"If that's how you're going to act…

…then I'll leave."

Elara didn't move. Couldn't, really.

Not with her pulse roaring against her ribs and her thoughts still half-knotted around all the things she couldn't say—not without giving herself away.

Lucavion reached the edge of the path. The place where stone gave way to frost-dusted grass. And for a moment, she thought that was it. That he'd vanish into the mist like he always did—too untouchable, too impossible, too far.

But then, without turning back, he spoke again.

"Here's a final piece of advice," he said, voice lower now, steadier. "If you really want to clear your head…"

A pause.

Not for drama.

Just breath.

"Stop thinking so much."

That made her blink.

And then—

"That's half the reason you're here in the first place, isn't it?"

The moment the words left his mouth—"That's half the reason you're here in the first place, isn't it?"—something in Elara stilled.

A pause inside her.

Not like before—when fury had locked her in place, or fear. This was different.

It was a breath held in suspension.

A thought unspoken, balanced on the edge of tipping.

She stood there, her fingers still faintly trembling, her skin cold where magic hadn't yet fully retreated. Her eyes lingered on the last place Lucavion had stood, now just mist curling between cobblestones and memory.

'That's… correct, isn't it?'

Her mind, still sharp-edged and overdrawn, reluctantly echoed his words.

'Overthinking… That's what brought me here.'

Not just here, to this path, this hour, this half-fought, half-choked confrontation. But here—to the academy.

To this whole false name. This careful pretense. This mask she wore like silk stretched too thin.

'It was the dream,' she realized. 'The damn dream started it.'

It hadn't just woken her. It had unraveled her—thread by thread. Her mother's voice, her old self's guilt. All of it came layered with the belief that she had to perfect every move. Hide her power perfectly. Stay masked. Wait for the right moment. Control every inch of the narrative until it was airtight.

That's what she'd told herself.

Because that was safe.

Because that's what she had to do—wasn't it?

'Everything has to be perfect,' she'd thought. 'I can't let a single thing slip.'

But now…

Now she stood on a frost-bitten path, half-revealed in the magic she shouldn't have used, shaken by a fight she didn't plan, staring after a boy she both knew and didn't—

—and wondering if perfection was just another kind of prison.

'Should I really be acting like my magic doesn't exist?'

'Just because Lucavion might recognize me?'

'Is that what I'm supposed to do?'

'Be so careful, so calculated, that I forget how to live?'

Her hands slowly curled into fists.

That wasn't her, was it?

It hadn't been her as a child—before the exile. Before the court. Before the chains of titles and betrayals.

She'd been reckless then.

Fierce.

But then again, she'd also been hopeful.

And as she tried to reach deeper into those old memories, past the weight and the wounds, she heard his voice again—cutting through like a blade gliding clean across the surface of her thoughts.

"Stop thinking so much."

She sucked in a breath.

And then—finally—closed her eyes.

The frost in her veins quieted. The cold settled, no longer clawing to be cast or swallowed.

And there, in the silence of her own mind, something else stirred.

A voice. Faint. Familiar.

"Elara," Eveline had said once—gentle, but firm, on that first real day of training, when the ice had refused to shape itself.

She could still remember the exact cadence of her voice, light and thoughtful, but edged with certainty.

"Magic is often associated with theory and calculations," Eveline had said, pacing in slow circles around her as snow flickered uselessly in the air. "And it's true—the higher your spells climb, the more your mind must rise with them. Precision matters. Control matters."

She had paused then, her boots crunching softly over the frost-laced grass.

"But… that's not all we are."

Elara had frowned at her back then, still young, still so desperately trying to prove herself by mimicking what the nobles demanded: composure, intellect, calculation.

"There's an aspect of us," Eveline had continued, her fingers flicking upward as a snowflake danced unnaturally into the shape of a blade, "that makes us more than just scholars or scientists of the arcane."

"We're Awakened."

Elara remembered blinking. "What does that mean?"

Eveline had smiled faintly, almost mischievously. "It means we don't just understand mana." She turned then, eyes bright and clear like a morning sky after snowfall. "We feel it."

