"Like it knew her."
As he said that, Gerald shook his head faintly, lips twitching at the memory.
"I'd spent decades crafting starlight—refining it, molding it to match my rhythm, my will. And this girl, this nameless child who could barely hold a blade, stood next to it and the damn thing danced with her like it had been waiting its whole existence for her to show up."
Lucavion exhaled, a quiet mix of awe and confusion. "That's... rare."
"It's unheard of," Gerald said bluntly. "Not even the old cultivators from the Azure Libraries recorded something like that. And you know what the worst part was?"
Lucavion tilted his head. "What?"
"She couldn't use it."
Lucavion blinked. "But you said it responded to her."
"It did," Gerald nodded. "But that's just it. It wanted to respond. But she couldn't do anything with it. It slipped through her fingers like water."
Gerald looked into Lucavion's eyes then—longer than necessary, gaze steady and unreadable.
