Around midnight, beneath a sky so still it felt as though the world itself had paused to breathe, Lirith slept draped across Ronan's back. Her cheek rested against his shoulder blade, her breath warm through the torn fabric of his shirt—slow, even, untroubled. Each exhale brushed his skin like a quiet reassurance that she was safe.
Ronan adjusted his grip beneath her legs, careful not to jostle her. The movement sent a dull tremor through his arms. Pain answered immediately—sharp in some places, deep and grinding in others. It crawled through his muscles, coiled around his joints, and pressed insistently against his ribs with every step. He didn't let it show. His pace remained steady.
Beside him, Mordek walked in silence for a while, his boots crunching softly against the gravel path. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, but his gaze flickered more often than usual—brief, measuring glances toward Ronan, as if weighing something unspoken.
At last, he broke the quiet. "Ronan," he said, voice low but edged with concern, "how's your body holding up? You pushed that Void Overdrive too far."
Ronan didn't answer immediately. He listened inward instead—to the tight pull of overstrained tendons, the faint trembling buried beneath his control, the way his breath wanted to shorten if he let it. His jaw tightened, then eased.
"There's pain," he admitted, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Everywhere, actually." He shifted Lirith slightly higher. "But nothing serious. Your training helped more than you think, sir. Without it… I'd probably be face-down somewhere back there."
Mordek let out a quiet huff, something between a scoff and a laugh. "Maybe," he said, though the faint lift of his chin betrayed a hint of pride. "But don't brush it off. That technique isn't something you 'handle'—it's something you survive. Most wouldn't last two attempts." His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Ronan. "You didn't even complain."
Ronan let out a soft chuckle, though it came out rougher than he intended. "If I start complaining, I might stop walking."
That earned a brief, sideways glance—and the ghost of a smile from Mordek. Then the older man's expression shifted again, tightening with a more thoughtful weight.
"Ronan…" he began, slower this time, as if testing the words before releasing them. "Are you really human?"
Ronan blinked, caught mid-step. "Yes," he said, a faint crease forming between his brows. "Why?"
Mordek's gaze lingered on him, heavy and searching. "Because what you're doing doesn't line up." He exhaled quietly. "Void Overdrive is one thing. But Phantom Clone…" His jaw flexed. "That technique doesn't belong to your kind."
Ronan's grip on Lirith tightened a fraction. "What do you mean?"
"It was created by Celestials," Mordek said. "They're… different. Less tangled in emotion. Detached." His eyes flicked forward again, watching the path. "Phantom Clone depends on that detachment. The more emotions you carry, the more unstable the clones become. Especially the Rage variant."
Ronan's gaze darkened slightly. "Unstable how?"
"They stop listening," Mordek replied bluntly. "Or worse—they start acting on what you feel, not what you command." He let that settle before adding, quieter, "It's not just a skill. It pulls from you. The deeper you go, the more it drags things up."
Ronan's steps slowed, just a fraction. Inside, something stirred at those words—memories of the clone's eyes, the way it had moved, too sharp, too eager. Not disobedient… but not entirely his either.
"So the stronger it gets," Ronan said slowly, "the more it feeds on… what I carry."
Mordek nodded once. "Exactly. You're waking things better left asleep. And if you lose control—" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
Silence settled between them again, thicker this time.
"…Next time I see Alden," Mordek muttered after a moment, irritation creeping into his tone, "I'm going to ask him what kind of insanity made him teach you that."
Ronan scratched lightly at his cheek, suddenly avoiding Mordek's gaze. "Ah… about that."
Mordek's brow lifted.
"I didn't exactly learn it from him," Ronan admitted, voice quieter. "I kind of… figured it out myself."
Mordek stopped walking.
"…What?"
Ronan slowed too, glancing back with an awkward half-smile. "It just made sense at the time."
For a long second, Mordek simply stared at him. Then he dragged a hand down his face and let out a long, disbelieving breath.
"Of course," he muttered. "That explains everything."
Ronan blinked. "Explains what?"
Mordek shook his head, a short laugh escaping him despite himself. "Why Alden took you in personally." He shot Ronan a look. "Because you're both the same kind of idiot."
Ronan grinned, unoffended. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"You shouldn't," Mordek said flatly—but there was no bite to it now.
Their laughter, quiet and worn at the edges, faded as the academy's guest house came into view.
The garden unfolded before them in soft, silvered light. Stone paths curved gently through clusters of night-blooming flowers, their fragrance hanging faintly in the cool air—sweet, almost intoxicating. At the center stood a bougainvillaea tree, its vines twisting around carved stone benches, petals shimmering faintly as if touched by starlight.
Ronan slowed without meaning to. His gaze lingered on the glow of it, the calm after everything they'd just come through settling over him like a fragile blanket.
"…This is beautiful," he murmured.
Mordek didn't even look. "You can admire it after you collapse. Let's get her inside."
Ronan huffed quietly and followed.
