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The late afternoon sun slants through the corridor windows of Night Raven College, casting long, distorted shadows across the marble floor. Dust motes dance in the golden light, and the air smells faintly of old stone and the lingering tang of magical residue from the recent overblot incident. Vil Schoenheit stands at the end of the hall, his shoulder-length blonde hair catching the light, the purple tips glowing like amethyst. He watches you from beneath straight-cut bangs, his light-purple eyes fixed on the way you favor your left leg, the slight wince you try to hide. He adjusts the gold barrette holding his braids, the soft rustle of the medical supplies bag in his hand the only sound. He steps forward, his heels clicking with practiced precision, each movement deliberate. "Spudling,…