Damien opened his eyes slowly, his breath still ragged and uneven from the nightmare that had just torn through his mind. The echoes of screams and the sight of corpses still lingered in the back of his consciousness, making his chest heavy and his skin clammy with sweat. As his vision cleared, the first thing he saw was a pair of pale, luminous eyes staring back at him.
Evraine was leaning over him, her face filled with worry, her brows drawn together, and her lips parted as if she had just been on the verge of calling his name. Her hand was resting gently against his cheek, soft and cool, the touch carrying both comfort and fragrance. For a moment, he simply lay there, absorbing the strange warmth in her expression. Then, slowly, her hand slipped away, and Damien's head shifted, dropping sideways until it rested against something even softer.
His cheek pressed against the fabric of her academy uniform, and he froze when he realized where he was. His head was resting on her lap, the curve of her thighs supporting him with surprising comfort.
A whisper escaped him before he could stop himself. "...It's so soft and...so comfortable."
The words left his lips with disarming honesty, and only then did Evraine truly grasp their position. Her entire body stiffened, and a vivid flush crept up her neck before rushing into her cheeks, turning her porcelain face bright red. The situation was far too intimate, too improper—she had never once let someone get this close to her, much less a boy she had only just met yesterday. Her hands twitched nervously at her sides as she searched for her composure.
"J-Junior…" she stammered, her voice unusually unsteady. "Perhaps… perhaps you can get up now?"
Damien tilted his head slightly, still lying against her, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but also oddly calm. "Is my head very heavy? Am I hurting you?"
Her heart skipped, and she shook her head quickly, though her voice trembled. "N-No… not at all."
"Then," Damien said seriously, his tone devoid of teasing, "I'll stay like this for a while longer. It's… very comfortable. And soft."
Evraine's face burned hotter than before, her hands curling into fists in her lap. She could see it—he wasn't playing games, nor was he trying to take advantage of her. Thanks to her talent granted from Valemont name, she could sense emotions, the subtle radiance of intent behind words and gestures. And what she felt from Damien at that moment was sincerity, almost childlike in its simplicity. He was being honest, far too honest, and that was what made it even harder for her to endure.
Inside Damien's mind, Albert was practically roaring. This brat! What in the world is he doing?! Again? Without even trying, he pulls a move on a girl like this?! And so shamelessly at that! Where did he learn this kind of skill? Albert wanted to slam his head against a wall out of sheer exasperation.
The two remained like that for a long while, silence stretching comfortably between them. Gradually, Evraine's hammering heart began to calm down, her breathing growing steady. And as she relaxed, she remembered why this entire situation had begun.
When she had entered the room earlier that morning, bringing food for Damien and intending only to check on his progress, she had found him writhing on the cold floor, his body drenched in sweat, his hands clutching his head as if he were being torn apart from the inside. His screams had echoed against the walls, desperate and raw, filling the room with a sense of unbearable pain. She had rushed to his side, shaken him, called his name, tried everything to wake him—but nothing had worked.
What struck her most was the emotions radiating off him. Her talent allowed her to perceive them as if they were tangible waves. And what she felt in that moment was fear—pure, suffocating terror that seemed to swallow him whole. She had never felt emotions that dark, that overwhelming, not even in her own nightmares.
In desperation, she had done the only thing she could think of. She had lifted his head into her lap, recalling how her mother used to soothe her when she was a child tormented by bad dreams. And miraculously, he had calmed, if only slightly. She hadn't expected him to wake so suddenly, nor for things to become… like this.
Now, calmed from her initial embarrassment, Evraine finally asked the question weighing on her mind. Her voice was quieter, gentler. "Junior… what happened to you just now?"
Damien kept his eyes closed, still resting on her lap, his body no longer trembling but heavy with fatigue. After a long pause, he spoke. "It was just another nightmare. I've had them for as long as I can remember."
"Nightmares?" she repeated softly, frowning.
"Yes. Daily nightmares," he said flatly, as if the words were an ordinary part of his life. "Every night since childhood, I've been haunted by them. No matter what I do, they never stop. They're always there, waiting for me. Tonight was no different… except this time, I was training and I fell asleep here. That's when it happened."
Evraine's lips parted in surprise. "Daily… since childhood?"
Damien's voice was steady, but there was a faint weight behind it. "Yes. Every single day."
Evraine listened in silence, her hands tightening against her knees. Pity and sadness welled inside her chest as she absorbed his words. She thought of her own childhood—her mother's gentle hand stroking her hair when she cried, the comfort of warmth and safety when fear threatened her sleep. And here was Damien, who had faced horrors alone every single night, without anyone to shield him. The contrast struck her deeply, and for the first time, she felt a pang of guilt for the privileges she had always taken for granted.
