She’s been told that she’s perfect, always in a tone that left no room for argument or doubt. It’s less an observation and more a command, one that underscores her entire existence.

So she makes it true, every day, with every breath and every thought and every movement, anticipating what she’ll be expected to know next, stretching her time awake to stay ahead. It’s not enough to be good. It’s not enough to be correct. Everything comes to her effortlessly, or at least no one else sees her effort, so as far as they know it’s true. Struggling is unacceptable, and letting anyone know she’s struggling is unthinkable.

She lives up to her parents’ expectations. They expect more. She’s not allowed to slow down, so she doesn’t.

Which means that by the time she’s 14, she’s traded hours upon hours of sleep for her dozen-odd languages, her perfect scores, her never, ever, ever making a mistake where someone else can see.

She’s not allowed to forget what she’s meant to do. It’s not a question of whether she’s going to graduate. It’s a question of just how much better she’s going to do than everyone else in the Scholomance.

(She nods with sharp determination, and holds her carefully-weighed bag to herself with a grip that looks far more casual than it is, and steels herself for four years of even higher stakes than ever.)