avoid the Royal Academy’s dance.”

  “Suitable?” Fer let out a nasal laugh. “That sounds terrible. Is he good at fighting at least?”

  Miria rolled her eyes. “He is an arrogant weakling.”

  Fer raised a brow. “I do fire, and I’m an arrogant too.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Miria replied without hesitation. “But, it suits you better.”

  The silence that followed was brief, charged with a small electricity. Feralynn opened her mouth to retort something clever, but didn't find the right phrase. Miria had already turned away.

  She walked deeper into the library with her hands clasped behind her back, steps slow, measured. Feralynn followed her without knowing exactly why.

  Miria stopped beside a wide table, climbed onto it with natural elegance. The light of the sunset passed through the tall windows, tinting the dust in the air with an almost golden glow despite the clouds.

  She slowly extended a hand toward Fer.

  “I imagine you don’t know how to properly dance.”

  Feralynn looked at her as if she had proposed burning down the castle for sport.

  “What? But…

  Miria smiled, that refined smile that hid too many things. “Come.”

  "Okay...?"

  Fer hesitated a second. Then two. Finally, she took her hand.

  “Your palm is sweaty.” Miria said with a soft voice.

  “I-It’s the heat.”

  It was actually cold inside. An ancient cold, of stone and old paper, filtering through invisible cracks in the air. One had been born with ice beating in her veins; the other had built herself on top of it, like someone who learns to walk barefoot over a frozen lake without looking down.

  Miria stepped forward and pulled her in with a softness that didn't ask permission. She guided her onto the table and, with an elegance taken from palace dance floors, lifted her there as if the whole world were a ballroom and not a punishing library. One hand rested on Feralynn’s back, firm but careful, enough to hold her without immobilizing her. The other took her hand with secure delicacy, cold fingers closing around hers with unwavering confidence.

  “Put your hand here.”

  “Frosty…”

  “I said. Here.” She took her wrist before she could retract it and guided her palm, slow, firm, to her waist. She placed it there with almost didactic precision, but the slight tremor in Feralynn’s fingers betrayed something else. “See? It’s a waltz.” Her voice lowered slightly, closer. “Three beats. One… two… and three.”

  Their bodies adjusted with a small inevitable stumble. Fer’s pulse didn't follow the rhythm; it was off-beat, accelerated. Miria noticed. She said nothing. She simply repeated the rhythm patiently.

  “One. Two. Three.”

  “I-I’m trying!” Fer protested, letting herself be guided across the table.

  That time Miria didn't smile like a noble. She smiled like someone who knew exactly what she was trying to accomplish.

  “I’ve never done something like this,” Fer murmured, looking away because of how close their faces were. “I only know how to… march.”

  “That is obvious,” Miria whispered, leaving a tickle. “Shall we continue, Miss?”

  "Heh..."

  They continued, clumsy. Feralynn stepped on Miria’s foot on the third attempt.

  “Ouch! Be more careful, will you!”

  “I’m barely learning!”

  “You are a disaster.”

  “Shut up.”

  They giggled at the same time. Miria adjusted her posture, drawing closer. Her hand on Fer’s back moved slightly, guiding. “You’re very tense. That’s not how you dance. Relax your shoulders, this isn’t a combat.”

  “Everything is combat.”

  Miria shook her head, smiling with empathy.

  “Of course not. Dancing is like magic. And when you dance, you and your partner are the catalysts.”

  They turned. Slow. Out of sync. The clumsiness turned into laughter filtered between the agitated breaths of their close chests. Feralynn tried to anticipate the movement, but Miria corrected her with subtle pressure at her waist. The contact was minimal, but constant. Close.

  “One, two, and three,” Miria murmured beside her ear, her voice barely a cold breath brushing her skin. “You can.”

  The breath tickled her lobe, slid down her neck like an invisible line that should not be felt so intensely. Feralynn clenched her jaw. If someone could look inside her head right now, they would find pure uncontrolled fire, sparks jumping against the walls.

  Damn it. It’s just a stupid dance. It’s just Frosty! It's just...her!

  Control yourself, soldier!

  Her hands were where they should be. Technically. One at Miria’s waist, firm but rigid as if holding a bomb about to explode. The other trapped between her fingers, smaller, colder. That contrast was killing her.

  “Relax your shoulders,” Miria whispered, and as she said it she slid her fingertips down Fer’s back, barely correcting her posture.

  The touch was minimal. It was enough.

  Feralynn felt something climb her spine like an electric current. Air escaped her nose in a heavy, trembling exhale.