"The same mana that wild spirits use. The same pulse the Awakened creatures ride when they burst into form. The same mana that swordsman imbue their mana to their swords. The same mana that close combatants just use raw."

"You can use it like them, too. If you want." Her smile widened a fraction. "If you stop thinking so much."

That moment had confused her then. Felt… unstructured. Maybe even irresponsible. Elara had brushed it off as just one of Eveline's whimsical philosophies.

But now—years later, with cold mist at her back and Lucavion's words still echoing through her ribs—it made sense.

'Magic isn't just a product of thought.'

It was reaction. Instinct. Trust.

And above all—connection.

Eveline's voice echoed deeper now—words stitched into memory, rising from the layers Elara hadn't sifted through in so long.

"Sometimes," she had said, standing barefoot in the frost, arms folded behind her back as Elara struggled to form even a basic ice shard, "even the most basic spell—your one-star, two-star constructs that anyone can cast—can be as powerful as a four-star spell."

She'd said it so simply. Like it was common knowledge. Like it should have been.

"Under the right hands."

Elara had gaped at her. "But higher-rank spells are inherently stronger—"

"No." Eveline had cut in gently, but firmly. "They're more complicated. Not always stronger. And complication isn't the same as mastery."

She remembered how Eveline knelt then, brushing her palm along the snowy field until a tiny ripple of frost bloomed across the grass. Delicate. Controlled.

"Just because you can learn stronger spells doesn't mean you have to use them all the time."

"Sometimes, it's better to wield something simple. Something refined. Something you can shape as easily as breathing."

She'd looked up, eyes gleaming with quiet fire. "The simpler the spell, the better you'll be able to make it yours."

Elara's breath shuddered as that memory settled against her present—soft and weighty like snow falling in still air.

She lifted her hand.

The frost had dimmed to just a trace now—nothing flaring, nothing chaotic. Just the pulse of mana, calm against her skin. Simple. Waiting.

'A one-star spell…' she thought.

Her fingers twitched, instinct pulling toward the familiar weave of Frost Needle—the spell she'd learned as a child. The one she'd practiced obsessively, shaping its precision until she could land it between the eyes of a moving beast.

'No calculations. No flare. Just control.'

And then—another thought.

Lucavion.

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

'That flame just now…'

It had barely held form. Jittery. Unfocused. More raw mana than structured incantation. And even before that—back at Stormhaven—she remembered how he fought.

'He didn't use incantations. Not the way I did.'

He had moved like a blade through fire. Pure instinct. Pure will.

He didn't stop to trace runes or recite components. He didn't shape mana like a magician would. He threw it. Pushed it. Wielded it like a limb, not a tool.

'He's not a magician,' she thought with certainty. 'He doesn't look like someone who calculates spell layers or spatial trajectory or convergence ratios.'

No. That wasn't Lucavion.

He was… Awakened.

Maybe not by a simple title like that, but just like her, he was also an Awakened.

Just like any other person in this academy nearly.

But the way he moved—his aura, his edge—it all had a rather discerning edge.

He used mana like a wild thing. Like a fighter. That was her interpretation of it just now.

And that…

Maybe that was why, he was able to simply clear his head by training. After all, looking at his words that was what he meant.

'That means… it's fine for me too, isn't it?'

Her chest tightened—but not with fear.

Relief?

Maybe.

'If he's not analyzing my structure or checking my glyph accuracy or mana flow—then what's there to hide?'

Her spellform could be simple. Her movements instinctual. No need to cast her strongest spells or display the full art of her heritage.

Not yet.

'And when I do decide to use them…'

She would make damn sure he wasn't watching.

A slow, small smile tugged at the edge of her lips. Not joy. Not peace.

But understanding.

'So that's how I'll do it…'

She wouldn't hide herself completely.

But she'd fight cleverly. Purposefully.

Simple spells.

Just her thoughts and her own interpretation…..

If that is the case….

'Then isn't it fine?'

She opened her eyes, and this time, the figure that had appeared in her vision.

CRACK!

She rather called him differently.

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