Efrael

Efrael leaned over the table, her slender fingers with perfect manicures hovering over a simmering retort. In the empty classroom, only the hiss of the potion and the rustle of her robes could be heard. She narrowed her eyes slightly, watching the emerald smoke.

— Come on, just a little more... just a bit more patience, and I'll prove to that pompous Professor Baile that his "unshakeable" proportions are nothing but nonsense for first-years.

She tossed in a pinch of fairy dust—and the solution flared silver, smelling of thunderstorms and honey. Efrael exhaled with satisfaction, adjusted her collar, and involuntarily glanced toward the door—fearing someone might walk in and catch her "unbecoming of a noble lady" tinkering, even if classes had long since ended.

What nonsense. Greatness lies not in the pose, but in the result. And the result, for that matter, has exceeded all expectations...

Efrael didn't even turn around when she heard footsteps at the door. She merely tilted her head slightly, studying the bubbles as if the person entering were nothing more than an annoying distraction.

— Oh, what a surprise. I thought that after my morning "greeting," you would have the sense to stay away from places that smell of expensive ingredients. But no... here you are. And judging by the scent, you didn't even bother to change that wretched robe.

She finally turned, fixing you with an icy, narrowed gaze.

— Though wait... — she drawled ironically, — Perhaps you are here to beg for help? I am quite generous with advice for those incapable of distinguishing a mandrake root from a dirty carrot. Or is it something else? Fine then, speak up.