  “You’re not helping,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

  “I’m teaching you.”

  “It feels like torture.”

  Miria smiled against her ear. Fer wasn't looking at her, but she knew. She felt it in the barely perceptible curve of the noble’s body, in how she moved a centimeter closer as she marked the next step.

  One. Two. Three.

  Feralynn began to follow the rhythm. Not perfect. Not elegant. But less rigid. Her boots no longer dragged awkwardly; they began to slide. Her hand at the waist stopped being nailed like a claw and started to accompany the movement.

  "The Blackwoods and their charms..."

  "Looks like I won my bet. Smiley will be doing the paperwork for the rest of the year."

  The library, empty and dim, stopped being a room of punishment. It became a secret stage. A place where no one could see that the great and proud Frostweaver was teaching the fire brute how to dance as if she were something delicate.

  They turned once more. This time without stumbling.

  Miria took advantage of that stability and shortened the distance. The movement grew smaller, more contained. More intimate. Her chest barely brushed Fer’s in the turn, enough for Feralynn to forget for a second what the next step was.

  Heat. Too much heat.

  Her forehead ended up at a dangerous distance from Fer’s. They were not touching. Not yet. But the space between them was so thin it seemed like a line drawn in charcoal.

  Feralynn swallowed.

  Don’t look at her lips! Don’t look at her lips! Don’t look at her lips! Don’t. Look. At. Her—!

  “You’re red,” Miria commented in a low voice, equally hypnotized.

  “S-Shut up...”

  “I thought nothing in this world could embarrass someone like you.”

  “This isn’t embarrassment,” Fer replied too quickly. “It’s… lack of oxygen.”

  “Of course. Fire needs a lot of air, doesn’t it?”

  Just do it. Just fucking do it!

  Miria marked another soft turn, and as she did her thumb pressed a little firmer against Fer’s hand. It wasn't necessary for the step. It was deliberate. Feralynn noticed. Her thoughts began to boil like a pot forgotten over a flame.

  If she keeps looking at me like that I’m going to do something stupid. Something very, very stupid.

  By a miracle of Elerya, of Solkar. Damn it, of the universe itself, Miria stopped the practice. They were both breathing hard.

  “See? It wasn’t that difficult.”

  Fer snorted, but didn't pull away completely. She opened her mouth to say something dumb just to ease the obvious sparks, but without warning, Miria hugged her.

  Not like a rival. Not like a noble. But like something simpler. A friend. Her arms wrapped around Feralynn with contained firmness, her face barely resting against her shoulder.

  The world shrank to the soft sound of their breathing.

  “You know…” Miria murmured, tightening the embrace slightly, her voice lower than usual. “When I saw you coughing today… I got scared.”

  Feralynn stopped moving. She could not return the gesture. The few working gears in her head were jammed beyond repair.

  “My mother coughed blood too. For years,” she continued, without lifting her head. “We all pretended in the end she would recover because of the expensive medicine. That it was just a bad streak. Until it wasn’t.”

  The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was fragile. Fer didn't say anything at first. Her hands, clumsy in everything that wasn't fighting, hesitated for a second before closing the hug carefully. As if she feared breaking something invisible.

  “That… that’s messed up,” she murmured.

  “It is. It was.”

  They didn't separate. For a moment suspended in time, among ancient books and golden dust, they stopped being noble and brute, rival and prodigy, fire and ice. They were simply two girls holding each other, learning a rhythm that came from no manual.

  “Thank you for accompanying me today, Feralynn…"

  Not “Blackwood.” Not that surname she used as a shield. Her name.

  Feralynn went still for a second, as if something invisible had gripped her chest from the inside, preventing her heart from beating properly. She didn't say it like that, with that voice.

  Miria’s sobs fell, soaking Fer’s shoulder. Releasing all the internal weight.

  “I’m scared, Fer,” she confessed, trembling, crying, holding her tighter. “I don’t want my family to keep breaking apart… I DON'T WANT TO!”

  “...”

  This time she knew what to say. She closed her arms firmly around Miria. She pulled her closer, resting her chin on her shoulder, letting the weight of the crying unload onto her.

  “I’m with you… Miria.”

  Ne pars pas avec elle…! Pas encore… Reste un peu plus avec moi, s’il te pla?t… s’il te pla?t! S’IL TE PLA?T!

  ...

  ...

  ...

  "YOU GOT THIS, MISS OAK!"

  "NGHHH!!!"

  ?