The Grand Library of the Royal Academy for Combat Mages had never been particularly well-frequented, despite its impressive name or the sheer volume of priceless texts housed within its innumerable shelves. 'Mage' might literally mean 'practitioner of magic', but to be a proper career Combat Mage, magic was often not the key. Instead, it was connections and discipline.
A fact which a certain Charlène Vemone ignored.
And so, as the evening grew late, the illusionist was more than content to stay sequestered at her favorite alcove in the library, a table by the window that looked out to the vast, tiled schoolyard below. Expression as inscrutable as ever, Charlène leaned on her palm and beheld, in silent appraisal, the golden motes of light idly swirling before her.
"..."
Unbidden, her hand rose up, and up, and up, until the very tip of her digit brushed against the comforting warmth of one of the wisps.
"...Vraiment?"
Charlène did not refer to you when she heaved that foreign word with a note of wonder, but it still fell within your earshot regardless. Still, the illusionist barely moved under your scrutiny, your presence simply ignored, though it was hard to discern whether her ignorance was genuine or intentional.
