The soft glow of the mana lamps painted the corridor in muted gold, glinting faintly off the marble walls and the frost gathering on the tall windows. Trafalgar leaned against the cold stone, his reflection dim and pale in the glass. The silence between them stretched, filled only by the low hum of mana conduits running beneath the floor.

Lysandra took a small step closer. Her platinum-blonde hair was tied back in a combat ponytail, a few loose strands brushing her cheek as she looked at him. The green of her eyes shimmered faintly under the lamplight, calm yet uncertain.

"You didn't answer me," she said after a pause. "How have you been?"

Trafalgar exhaled softly through his nose. "Still breathing."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "That's better than I expected."

He glanced sideways at her. "You and Father share that sentiment, I see."

"Not quite," she replied, tone even but warmer. "He sees a tool. I see a brother."

That earned her a faint sound — halfway between a sigh and a dry chuckle. "Careful, you'll ruin your reputation talking like that."

Lysandra smiled faintly, but there was a weariness in her eyes — the kind that came from years of watching someone suffer and doing nothing. "I lost my right to reputation a long time ago."

For a moment, the hallway was quiet again. The snow outside had begun to fall heavier, muting even the faint noises of the estate beyond. Trafalgar looked away, watching the pale flakes melt against the window.

"You've changed," she said softly, almost to herself.

Trafalgar didn't turn. "People do that when they're left to rot and find their own way out."

Lysandra flinched, though barely. She'd expected it — she deserved it. But his tone wasn't cruel. It was distant, tired.

"I know," she murmured. "And yet, you still came back."

He shrugged lightly, his breath fogging the glass. "Didn't have much of a choice. Euclid doesn't exactly run itself."

She watched him, the way his shoulders no longer slouched like before, how his gaze no longer darted nervously when someone spoke his name. He looked taller somehow, older — not in body, but in presence.

"I heard you've been training hard," she said finally, changing the subject. "You've grown sharper."

Trafalgar gave a faint grin. "Had a good teacher."

Lysandra's lips curved just slightly. "Flattery doesn't suit you."

"Wasn't flattery," he said, his tone calm and honest. "You're still the only one who ever tried."

That silenced her completely. She looked down for a moment, eyes shimmering under the faint lamplight, her throat tightening as she found no words to answer.

The snow outside thickened, the soft whisper of flakes brushing against the glass like faint static. Inside, the air between them had grown still again.

Lysandra leaned a shoulder against the wall beside him, her eyes tracing the faint lines of frost that spidered across the window.

"When you said that," she murmured, "it almost sounded like forgiveness."

Trafalgar didn't answer right away. His reflection in the glass looked back at him, pale eyes calm yet sharp — not the same boy she once knew. "It's not," he said at last. "I'm not that generous."

Lysandra let out a soft, humorless chuckle. "I didn't expect you to be."

He turned slightly toward her, his tone quieter. "Back then… you didn't do anything. You didn't stop her. You didn't even look at me."

"I know," she whispered. "Every day since, I've known."

There was no defensiveness in her voice — no excuses, just the quiet weight of regret that had long settled in her bones.

Trafalgar sighed, rubbing his neck. "You don't need to apologize anymore. It's not like it'll change anything."

"I'm not apologizing," Lysandra said softly. "I'm just… telling you the truth. I thought that if I looked away, it would hurt you less. But I only made it worse."

He blinked once, his expression unreadable. "You did."

Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came. For a long moment, the two stood there in silence, the ghosts of the past hovering between them like frost in the air.

Then Trafalgar finally looked at her again — properly this time. His voice was quieter, not sharp, not cold. "But… you trained me. You didn't have to. That's more than anyone else did."

Lysandra met his gaze. "That was the least I could do."

"The least," Trafalgar echoed, looking back at the window. "But it was enough."

The faintest smile touched her lips — small, brittle, but real. "Then maybe I can stop hating myself so much for it."

He gave a small shrug. "That's your problem, not mine."

Lysandra laughed quietly under her breath. "Still cruel."

"Still honest," he corrected.

Trafalgar exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his dark hair as he stepped away from the wall. "Anyway… let's just forget about that past. I don't like remembering those shitty moments. Still makes me want to vomit just thinking about it."

