"Would you like a cup, miss?"

Elara's eyes flicked upward. "Yes."

The woman smiled faintly and began preparing the full pour, carefully ladling from the urn into a finely carved, dark-lipped vessel with silver tracework. The cup itself felt older than the counter it sat on—like something from a noble's temple, not a student dormitory.

Elara took it without comment.

The warmth barely bled through the vessel's sides. The liquid inside moved differently—thicker than tea, but thinner than oil. And when she raised it to her lips, the scent again brushed up against her mind—not forcefully, but like fingers trailing over old glass.

She sipped.

It didn't burn. It didn't soothe.

It lingered.

She was still frowning faintly when the attendant stepped back. "Will that be all?"

Elara nodded. "Yes. Thank you."

The woman offered another brief incline of the head and returned to her work without asking a name.

Good.

Elara didn't linger either. The cup cradled in one palm, cloak settled tight around her shoulders, she turned away from the gentle clatter of pans and the flickering light.

She stepped back into the corridor.

She walked with the cup pressed between her palms, the warmth steady but unmoving. The scent still lingered—low and strange, like something burned into wood a long time ago.

And the taste…

It was gnawing at her now.

Not because it was strong.

Because it was familiar.

Not in the way of memory, not like a childhood meal or an herbal remedy. No. This was something else.

Deeper.

Like an echo caught in her bones, a taste half-remembered from a time she couldn't name.

'Have I had this before…?'

But the thought—like so many lately—slipped through her fingers before she could hold it.

She let it go.

There were more pressing things.

The corridor opened onto the outer vestibule, and the air changed.

A soft pressure of cold. The kind that didn't bite, just reminded you the night still owned this hour. She pushed the outer door open with her shoulder, stepping out into the dark.

The wind caught her immediately, curling under the hem of her cloak like fingers searching for skin.

She inhaled. Deep. The kind of breath that pressed out the ache lodged in her chest.

No one else was out here.

The Academy's dormitory complexes spread wide and slow behind her—rows of dorms, walkways lit by staggered lumens, sigils faintly pulsing at the corners to guide those who'd wander too far. The scent of stone and old trees clung to the night.

But Elara didn't turn toward the other halls.

She turned away.

Her steps quiet over the cobblestone path, she followed it without thought, passing under the arch of creeping vines that hadn't bloomed yet this season. The path curved gently, leading away from the hearth-lit buildings, down toward the lesser courtyard—the place where statues watched and benches remained cold no matter the sun.

The sky above stretched wide, velvet-black, untouched by stars. Clouded over. Still.

She walked slower here.

The cup was lighter now, the taste still thick in her mouth.

But her thoughts?

They had returned.

'That dream… again.'

It had no right to still feel fresh. But it did. Always. The way her mother's voice shattered—because of you. The emptiness in those eyes. The withered hair, the impossible rot of something that had once held her with gentleness.

It should've been dulled by now.

And yet—

'Why… before?'

'Before she even died.'

There was something else threaded through it. Something wrong. Like the dream wasn't just a dream.

She had told herself—again and again—that it was only a dream.

But that had never felt true.

There was weight to it. A density beneath the imagery, like blood buried under snow. It wasn't just grief curling back into the shape of memory. It was something else. Something closer to—

Memory?

Maybe.

But that was the thing, wasn't it?

She didn't remember ever seeing her mother that way.

Not with her eyes like hollowed pits. Not with her voice twisted like rot in velvet.

And yet—she knew it.

Knew the curve of her mother's fingers before they decayed. Knew the inflection in the scream before it ever left those broken lips. As if some part of her had already lived it, long before her mind was shaped enough to hold it.

Not made up.

Not imagined.

But real.

Too real.

She stopped at the edge of the lesser courtyard, the worn stone crunching underfoot. Her breath curled faintly in the still air, and her fingers tightened around the cup—long since cooled, but not yet empty.

A long, low sigh escaped her.

Not from exhaustion.

From the slow, tightening spiral of confusion that never quite unclenched.

'I shouldn't be thinking like this.'

'I should just let it go.'

But she didn't move.

Didn't turn back.

Because the ache had come again. That deep, familiar fog that turned clarity into glass. The sense that something else was beneath all of this—beneath the dream, beneath her exile, beneath even the identity she now wore.

And just as she let her thoughts settle into that silence—

SWOOSH.

A gust. Not wind.

Something cutting wind.

Elara's head snapped up.

Her posture changed.

Gone was the soft, haunted walk of a sleepless girl. In its place—a stance honed by necessity. By danger. The kind that crept, never announced.

She turned slowly, cloak shifting just slightly against her side.

The trees that lined the courtyard edge rustled—but not from breeze. It was directional. Traced. Tracked.

SWOOSH. SWOOSH. SWOOSH.

Again.

Above her now?

No. To the side.

She shifted her stance—one step back, cup lowered without thought, fingers flexing just once.

And then—

SWIRL. FOOSH. CRACK.

Fire.

She heard it before she saw it. The distinct sound of aether igniting—not wild, not uncontrolled. Directed. Controlled enough to split the air.

Flames meeting resistance.

Or was it?

Elara's eyes narrowed.

This didn't feel like a clash. Not the kind mages had when training, or even when bickering. There was no response spell, no counterforce. Just… ignition. Controlled. Singular.

And more than that—

The aura.

It pressed faintly at the edge of her senses. Not overbearing, but unmistakable. Like a scent only the blood could detect. She didn't need to see the caster. She already knew.

"Lucavion."

His flames always carried that strange lilt—too elegant to be brutal, too sharp to be called serene. Fire that moved like a blade being sheathed, not swung. She had felt it once before in battle. She had felt it again during quiet moments neither of them dared to speak aloud.

And now?

She exhaled. A muscle in her jaw ticked.

Not now.

Especially not now.

She turned.

No hesitation, no weight to it. Just the quiet urgency of someone who had no interest in conversation, memory, or men with golden fire in their veins. Not tonight. Not while her skin still remembered her mother's scream.

But she didn't make it more than three steps.

Because then—

She felt it.

First came the cold.

Not the chill of night, not the breeze's brush. But something deeper. A sharp pressure down her spine. The kind that warned every mage of incoming imbalance. Of wild, unshaped magic.

Her fingers clenched reflexively.

Then—

SWIRL.

She spun.

Just in time to see it.

Pitch-black flames.

They curled at her sides like twin serpents, arcing wide, enclosing.

But they didn't touch.

Not at first.

She started to step back—but in that exact moment, something broke.

The fire twitched.

One strand lurched. Just a sliver—too fast, too sharp.

It clipped the edge of her cloak.

Her shoulder jerked instinctively, the cup in her hand nearly spilling as she ducked low, a flash of reaction magic flaring up beneath her skin.

But before she had to release it—

The flames snapped back.

Retracted.

Instantly.

Sucked into a single point like water pulled into a drain. As if they had been called back.

Silence fell again.

"Oh….it was you …"

Then the voice came….

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.