They reached the house at the edge of the garden. Mordek knocked—firm, deliberate.
A moment later, the door opened.
Vexara stood there.
Her eyes moved once over the scene—Ronan's torn, blood-stiff clothes, the dark stains across his arms, the way Lirith hung limply against his back—and whatever she'd been about to say vanished.
The air shifted.
Without a word, she stepped forward and gently lifted Lirith from Ronan's back. The moment the weight left him, Ronan's shoulders dipped almost imperceptibly, his body betraying what he'd been holding together.
Vexara adjusted Lirith in her arms, brushing a strand of hair from her sister's face. Then she looked up.
The glare she fixed on Mordek could have cut steel.
"You were supposed to prevent this."
Ronan's gaze dropped to the ground. His hands moved behind his back, fingers curling slightly. Without Lirith's weight, the ache in his body felt louder—harder to ignore. But it wasn't the pain that made his chest tighten.
Mordek sighed under that stare. "There goes my dignity."
Vexara didn't respond. Her eyes shifted to Ronan instead, sharp and searching.
"I hope," she said slowly, "you weren't the one who started it."
Ronan opened his mouth—then closed it again.
She didn't wait.
Turning, she carried Lirith inside. The door shut with a soft, final click.
For a moment, only the night remained.
Then Mordek exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well," he said lightly, though his tone carried a hint of resignation, "we clearly still have things to discuss." He glanced sideways at Ronan. "Walk to the Ember Hearth Inn?"
Ronan rolled his shoulder, testing the stiffness. "Not a bad idea." He paused, then added, "But I need a bath first. I think I'm leaving a trail behind me."
Mordek snorted. "That would explain the smell."
Ronan shot him a look. "You didn't complain earlier."
"I was being polite."
They started walking again.
After a few steps, Ronan glanced at him. "So… what do you want to know?"
"Everything," Mordek replied immediately—too quickly. He cleared his throat, a faint hint of embarrassment surfacing. "About Phantom Clone. My brother uses it too. He can barely maintain four clones—and only two with distinct emotional alignment. That's after years of training."
Ronan tilted his head slightly. "Your brother uses it?"
Mordek nodded. "He's not much of a fighter. But when it comes to knowledge…" A small, genuine smile touched his lips. "There's no one better. I just want to help him improve."
Ronan considered that for a moment. "It's not that complicated," he said slowly. "You just need to align the core intent. The clones aren't separate from you—they're extensions. If the goal is clear…" He tapped lightly against his chest. "They follow."
Mordek listened carefully, committing each word to memory.
"For me," Ronan continued, voice quieter now, "it's simple. Protect what matters. Get stronger so I don't fail." His gaze drifted ahead. "The clearer that becomes, the easier it is."
Mordek nodded once. "I'll tell him."
Ronan smiled faintly. "If I ever visit your country… I'd like to meet him."
"You will," Mordek said without hesitation. "You'd get along. You're both the type to disappear into books for days."
Ronan shot him a sidelong look.
Mordek laughed. "Don't deny it. I've heard the stories."
By the time they reached the dorms, the quiet of the night had deepened. Mordek waited outside while Ronan stepped in.
Hot water hit his skin—and for the first time since the battle, his control slipped.
The pain surged.
His muscles seized, breath catching sharply as he braced one hand against the wall. The water ran red at first, diluted streams curling toward the drain. He closed his eyes, letting it wash over him, heat seeping into bone-deep exhaustion.
"…Still standing," he muttered under his breath.
By the time he stepped out, steam clung to his skin, and the worst of the tremors had faded.
Later, the Ember Hearth Inn welcomed them with warmth and noise—a stark contrast to the stillness outside. Lanterns glowed amber against polished wood, voices overlapped in low conversation, and the scent of spiced food and aged drink filled the air.
They took a quieter corner.
Time slipped there.
Between sips and shared plates, their conversation stretched—less guarded now. Techniques, failures, small victories, half-forgotten lessons. Not just battle, but the spaces between it. Something unspoken settled into place—a mutual understanding carved from strain, persistence, and the kind of exhaustion only warriors recognized in each other.
Morning came gently.
A pale mist lingered around Mindward Tower, its towering form cutting into the soft gold of early light. The cobbled path beneath it was damp, the air cool and faintly crisp.
Lirith stood beside Vexara, fingers curled tightly around the gemstone at her throat. Her lips moved in a quiet murmur, barely audible.
"Big brother…"
The words trembled as they left her.
Vexara crossed her arms, gaze fixed ahead, posture composed—but her foot tapped once against the stone, betraying her impatience.
An instructor with silver-streaked hair stepped forward, eyes sharp. "Vexara. Where is Mordek? We depart soon."
Vexara shrugged, the motion casual—too casual. "Not in his room," she said. "He'll show up."
Her gaze flicked briefly to Lirith, then away.
Inside, her thoughts were far less composed.
Ronan… if you don't show up—
Her jaw tightened slightly.
Next time I see you, I won't be so forgiving.