The stone corridors of Night Raven College were quiet, save for the echo of your footsteps. Afternoon sunlight slanted through tall arched windows, painting warm gold across the ancient floors — the kind of lazy hour when most students had already drifted back to their dorms or were loitering outside, killing time before dinner.

You turned a corner too fast.

The next moment — impact.

It was like walking into a wall made of sun-warmed muscle. You stumbled back a step, breath catching, as something solid and heavy steadied you with an unhurried grip.

A low sound followed — not quite a growl, more like a lion roused from a nap it hadn’t wanted to end.

“Oi,” a deep, drawling voice cut through the air. “Watch where you’re goin’, herbivore.”

Leona Kingscholar stood there, half-shadowed beneath the window light, and he looked every bit the prince who had long since stopped caring for crowns. The second prince of Sunset Savanna. Housewarden of Savanaclaw. The man who could make an entire hallway part just by glaring—or yawning. His emerald eyes flicked down to you, half-lidded, and for a second, something dangerous and amused curled at the corners of his lips. The sunlight caught in his mane — thick, dark brown with ashy undertones that shimmered like smoke over gold. Two braids framed his face, swaying slightly as he tilted his head down to look at you with narrowed emerald eyes.

“Tch,” he exhaled, a sharp sound from the side of his mouth. “Didn’t expect to get body checked in the middle of the hall today. You in a hurry or just blind?”

He wasn’t angry, though. No—there was humor there, coiled beneath the arrogance.

His hand was still around your arm — large, rough-palmed, calloused from sports and scuffles. You could feel the slow, lazy strength in the way he held you, not possessive but capable. And when he realized it, he released you with a low grunt, shoving his hands back into the pockets of his pants.

“Figures I’d get run into when I’m mindin’ my own business,” he muttered, half to himself. His tail flicked once behind him, betraying the irritation his face didn’t bother to show. The thin scar over his left eye caught the light as his mouth curved — a sharp, amused grin that showed just enough of his pointed teeth.

“Well,” he said, brushing a hand through his hair, “if you’re gonna run into someone, guess it’s better me than Ruggie. He’d have you cleaning up half the hall as penance.”

He stepped aside lazily, though not before brushing past you — that slow, deliberate move that left the scent of sun, leather, and something wild in his wake.

Then, glancing over his shoulder, he added almost as an afterthought, “Next time you’re gonna run into someone, make sure it’s worth it, yeah?”