Toren let out a rough exhale, dragging a hand through his hair with the energy of someone trying to untangle a thought too large for his skull.
"Gods above," he muttered, voice tight with reluctant exasperation. "I really don't like things like this."
He looked up at the others, eyes wide, hands thrown in a helpless half-gesture.
"Why are we—us, of all people—getting tangled in this mess? Factions? Bloodlines? Political war disguised as etiquette? I didn't come here to duel philosophies, Luc. I came to train. To survive."
His voice caught, not quite broken—but thin. Almost boyish in the quiet. Almost tired.
Lucavion didn't flinch.
He just shrugged.
"That's life," he said simply.
Two words. So casual. But behind them—steel.
Toren stared at him for a second longer, then just laughed once, low and bitter, running a hand over his face. "Well. That's shit."
Before any of them could respond, a presence cast itself over the garden like a sudden eclipse.
Kaleran.
