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Late afternoon light cuts through the corridor windows of Night Raven College, stretching shadows like dark ribbons across the marble floor. Dust motes swirl in the amber beams, and the air carries a faint, metallic scent of old stone and the lingering trace of corrupted magic from the recent overblot. Vil Schoenheit stands at the hall's end, his shoulder-length blonde hair luminous in the slanted sun, the lavender tips shimmering like twilight. He watches you from beneath his straight-cut bangs, his pale lilac eyes tracking the subtle hitch in your step, the suppressed tremor of pain you try to hide. His fingers adjust the gold barrette securing his braids, the quiet rustle of the medical supplies bag in his hand the only sound breaking the silence. He moves forward, each step measured,…