Elara's breath stopped—just for a moment.

The words weren't loud.

But they were sharp.

"You're not that good at lying."

She stilled, the world narrowing to the space between them. Her fingers curled tighter around the empty cup. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her gaze—cutting straight into his.

Lucavion didn't look away.

His eyes—black as ink, deep as carved obsidian—were already watching her.

Not the smug, careless kind of watching she'd grown used to from him. No. This was something else. Something quieter. Still sharp. Still damnably knowing. But quieter.

His smirk was still there, yes—but it had changed.

It wasn't the same taunting curve he wore during drills, or the lazy one he used to tease girls who flustered under his stare. It wasn't even the cocky grin he had when she called him an idiot and he agreed, just to annoy her.

It was smaller now.

Subtler.

Like something unspoken behind it held too much weight for words.

And it was familiar.

Too familiar.

She'd seen that look before.

Stormhaven.

The first evening, after the skirmish against monsters of the first wave, the first wave that had tired her quite a lot.

He hadn't said anything then either—just handed her his flask, leaned back on a shattered wall, and stared at the ruined horizon with that same ghost of a smile.

That same look.

As if he knew.

As if he always knew.

Her stomach twisted—half fury, half something she refused to name.

And still—he looked at her.

Through her.

Like he saw the lie she told and the wound beneath it. Like he'd already picked it apart with his eyes and was waiting to see if she'd pretend it never happened.

Elara's lips thinned.

Her jaw tightened.

She hated that he didn't buy it. Hated it with a sharp, tight fury that sat like steel beneath her ribs.

"I wasn't lying," she snapped, the words clipped, too fast.

Lucavion raised one brow slowly.

"Hmm…"

Lucavion's hand rose—lazy, fluid—as if he had all the time in the world.

And with one gloved finger, he pointed.

To her face.

"Didn't I just say it?" he murmured, his voice low and light as silk. "You're not good at lying."

The calmness of it—the near amusement in his tone—was what did it.

Elara trembled.

Just once.

It wasn't fear. Not hesitation. It was the tremor of barely restrained anger—the kind that curled up in the chest and whispered don't give him the satisfaction.

Her lips parted to retort—but then—

Lucavion laughed.

A full, unguarded sound. Deep from the chest.

"Ha," he exhaled. "Hahaha… Dear Elowyn, don't glare at me like that. You'll burn me worse than my own flames."

He grinned, sharp and boyish and altogether too pleased with himself.

And then—foosh—a flick of his hand.

A flame sparked into being at his fingertips. Not red. Not gold.

Black.

Shadow-flame, smooth and flickering like ink turned molten, curled up from his palm in a slow spiral.

"This early in the morning…" he said, watching the fire dance above his knuckles, "I never thought I'd be having so much fun."

The glow of it lit the sharpness of his jaw. Made his eyes gleam. For a moment, he looked like a spirit out of a myth. Or a demon out of someone's past.

Elara narrowed her eyes.

She'd had enough.

"This early in the morning," she snapped, "what are you even doing?"

Lucavion blinked.

As if she'd asked whether water was wet.

"What am I doing?" he echoed. "Training. Of course."

"Training," she repeated, flat. "This early?"

"Hmm?" He tilted his head, black flame still curling lazily above his fingers. "Is that a problem?"

She didn't answer.

Not at first.

Because a problem…?

It felt like one.

Lucavion—Luca—whichever version of him she dealt with….

One had always been too smug, too casual, too clever for his own good.

In Stormhaven, he'd flirted with death and rules in equal measure. And afterward… well, she didn't think of that.

As for the other one….

Let's not repeat that again and again.

But then again, how could she…

How could she think of him as someone who rose before dawn to train?

Especially not like this.

Especially not alone.

Especially not unleashing those flames.

Her mind turned it over, slow and precise.

Most awakened used early hours for cultivation—internal work. Meditation. Absorption. Not for raw fire, and certainly not for experimental displays in the middle of empty courtyards.

She watched the way his flames curled—slow at first, but sharper now. They shifted again, flickering at the edges. Not erratic. Not quite unstable.

But unorthodox.

"You sure that was just training?" she asked, eyes narrowing.

Lucavion tilted his head at her question, flame still gently curling around his hand. His smile—lazy, practiced—never faltered.

"What else would it be?" he asked, voice light, almost bored. "A morning picnic?"

Elara's eyes narrowed to slits.

She stepped forward. Just enough to make her voice drop into a colder register. Just enough to cut the distance where her words would sting more.

"Still dark," she said evenly, "not even the second bell. No one around. You're in the woods, unleashing flames that are nearly silent but dense enough to ripple the aether."

Lucavion's smile twitched—just barely. That was all she needed.

"And not just flames," she went on, stepping once more, slower this time. "Controlled. Focused. Restrained. The kind that would go unnoticed unless someone was already paying attention. Unless they were…" she lifted a brow, "hiding it."

He didn't interrupt.

He didn't have to.

Because she wasn't done.

"I almost missed it, you know," she added, her tone sharpening. "The pressure was off. The pulse, muffled. You did a very good job of folding your presence. If I hadn't been walking this way—if I hadn't been this close—I wouldn't have noticed at all."

Lucavion's eyes flicked. A fraction of a breath.

But to Elara, it was as loud as thunder.

And then—her voice lowered, not into softness, but steel.

"And when I did notice… it wasn't just power I felt."

She stared hard at him. "It was presentation."

Now he blinked.

Just once.

But that, too, was enough.

"You weren't just releasing mana," she said. "You let it crawl. You curved your flames through the air like they were part of a play. Dramatic. Sharp. Intentional."

Her tone cut sharper now—more clipped, more pointed.

"As if you were sending a message."

Lucavion said nothing.

His flame, though—it twitched.

Just once.

And Elara's voice dropped even lower, colder than before.

"And let's not forget…" she added, "I kept quite a bit of distance from you. Enough that, if you were truly training, your focus would've been inward. On your form. Your breathing. Your energy flow."

She tilted her head.

"But you sensed me."

She stepped even closer, now nearly toe-to-toe.

"Instantly."

He didn't move.

Didn't smile, or did anything like he would usually do.

Elara stared up at him, her voice quiet and measured now, but sharper than any blade:

"Wouldn't it make more sense to assume you weren't training at all… but doing something you didn't want to be caught doing? Something sketchy enough to suppress your signature and flare your power in preemptive defense?"

Lucavion's lips parted.

But Elara kept going, voice like frost.

"You were tense. You were waiting for detection. That's why I even noticed you at all. Because you were searching."

Her eyes narrowed.

"So, Lucavion—"

Pause.

"—what exactly were you really doing out here?"

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