"You didn't know what it was, did you?" she asked quietly, the words threading between the space of their paused clash.
Lucavion blinked once. His guard didn't drop. But his voice came steady.
"...That's right."
He straightened slightly—not in surrender, but in honesty. His blade remained at his side, not lowered, but no longer striking.
"I just remembered the smell," he said. "From my memory. That's it. I don't know what the tea is called at all."
Elara's feet stopped moving.
Her hand lowered—just an inch.
The frost still pulsed beneath them both, but now it felt like it held its breath with her.
She stared at him.
And for that one suspended second, her chest tightened—not with rage, but something stranger. Less certain. Something that hollowed her out before it could solidify into emotion.
But then—
That hollow, sharp ache at the center of her chest—
Vanished.
Like breath exhaled into winter air. Gone before she could decide what to call it.
She blinked once, slow.