Lysandra winced slightly at his words but didn't look away. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

He waved a hand dismissively. "Don't. It's done."

The tone wasn't cold — just final, like closing a book that had already burned.

Lysandra straightened her posture and drew in a breath, deciding to shift the conversation. "Then let's talk about something else," she said, forcing a faint smile. "Tell me… how's life treating you? You look… different. Lighter, somehow."

Trafalgar raised a brow, skeptical. "Lighter?"

She tilted her head slightly. "Well, for one, you're not glaring at the floor anymore."

That earned her a dry smirk. "Guess I found better things to look at."

"Good," Lysandra said softly. "You deserve to." She hesitated, then added more carefully, "Have you made any friends at the academy?"

Trafalgar leaned against the wall again, arms crossed. "A few. Some idiots, some geniuses. All tolerable enough to keep around."

"That sounds like friends to me," she replied, a faint note of warmth in her voice.

He shrugged. "Maybe."

"And… anyone special?" Lysandra asked, her tone suddenly teasing — an echo of how she used to talk to him years ago.

Trafalgar blinked, caught off guard. "You really went straight for that, huh?"

Her lips curved into a small, mischievous smile. "I'm your sister. I get to ask."

He hesitated a moment, then gave in with a sigh. "…Yeah."

Lysandra's eyes widened slightly. "Really?"

"Yeah," he repeated, his tone low, almost casual — but the faintest flicker of sincerity passed across his face. "Her name's Mayla."

Lysandra tilted her head slightly, the name stirring a faint memory. "Mayla… hmm. Mayla, yes — your maid? The one Maeron…" She hesitated, her voice dropping to a cold whisper. "…did what he did to?"

Trafalgar's gaze darkened for an instant. "Yeah. That one."

For a moment, silence pressed between them again — not the heavy, painful kind this time, but something quieter. Lysandra's lips parted slightly, then curved into a small, almost relieved smile. "Then she's still with you. Good. I'm… glad."

Trafalgar met her eyes, his tone steady but sincere. "Keep it between us."

"Of course," she said without hesitation. "You have my word."

The faint wind outside brushed against the window, carrying the whisper of snowflakes against glass. Lysandra stayed silent for a moment, her breath fogging faintly in the cold corridor. "You know," she began quietly, "I thought she wouldn't survive what happened… none of us did. But to think she's still here, with you of all people— that's… something I didn't expect."

Trafalgar leaned his shoulder against the wall, eyes distant. "Neither did I, honestly. But she's stronger than anyone gives her credit for. She just hides it better than most."

"That sounds familiar," Lysandra murmured.

He gave a small huff of amusement. "Guess so."

Her expression softened — the kind of gentle look only an older sister could give. "You always had that side to you. You hide your scars behind strength, pretend it's all fine, but I can tell it's still there."

Trafalgar's lips curved faintly, not in denial, but acknowledgment. "I don't pretend. I just don't see the point in showing weakness in front of vultures."

Lysandra nodded, fully understanding. "You're right. In this family, it's an open wound they'd all love to feed on."

The bitterness in her tone made him glance at her — and for a second, he saw something in her eyes that mirrored his own exhaustion.

She smiled slightly, shaking her head. "Still, it makes me happy, you know? Hearing that you've built something for yourself. Friends, a girl, a place that isn't here. It's more than most of us ever managed."

"Yeah, well…" Trafalgar said, pushing himself off the wall, "I'm not exactly aiming to win Father's approval. I just do what keeps me alive and ahead."

"That's enough," Lysandra replied. "You don't need to prove anything to him. Or to anyone in this house."

He paused, then gave a low chuckle. "That's rich coming from you, Miss Perfect Swordswoman of the Morgain line."

She elbowed him lightly. "Don't mock me, brat."

"I'm not mocking," he said, feigning innocence. "Just pointing out hypocrisy when I see it."

Lysandra rolled her eyes.

Trafalgar crossed his arms, glancing sideways at her. "What do you think about all this, Lysandra? And what about you? What've you been up to while I've been stuck at the academy?"

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