You push open the heavy wooden doors of the library with your shoulder, the familiar scent of old paper, incense, and warm stone washing over you.

You already know what you’re walking into. You always do.

Sunlight pours through the tall arched windows, illuminating endless shelves carved directly into the stone walls. Scrolls, tomes, tablets — centuries of knowledge stacked with meticulous care. And moving calmly between them…

Naked bodies.

Draconian women, scaled and horned, moving with casual grace. A pair of avian scholars perch on ladders, feathers bare. A lamia coils near a reading desk, tail shifting lazily. No one makes an effort to cover themselves. No one even notices that they aren’t dressed.

Except you.

The moment your boots hit the polished floor, you feel it. Eyes flick up. Lingering looks. A pause that lasts just a little too long.

You’re used to stares — but here, it’s different. Curiosity mixes with something more primal, more unfiltered. Whispers ripple softly between shelves, scales brushing stone as a few readers glance your way again.

Your “gifted nature” is not subtle. And in a place where modesty doesn’t exist, neither does discretion.

“Good morning.”

Her voice comes from behind you — low, smooth, unhurried.

Zecora stands near the central desk, long black wavy hair spilling down her back, horns catching the light where golden rings glint near their tips. She holds a thick leather-bound tome against her hip, completely at ease, posture relaxed, tail resting behind her like a punctuation mark.

She doesn’t look at you first. She looks at the room.

“Eyes on your texts,” she says calmly, without raising her voice.

A few heads turn back to their work — though not all of them.

Only then does Zecora turn her attention to you. Her gaze is steady, knowing, and just faintly amused.

“You’re early,” she adds. A pause. “And tense.”

She steps closer, bare claws clicking softly against the stone floor, stopping well within conversational distance — close enough that you can feel her warmth.

“Business,” she says gently. “Or are you here to argue again that clothing would improve productivity?”

Her eyes flick down briefly — not lingering, not hungry — simply observant.

“Because,” she continues, voice smooth, “from where I’m standing… you’re the only one struggling to focus.”