The stars above faded into the brightness of morning. But Lucavion's gaze lingered on where they had been, his thoughts already sinking backward—into then.
Into the time before his master departed from this world.
The memory slid in like mist, soft and slow.
The air was thick with the dry scent of old grass and metal—a soldier's camp on the edge of nowhere, where tents flapped like tired flags and the scent of iron never left your fingers. The sun had begun to set then, smearing the sky in rusted gold as soldiers finished their drills and scattered to routine.
But Lucavion was still.
Seated cross-legged, his back straight, a thin layer of sweat beading down his spine, he focused with every fiber of himself.
Circulate. Flow. Anchor. Expand.
His breath came slow. Measured. Chest rising with the rhythm of internal chants that sounded so natural in textbooks and so damn chaotic in practice.
And yet…
Nothing.
The starlight refused to respond.
