Varen’s gaze didn’t waver.
Didn’t flinch.
But sothing behind his eyes shifted.
A quiet draw of breath.
A flicker of mory.
Like an ember, still hot beneath the ash.
Lucavion’s smirk lingered—untouched by tension, untouched by ti. He was always like that. Wearing chaos like a coat. Wearing challenge like perfu. Unbothered. Always unbothered.
But Varen...
Varen rembered.
Not the outco of their match.
Not the crowd.
Not even the final clash that split the arena’s platform.
What he rembered—
Was how he had fought.
Back then—
His sword had not been clean.
Not refined.
It had howled.
He had howled.
Internally, of course. Outwardly, his grip had been firm. His footwork impeccable. The crowd whispered of his technique, of how the Silver Fla’s heir had burned brighter than ever before.
But they hadn’t felt it.
Not the way Lucavion did.
They didn’t feel how the fire had scorched, not ward.
Didn’t see how the blade trembled—not with excitent, but with resentnt.
Didn’t sense how every step, every motion, carried the ghost of a woman with silver eyes and venom behind her smile.
Lira.
He’d fought Lucavion with her in his lungs.
Not as a rival.
As an exorcism.
And that had been the mistake.
’I was trying to win,’ Varen thought now, the thought cool and quiet in his chest. ’But I wasn’t fighting him. I was fighting her.’
He rembered it all too clearly.
The way his dragon flas had flared too high. Too unstable.
The way Lucavion had dodged—not out of fear, but like a man watching a storm unravel itself.
That grin. That damn grin.
Not mocking. Not cruel. Just... curious.
Like he was learning sothing from him.
Even while being nearly overwheld.
It had infuriated Varen.
Back then.
He hadn’t understood it.
But now...
Now, he looked at Lucavion and saw not the smirk.
He saw the one man in that entire arena who hadn’t flinched—
Not at the power, not at the flas, not at the anger.
Lucavion had seen through him.
And instead of recoiling—he’d stepped closer.
"Your fire’s louder than your footwork," Lucavion had teased back then.
"Want to talk about it?"
As if the fight had been a conversation.
As if Varen hadn’t been trying to break him.
He didn’t reply now. Not yet.
Just studied the man in front of him.
Lucavion, ever unarmored, wore no coat of legacy. No sect’s crest. No polished weight of nobility. And yet—
He still stood there. Calm. Ready. Dangerous.
And Varen?
And Varen?
He had changed.
Not all at once. Not with revelation or ceremony.
But—
Bit by bit.
Strike by strike.
In the days following that battle, he’d told himself it was just another duel. Another notch. Another record to be corrected.
But in truth—
He’d known.
He knew the mont Lucavion stepped through his flas unshaken. Knew the mont their blades crossed, not as weapons—but as philosophies.
That man.
That damned man.
With his erratic footwork. With his unorthodox stance. With that estoc that didn’t flow like a knight’s—but danced like it had a will of its own. Lucavion hadn’t just fought him—
He had ignited sothing.
Varen hadn’t wanted to na it at the ti. Hadn’t understood it, not fully. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t rivalry.
It was...
Fire.
Not the silver-red blaze that bled from his mana core.
No.
It was the older fire.
The deeper one.
The fire of the sword.
The one he’d tried to bury beneath duty.
Beneath inheritance.
Beneath Lira.
For so long, he’d fought because it was his role. Because he had to. Because the Silver Fla needed its heir, its prodigy, its shield.
But Lucavion—
Lucavion hadn’t fought out of obligation.
He had fought because he wanted to.
And that... had cracked sothing in Varen.
He didn’t know it at the ti.
Not when he left the arena.
Not even when he returned to the compound and burned through his usual forms for hours without pause.
But days later, in the middle of the night, when he stood alone in the snow-covered courtyard, sword in hand, breath heavy, his muscles aching—
He realized.
He missed it.
The thrill. The pulse. The unknown.
Lucavion had dragged it out of him.
Not with arrogance.
But with possibility.
Since that day, Varen had trained differently. Not just longer—truer.
He had been sharpening more than steel.
He had been reforging himself.
His footwork shifted. His grip changed. His entire style began to adapt—leaner, faster, more instinctual. Less about perfection. More about feeling.
Every form was now haunted by that match.
Every shadowed swing held Lucavion’s phantom grin.
Every clash he imagined ended with that sa insolent voice:
"Want to talk about it?"
And when he had seen that broadcast—
That ridiculous, chaotic entrance exam for the commoners—
That final mont when Lucavion stood at the center of the fra, black coat torn, estoc balanced lazily over his shoulder—
Varen smiled.
Not out of mockery.
But because he knew.
He knew Lucavion was coming.
He knew their paths would cross again.
And this ti—
It wouldn’t be a battle with ghosts.
It would be real.
A test.
Of blades. Of fire. Of selves.
And Varen.....
Varen looked forward to it.
And then the banquet happened.
And, of course, Lucavion did what he was best at.
Not drawing attention—no, that would imply intention. Lucavion didn’t seek the spotlight.
He bent it.
Effortlessly. Inescapably.
In any space he entered, Lucavion made sure the rules got rewritten. Subtly. Quietly. Sotis with a smirk, sotis with a flick of that maddeningly unbothered wrist.
But always with impact.
This ti?
He antagonized the prince.
Lucien Lysandra.
The Empire’s golden heir.
The one even Varen, for all his lineage and power, tread carefully around.
Not out of fear.
Out of caution.
Lucien wasn’t like the others.
Lucien was cold. Surgical. Brilliant.
A strategist with an aura of ice and an empire’s patience.
And underneath it all—sothing worse.
’He doesn’t burn like we do. He doesn’t rage. He calculates.’
’Every word, every breath, every glance—asured. As if we’re already part of a ga he started years ago.’
Which is why no one ever baited him publicly.
Except Lucavion.
He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t spit insults.
He just... spoke.
Said sothing too casual.
Sothing that danced right past civility and dipped a toe in provocation.
And Lucien paused.
Just a fraction of a second.
And in that mont—
Everything shifted.
The room didn’t react, not aloud. But Varen could feel it.
The way the air grew thinner. The way nobles subtly turned their shoulders, lips pressed tight.
The way Rowen was about to act.
’He did it. He actually did it.’
Lucavion, in his sharp black coat and insufferable confidence, had done what no one else dared.
He mocked a storm and smiled at the thunder.
And well, Lucavion was alone....
And then—
Valeria approached.
Varen’s eyes followed her, instinctively.
Not out of possessiveness—he wasn’t that kind of man.
But out of respect.
She moved like she fought—clean lines, grounded presence, no wasted motion.
There was weight in her stride, purpose in her gaze.
’Still the sa fire from the tournant.’
He rembered their match.
The stubbornness in her eyes.
The way she refused to yield, even as her body wore down.
She wasn’t like the others.
She didn’t cling to titles.
She carried them.
And she was strong.
Not just in aura.
In spirit.
’She deserved to be on that stage. And she’ll be there again. I believe that.’
Then it was the duel between Lucavion and Rowen....
A duel where Varen’s hands beca itchy again....
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