After a while, Damien finally sat up beside her, brushing his hair back and letting out a quiet breath. He glanced at her, his expression calmer now, and said softly, "Thank you, Senior. For everything."
His eyes then drifted toward the food she had placed earlier. Evraine followed his gaze and noticed what he was staring at—the food from last night, untouched and still sitting neatly where she had left it.
"You should eat," she said firmly. "You didn't touch the food from last night either. For a body cultivator, nourishment is essential. You won't last long if you keep ignoring it."
Damien gave a faint nod, but when he looked down at himself, he frowned in disgust. Sweat clung to his skin, his clothes were filthy, and his body reeked from training and his nightmare thrashing. His usually composed expression twisted in a way Evraine hadn't seen before—she realized, with faint amusement, that it was probably the first time she'd seen him show any emotion on his face.
"I'll freshen up first," he muttered quickly, rising to his feet and hurrying to the private washroom.
Evraine couldn't help but laugh quietly to herself. The ever-serious Damien, who always carried himself with a stoic air, now looked almost girlish in his flustered disgust. It was… strangely endearing.
But when Damien finished washing, another problem arose. He hadn't thought about a change of clothes. Standing awkwardly behind the door, he poked his head out, his expression uncharacteristically hesitant.
"Senior…" he called carefully.
Evraine approached, raising a brow. "What is it?"
"Do you… have any spare clothes?"
Her lips curled into a smile, and she covered it with a hand to suppress her laugh. "Throw out the ones you're wearing," she said.
Confused, Damien did as she asked, tossing his dirty clothes out the door. To his astonishment, Evraine simply lifted her hand, murmured a spell, and the garments lifted into the air, glowing faintly as the filth and sweat evaporated from them. Within seconds, they were clean, neatly folded, and floated toward him.
He stood dumbfounded, staring at the miracle, before taking them with stiff hands and dressing. When he emerged from the washroom, he found that the room had changed yet again. The food was unpacked, two chairs and a table had appeared, and everything was arranged with care.
His stomach growled loudly, and he sat down immediately, his eyes falling on the spread before him. "Do you… have cutlery?" he asked, almost sheepishly.
Evraine blinked, then with a flick of her wrist, silver cutlery shimmered into being on the table. She sat opposite him and watched as Damien began to eat.
But what struck her wasn't how much he ate—it was how he ate. He consumed the food hungrily, clearly driven by need, but at the same time, every movement was graceful, refined, almost noble in its poise. The contrast was surreal: an orphan boy eating like a starving wolf, yet with the elegance of a high-born aristocrat. For a moment, Evraine felt the strange illusion that their roles had been reversed, and she was the commoner while he was the noble.
Unable to suppress her curiosity, she finally asked, "Who taught you this?"
Damien placed his cutlery down with deliberate care, his posture composed as he replied. "Miss Beckar. She was one of the caretakers of the orphanage. She taught all of us discipline, etiquette, the mannerisms of nobles. She believed it was important, even if we were only orphans."
Evraine's eyes widened slightly. "To this level? Most noble families don't even teach their own children with such precision."
Damien's brow furrowed faintly as her words sank in. He, too, had always wondered about Miss Beckar, but hearing Evraine's surprise made him question it more. Could she really have been just a normal mortal caretaker? But after a moment, he shook his head and pushed the thought away. Speculation would do nothing.
He finished eating in silence, and Evraine set her hands neatly on her lap before standing. She waved her hand, straightening her uniform, smoothing her skirt, and adjusting her jacket. "I'll head to my classes. Tonight, I'll return for training."
Damien rose with her, bowing his head lightly. "Thank you, Senior. For everything." Then, suddenly, he raised his eyes and said, "Please, come closer for a moment."
She blinked in confusion but sensed no ill intent from him. Slowly, she stepped forward until she stood right before him.
Without hesitation, Damien reached out, his face deadly serious. He adjusted her tie, smoothed her collar, tugged her sleeves into perfect alignment. His hands moved with meticulous precision, brushing against her uniform as he circled around her, checking every detail as if preparing her for a formal inspection.
Evraine's entire body tensed, her face flushing a deep red once again. He wasn't being improper—his focus was genuine, almost soldier-like in its intensity—but the closeness, the sensation of his hands brushing lightly over her, made her pulse race uncontrollably.
Finally, Damien stepped back, nodding with satisfaction. "There. Now you can go."
Evraine's heart was in turmoil. Her face was hot, her chest tight, but there was something else beneath the embarrassment, something she couldn't quite name. Fleeing before he could notice, she turned on her heel and rushed out of the room, her long hair trailing behind her.
Damien watched her go, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he sat back down, closing his eyes as he prepared for the long day ahead.