"What are you doing?"
The words weren't loud, but they cut. Sliced through the illusion field sharper than Lucavion's blade ever could.
Dain scoffed, rolling his shoulder back. "Why are you standing in the way of my spell?"
Lucavion didn't answer at first. Just looked down at his torn coat. Then touched the cut on his side with two fingers, checking the blood like it wasn't even his.
Then—
He laughed.
Not loud.
Not bitter.
Just a quiet, breathy thing that curled at the edge of his voice like smoke rising off a battlefield—too amused to be angry, too aware to be surprised.
He shook his head once, then looked up again, still crouched on one knee, blood on his side, dust on his coat. His eyes found the instructor.
"Just checking," he said lazily, voice carrying with the wind. "This kind of thing normal?"
The instructor didn't flinch. Not even a shift in his robes. Just that perfectly trained stillness.
