Elara said nothing.
Not at first.
Her posture didn't shift, but something in the line of her shoulders went still. Still—not like composure. Still like something stopped moving inside her.
The crowd murmured and swelled behind them, a sea of voices rising with each electric burst. Aurelian was still muttering excitedly under his breath, tracking spell patterns and power fluxes. Selphine's arms were crossed now, sharp-eyed and calculating. Cedric stood unmoving beside her, gaze flickering between the illusion and Elara's unreadable profile.
But Elara—she wasn't watching the spellcraft anymore.
She was watching the smile.
The way the boy—no, the performer—grinned, even as fire sparked across his boots and chaos whirled around him.
He didn't just fight. He played. As if the battlefield were his stage, and every close call was a cue. That devil-may-care glint in his eyes, that lopsided smirk like he knew the world was about to burn and couldn't wait to ask it for a dance—
