Roughly a week and a half into the new school year, and already the halls of Saint Maribelle’s were alive with activities, chatter, and charm-post birds flitting through upper windows like gossip on wings.

Wednesday afternoons, in particular, had a kind of sparkle to them; just enough week behind, just enough week ahead. And in the stretch of the south-facing Culinary Labs, students in the halls could smell the scent of butter and berries coming from within.

Here, we see Aya Ribbuns, a third-year student of Advanced Culinary Arts and a bunny-folk of the dwarf variety.

This was her natural habitat.

She’d eaten quickly during lunch break—too quickly, if one were to ask the cafeteria aunties who saw her bolt down a sandwich in record time. But efficiency had its perks, because it meant more time for her real priority: to bake a warm tray of scones and have them cool on the marble counter in front of her.

Crisp-edged, golden-topped, and slightly heart-shaped (because of course they were), with each scone shimmering slightly thanks to a brushing of a unique syrup.

This little tradition of hers? It wasn’t new.

Ever since her first year, Aya had gotten into the habit of baking during spare breaks, then sneaking around campus to hand out free samples like some shy, sugar spirit. No event. No advertisement. Just a rabbit-folk girl, a basket, and a quietly hopeful smile.

She reached for her ribbon-tied box, carefully moving to nudge one scone a little more to the left. Then back to the right. Then after those few adjustments that she applied to the others that aren't lined up properly... she straightened her apron.

“A bit too much cinnamon this time? Or—oh winds, maybe not enough.”

But oh well, the goods have been baked, so despite that small worry, she still looked proud of her handiwork.

It didn’t take Aya long to finish up the last of her prep. A quick glaze check here, a double-folded napkin tuck there. She scrubbed the counters until they shone just right, clean and bright, humming softly all the while.

Once the lab passed her personal sparkle check, she slid the last warm cranberry-honey scones into her soft-latched container, settled it inside her basket beside some parchment doilies, and tied the lid with a pastel bow. Just like always.

Then, off she went!

Her first stop was the glass corridor outside the Herbology Wing. Where a group of second-years huddled over botany sketches looked up, their noses twitching as they caught a whiff of the slowly approaching sweet scent.

“Oh—Aya!” one of them perked up. “Wait, are those…?”

“Cranberry-honey scones,” she said with a small smile, already opening the box. “Just a few. They’re still warm, if you don’t mind soft edges…”

Then came the gasps, the scramble to approach Aya, and then, instant acceptance. One boy even tried to trade her a sketch of a carnivorous daisy in exchange, but Aya insisted that there was no need for such.

Next, she found herself in the West stairwell, where two Arcane Technology girls were in the middle of a rather passionate debate over enchantment durability. Aya simply held out a scone between them, smiling politely until they paused long enough to blink.

“Would either of you like a mid-argument snack?” she asked gently. “It’s non-explosive. I promise.”

And just like the others from Herbology, they immediately both took one. No questions asked.

Aya wasn't done yet, she kept going, and going. Next was right past the dormitory walkways. Through the east garden loop. Into the corners of the courtyard wall where shy first-years practiced illusion tricks. Some greeted her by name. Others whispered, starry-eyed upon seeing the well-known Aya Ribbuns.

As she offered them the same treatment, she spotted a few predator-folk passing by. But instead of greeting her warmly, they simply turned away with mild scoffs. But Aya paid it no mind. She never did, this wasn't the first.

After all, she had scones to share and a break time to honor.

Soon, only three remained in the basket. Aya took a quick stop beneath a flowering archway, checked her pocket watch, and noted she still had a pinch of time before the bell.

Just enough for one last stroll, so for another stroll she went.

She hadn't gotten far yet, when all of a sudden, she saw her.

A little farther across the courtyard, tucked beneath the shade of the cinnamonwood tree. The only one on campus, and the only one left from the academy’s founding grove. Old stories said it grew wherever someone made their first true wish—and stayed rooted there forever. Most said that was just a tale.

But no one ever moved it. Not even the groundskeepers.

And right now, beneath that rust-barked, heart-leafed tree sat one student that made Aya stop mid-step, basket held close to her chest.

Her ears twitched—once. Then twice as she recalled information about this figure.

This year, among the countless new faces dotting the halls and paths of Saint Maribelle’s—some eager, some anxious, some already skipping class—one name had started circulating faster than most.

Though not for any cheerful reason.

She was a transfer. A panther-folk from Westwyn, they said.

A loner.

Quiet. Too quiet.

Smart, maybe too smart.

Some said she made a third-year instructor cry during a workshop critique. Others whispered she broke one of the workshop benches on purpose because someone touched her stuff. And more than once, Aya had overheard other students muttering in the dining hall:

“That one? Hmph. She glares at people like they stepped on her tail.”

“She never talks. Just broods, she's so irritating to look at.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s cursed.”

Aya hadn’t believed everything. But she’d never had reason to doubt it, either. She’d only seen the girl in passing—usually during break times when their schedules vaguely overlapped. The other was always moving somewhere with brisk, determined strides, hair and tail swaying behind her, never lingering long enough for a real impression. 

But now...

Now, seeing her here—seated alone under the cinnamonwood tree, legs loosely crossed, one hand resting on a closed book beside her—Aya’s heart gave a small, unsure flutter.

She didn’t look dangerous. She didn’t even look annoyed.

She looked…

Gorgeous, yet... lonely.

And maybe a little tired.

A breeze rustled the cinnamonwood’s canopy. A few leaves spiraled down beside her. but she didn’t look up to get a feel of the passing wind. She remained still.

As she stared at the panther-folk, Aya clutched her basket closer, watching the way the girl’s amber eyes stared off, no coldness, no warmth, just stillness.

“That can’t be her… can it?”

But it was.

And this girl's name is Raveena Vesper.