"Kid… you're familiar with that, aren't you?"
Lucavion fell silent.
Not the silence of dismissal—but the kind that sinks deep. The kind that tugs at buried memories and presses against scars that no longer bleed but still ache.
He stared at the dirt in front of him, yet his eyes weren't seeing it.
He was remembering.
The cold stone of the old courtyard. The dust rising with every stomp of his feet. The blisters splitting open across his palms from a spear haft gripped too tightly. The barked orders of instructors. The impatient sighs of family watching from shaded balconies. His siblings—flawless in form, graceful in motion. Effortless.
And him?
Awkward. Slow. Too stiff where he needed to be fluid. Too tense where he should have flowed. Every movement echoing with "almost." Almost right. Almost good. Almost enough.
And never, ever quite there.
