"Oh… it was you…"
The voice.
That voice.
Soft. Measured. Light—not in weight, but in intent. The kind of voice that always seemed halfway between disinterest and amusement. The kind that never rose unless it meant to.
Elara turned her head slightly, not fully facing it. She didn't need to.
She knew that voice.
Lucavion.
And there he was.
Stepping from the line of trees as if the night had carved a doorway just for him.
The flames had vanished—but their memory clung to his presence like a scent on silk.
He looked… unbothered.
Hair damp at the edges, as if he'd only recently doused sweat. Golden strands curled slightly near the nape of his neck, catching what little light the moonless sky allowed. His usual layers were gone—no cloak, no armor, not even the ornamental bands he sometimes wore at formal drills.
Just the slim-cut training attire of the Academy.
