The soft glow of the lanterns cast long, dancing shadows across the newly repaired walls of the Scarlet Hearth. The scent of warm bread and spiced stew lingered in the air, a comforting balm after the day's chaos. Outside, the streets had finally gone quiet. Too quiet. The undead had retreated, leaving behind broken stone, scorched marks, and a city holding its breath.
I moved through the dining area with practiced, almost uncanny mimicry of Lencar—wiping down tables, setting chairs upright, restoring order where chaos had clawed its way in. On the surface, I was calm. Methodical.
Inside, my thoughts were anything but.
Every movement was deliberate. Every glance measured. The illusion—an intricate weave of Thread Magic, concealment layers, and the subtle artifact Lencar had designed—hummed faintly against my skin. Holding his form wasn't painless. My muscles ached from restraint, from suppressing my own habits, my own posture.
It wasn't just his height or his gait.
It was the way he carried himself. The slight tilt of his head when observing something unfamiliar. The quiet intensity in his eyes, never sharp, never dull—always calculating.
I had studied him for weeks. Not casually. Carefully. I had memorized the rhythm of his steps, the pauses before he spoke, the way his gaze always seemed half a second ahead of his body. Even now, I catalogued myself, correcting tiny deviations before they could surface.
Rebecca moved about the kitchen, seemingly unaware. She hummed softly, red hair slipping loose from its bun, flour dusting her apron. The normalcy felt surreal after the screaming, the running, the smell of blood and smoke that had soaked into the capital only hours ago.
Upstairs, Luca and Milly slept. Their faint snores drifted down through the floorboards—soft, uneven, fragile. Proof that the day had taken everything out of them.
I bent to pick up a fallen napkin, smoothing it between my fingers before placing it back on the counter.
"The last customers were quite generous," I said.
My voice was his. Low. Even. Devoid of inflection unless necessary. The words felt wrong in my mouth, stripped of my usual sharpness.
Rebecca glanced over her shoulder and smiled, tired but sincere. "They were. Everyone's grateful, Lencar. You really… you really saved us today."
Her eyes met mine.
"I don't know what we would have done without you."
Something twisted in my chest.
Not guilt. Not exactly.
The discomfort of standing in someone else's place.
I nodded once. Just once. "It was necessary."
She wiped her hands on a cloth, studying me now—not openly, but not subtly either.
"You've been… different," she said.
I continued polishing a glass. "Define 'different.'"
Her lips curved faintly, but the smile didn't last. "Since earlier. After you went out to deal with the undead."
That was better. That was closer to the truth.
"You seem calmer," she continued. "Even more than usual."
I didn't look at her. "The situation required control."
"Maybe," she said. "But when you came back before… you smelled like smoke. Your sleeves were burned. You had that cut on your hand."
I paused for half a heartbeat, then resumed.
"And now," she added softly, stepping closer, "you smell like nothing. Like clean air."
Her gaze sharpened.
"And when the barrier shook earlier… you didn't flinch. You didn't brace. You just moved."
Too observant.
Lencar's instructions echoed in my head—minimal interaction, no unnecessary elaboration—and I forced my posture to relax slightly, mimicking the way he dismissed concerns he didn't want to entertain.
"Experience," I said. "The capital was instructive."
Rebecca leaned against the counter, folding her arms.
"You usually come back with soot on your cloak," she said. "Or a tear you don't bother fixing. Today, you're perfect. Not a single thread out of place."
Her eyes swept over me, lingering.
"And you fixed the broken table instantly. No muttering. No recalculating. That usually takes you a few minutes."
My heartbeat spiked.
I had overdone it.
Lencar was precise, yes—but he was also human. He adjusted. He tested. He cursed under his breath when runes didn't align. My own Thread Magic favored clean execution. Too clean.
"Efficiency improves," I replied.
Even to my own ears, the words sounded hollow.
Rebecca pushed off the counter and slowly circled me, her gaze never leaving my face.
"You're always careful," she said quietly. "Always calculating. But you always leave something behind. A hum. A trace. A presence."
She stopped in front of me.
"Right now… there's nothing."
My breath caught.
"Your mana is too quiet," she whispered. "Not restrained. Quiet. Like you're not even here."
She was sensing the concealment. The way my aura folded inward instead of pressing outward. Lencar's mana, even controlled, had weight. Mine shimmered—contained, precise, restrained by design.
"I refined my control," I said.
She shook her head.
"No."
She reached out, stopping just short of touching my face. I didn't recoil—but every instinct screamed to.
"Your eyes," she said, voice trembling. "They're wrong."
The illusion wavered, just barely.
"Lencar's eyes always look tired," she continued. "Even when he's calm. There's always something there. Something human."
Her hand fell.
"And you don't have it."
Fear crossed her face—not fear of me.
Fear for him.
"You're not Lencar," she said.
The words hung between us, fragile and sharp.
"Where is he?" she asked. "Is he hurt?"
The illusion strained, threads vibrating under pressure.
"I know he's involved in dangerous things," she continued, voice breaking. "I tried not to ask. I trusted him. But if something happened—"
She swallowed hard.
"I need to know."
Silence pressed down on us.
The undead were gone. The danger had passed. There was no fight left to force, no distraction to hide behind.
Just her.
Just me.
The lantern light flickered across her face, illuminating the worry etched there, the exhaustion, the resolve.
The illusion trembled.
And finally, she asked the question she had been circling all along.
"…Who are you?"