Ashtoria closed her eyes for a moment, as if recalling something that wasn't easy to remember. When she opened them again, the cold light of the night sky shimmered in her dark crimson irises. Her voice came out slow but clear, like a freshly sharpened blade.

"If someone carries a Fated talent… then after violet… comes black."

Riven turned to her, his heart sinking for reasons he couldn't name.

"That color isn't just dark. It devours everything. Light. Sound."

Her tone stayed calm, which somehow made it even more real. No drama, only testimony.

"Those who witness it lose their sight for a moment. Their lungs tighten, their bodies tremble, as if that blackness were a living, starving void. The fear they feel isn't because they understand what's happening, but because they know... whatever they're seeing was never meant to exist."

She paused before continuing.

"Only after that... does the color change. Into a calm black."

Riven stared at her in silence. Somehow, it felt like she spoke from experience. He wanted to ask if she had actually seen it before—and who it was she had seen—but his tongue refused to move. Something inside him was louder than curiosity.

For a fleeting second... he hoped that strange pulse inside his prism earlier... might be connected.

But there was no void. No black. No fear.

Only red. Ordinary. Dull.

He exhaled deeply, lowering his gaze to the ground. The night breeze brushed through his hair—cold, and quiet.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught a small movement. Ashtoria had turned her face slightly, watching the grass sway in the faint wind. Even the silence seemed to bow with her.

And then, expressionless, she said,

"Talent can't be changed."

It wasn't mockery. Nor sympathy.

Just truth.

But then she lifted her face and met Riven's eyes directly.

"But... what can I do... to change your mood?"

Her voice was steady, but not empty.

Her gaze was cold, but not without feeling.

Riven froze.

Something in his chest jolted. The words—plain, even awkward—hit harder because of that. They weren't sweet. They weren't rehearsed. But they were honest.

Where did a woman like her learn to speak like that?

And yet... those words cracked open the ice inside him.

Without thinking, without filtering his impulse, Riven rasped,

"…Kiss me."

The words slipped from his lips like a confession, a plea he could no longer contain. Ashtoria didn't answer. She only looked at him—those dark red eyes tracing every line of his face as if memorizing it.

Then, slowly, she leaned in.

Their breaths met before their lips did. Riven caught the faint scent of roses and something deeper—something that belonged only to her, something that made his head spin.

And the world stopped.

Their noses brushed.

Their eyes locked.

That gaze cut through every wall between them—revealing what was hidden, daring what was unspoken.

Then, without warning, their lips met.

Soft. Silent. Deep.

That first touch was simple... yet enough to make Riven's heart skip. Ashtoria's lips were cold on the surface, but warm beneath. There was no hesitation in the way she kissed—only slow surrender, as if she were learning something utterly foreign... yet desperately needed.

Moments later...

Riven felt her tongue slip between his lips. It moved slowly, exploring every edge, every corner... as though marking shared territory.

His hand rose, almost touching her cheek—but stopped short. Not out of fear, but because he knew... if he did, everything would melt too fast.

The kiss was unhurried, but deep. Intense. Binding.

It left no room for thought.

.

.

.

Days passed since the talent testing incident. And in that time, everything shifted faster than Riven could comprehend.

From the very next morning, Lord Rathsture seemed... different.

No longer just a polite host offering them shelter, the old man now showed open fascination with Melly. Not in a troubling way, but more like a grandfather who had suddenly discovered a prodigy he never knew he needed.

That morning, for the third time in a row, Lord Rathsture personally brought breakfast to the back garden—an array of pastries and Melly's favorite dishes, complete with warm herbal tea and delicately arranged fruit.

And it didn't stop there.

After breakfast, the old man sat with Melly beneath the shade of a large tree, explaining the fundamentals of affinity control. He guided her through energy flow and internal resonance, a concept not found in any beginner's manual. His fingers confidently corrected Melly's hand position, and every time she succeeded, he smiled faintly.

Riven watched from a distance.

Silent.

No jealousy. No suspicion.

Just... emptiness.

He knew he wasn't supposed to feel anything. Melly deserved this. She was gifted, gentle, endlessly curious. If anyone deserved such attention and care, it was her.

But deep down, Riven hadn't expected their plans to shift this quickly.

They had come here only to rest. Three days, maybe a week at most, before heading to the capital. They would work like normal people, blend into the crowd, live in the shadows—like always.

But now?

Melly had become the center of a noble's attention.

And he... was sinking deeper into the shadow of a woman he couldn't comprehend.

Days drifted by, weightless and indistinct. Nothing remarkable happened, yet peace never truly settled. Riven and Melly remained in the Rathsture estate, and time moved like thick syrup.

He no longer heard much from the outside world—only bits of gossip and stories carried by servants, tales that sounded more like bloody legends than news.

They said the Fire Dragon, Mordrax, had left its lair and was rampaging across Iskandria, burning every village and city it passed through to ash.

But there was another rumor, far worse.

The Queen of Iskandrite had vanished.

Since the fall of Mordune, no one knew where she had gone. Some claimed she had perished in battle. Others whispered darker things—that she had disappeared on purpose, merging with the darkness she had once unleashed. Some even said she had been slain by a traitor who could no longer bear her madness.

Riven could only listen in silence. There were so many questions he wanted to ask her, but he restrained himself.

It wasn't always wise to seek answers to things one was never meant to know.

Especially when the questions were for someone like Ashtoria.

.

.

.

That afternoon, Riven stood in the back courtyard, facing a massive boulder nearly his height. Since morning, he had been striking it over and over.

His goal was simple: to split it in half.

But the result... nothing.

Each swing left only shallow scratches, and even though the Riftmaker pulsed red-hot with strain, the stone remained whole, mocking him.

Breathing hard, sweat running down his face, Riven swung again—this time from above, with every ounce of strength he had. The clash of steel and stone rang out loud, echoing through the courtyard. Yet again, no result.

"Damn you... you stupid rock!"

He cursed, swinging again and again in frustration.

"Worthless rock!"

"Rotten stone!"

"..."

Until finally—

"Hey!"

A deep, irritated voice came from behind.

Riven stopped and turned.

A knight in armor bearing the Rathsture crest was striding toward him, his face twisted with anger.

"Are you mocking me?! I've held back long enough, but I'm done. How dare you insult me like that!"

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