The morning sun had only just begun to gild the rooftops of Marrowlight Market when Luke stepped out into the waking world beyond Crystal College. The cobblestone streets, still slick from dawn mist, bustled with energy—vendors unrolling banners laced with enchantments, merchants hawking glowing trinkets, and illusionists casting playful charms for passing children. Magic thrummed in the air like static, subtle but constant.
Luke moved through the noise with calculated calm, his cloak drawn over his shoulders, his expression unreadable. His presence parted crowds not by force but by reputation. Since the Crystal Tournament, students and townsfolk alike had started recognizing him. Some whispered his name with awe. Others with suspicion. Luke ignored them all.
He wasn't here for attention. He was here for supplies.
Within an hour, his satchel bulged with magical reagents, preserved spell components, and enough food to last the week. Coins weren't an issue—his knowledge of the VR-world-turned-reality had made him wealthy in record time. But as he rounded a quiet alley, reviewing his list, a sharp tug on his satchel snapped him from his thoughts.
He turned swiftly. A blur of silver darted down the alley—a girl, lean and ragged, clutching a pouch of valuables and his identity crystal. She moved with feral grace, feet barely skimming the ground, her long silver hair streaming like a comet behind her.
"Stop!" Luke called, his voice sharp but steady.
She didn't.
He chased her without hesitation, weaving through the narrow backstreets. Though fast, she wasn't faster than him—not with reflexes honed by battles and instinct sharpened by betrayal. He cornered her at a dry fountain, the cracked stone glowing faintly from the runoff of old enchantments.
The girl whirled, red eyes blazing. She bared her teeth—too sharp, too white—and crouched low, defensive. Her breathing was shallow, her thin shoulders tense like a wild animal backed into a trap.
"I didn't take much," she hissed. "You're rich. I'm starving."
Luke didn't respond right away. He studied her. Pale skin, silver hair matted from dirt and exposure. Her clothes were a patchwork of stolen fabric—cloak fragments, torn gloves, threadbare boots with reinforced soles. But her most striking features were her eyes—deep blood-red, glowing faintly even in daylight—and the subtle horns barely peeking through her bangs.
A demon.
Not a costume. Not a glamour.
A real, living, hungry demon girl.
Luke stepped forward. She flinched.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said flatly. "Give me back the identity card."
She hesitated, then tossed it to the ground at his feet. Her fingers, still stained with sugar from a stolen pastry, clenched into fists. "What now?" she snapped. "Going to report me? Bind me with a seal? Make an example of the stray demon girl?"
Luke bent down, retrieved the card, and examined her again. She was no threat—yet. But the aura around her was unmistakable: untamed magic, raw and volatile. She was powerful, even if she didn't know it yet.
"Come with me," he said suddenly.
She blinked. "What?"
"You can stay in my dorm. Food, warmth, safety—if you earn it."
Her eyes narrowed, flicking to the weighty satchel at his side. "So what's the price?"
"Help with chores. Don't steal from me. Stay quiet. You break the rules, you're gone."
She stared at him for several seconds, torn between suspicion and curiosity. "Why?" she finally asked. "Why would you help me?"
Luke's expression didn't change. "Because I don't like leaving things unfinished."
She snorted softly. "You're a strange one."
"Deal or not?"
A pause. Then: "Fine."
They returned through side streets, avoiding attention. She walked behind him in silence, clutching a fresh roll he had offered along the way. Her eyes constantly scanned their surroundings, never letting her guard down. When they reached the dorm, she hovered at the threshold like an animal unsure if the trap had sprung.
Luke stepped aside. "Come in."
The dormitory was modest by academy standards—one room, a spell-inscribed window, a kitchenette, and enough wards to keep intruders out. She stood in the doorway for a long moment, her fingers brushing the wooden frame like she expected it to vanish.
He watched her, noting how even warmth made her uneasy.
"This is your space now," he said. "Don't make me regret it."
She didn't reply. Just walked in slowly, examining the room with cautious curiosity. Her gaze lingered on the floating lights, the rune-carved furniture, and the game console tucked under his desk.
After a while, he turned to her. "You said you don't have a name?"
She shook her head. "Demon kids don't usually get them. Names make us easier to track."
Luke studied her—her quiet fire, her stubborn pride, her jagged edges. She reminded him, strangely, of someone he couldn't name. Someone he might have lost.
"How about Amara?" he said. "It means strength."
She tilted her head. "Sounds… nice."
"So?"
"I'll keep it," she said after a beat. "At least for now."
Over the next few days, Amara kept her distance but stayed. She slept curled up on the couch, ate in silence, and watched him with wary eyes. But she kept her promise—no stealing, no lies. When asked to help, she did. When given food, she said nothing but ate every bite.
Eventually, the silence between them grew comfortable. Luke didn't press her for answers, and she didn't ask for pity. But in small ways, trust began to bloom—in the shared breakfasts, the occasional sarcastic jab, the rare laugh when he muttered something too dry for her to ignore.
The rest of the academy wasn't as quiet.
Rumors flew fast. Some called her a "demon servant." Others warned that Luke was consorting with dangerous creatures. Luke didn't bother responding.
Let them talk.
They didn't matter.
One evening, while Luke reviewed combat glyphs by the hearth, Amara sat cross-legged nearby, chewing on a biscuit with powdered sugar clinging to her lips. The flickering firelight danced across her silver hair and red eyes—eyes that once held only suspicion, but now, held something quieter. Curious. Searching.
"You're not like the others," she said suddenly, breaking the silence. "You don't flinch when you look at me."
"I've seen worse," Luke replied without looking up.
She gave a crooked smile. "Yeah, you strike me as someone with a long list of bad memories."
He didn't answer.
Then, more softly, she added, "Thanks. For not treating me like a monster."
Luke paused, fingers resting on the edge of the glyph-laced page. Slowly, he met her eyes. "Don't make me regret it."
She didn't smile this time. Instead, she held his gaze and nodded. "I won't. And if I ever do... you'll tell me. Right?"
There was a beat of silence. Then, for the first time, Luke's expression eased. "Yeah. I will."
She leaned back against the wall, exhaling. "Then I guess that means I can stay. At least for a while."
He didn't argue. Didn't push her away.
Instead, he slid a fresh page toward her on the low table—blank, save for a single drawn rune in the corner. "Want to learn how to trace these?"
Amara blinked. It wasn't much. But it was something. A beginning.
She scooted closer, brushing sugar from her fingers, and picked up the pencil.
For the first time in a long while, neither of them felt quite so alone.
In time, they grew like siblings, and then something more than that...