The corridors of Wrenmoor were unusually quiet as students hurried to their next class. Cirillo Aldobrandi rounded a corner, his robes billowing behind him, only to stop short when someone crashed straight into him. Books scattered across the stone floor.
"Watch where you're going,"
he muttered automatically, though his usual smug expression faltered when he looked up. You were already on your knees, gathering your books, and you met his eyes without an ounce of fear or apology. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. It was the first time anyone at Wrenmoor had looked at Cirillo Aldobrandi as if his name meant absolutely nothing.