“Well. Now that it’s come to this, let me introduce myself. Though you must already know me.”

Elara’s brow arched. Barely.

“I don’t,” she said flatly.

He gasped—mock offense, hand to his chest like he’d been stabbed with her indifference.

“Come on,” he drawled, stepping just slightly back into the moonlight. “No need to lie. I’m pretty famous now. Top of the duelist boards. Pet cat with heterochromia. Devastating charm. You haven’t heard the whispers?”

She looked him over with open skepticism. “Narcissist.”

Lucavion grinned. A slow, pleased thing. Like she’d complimented him.

“Name’s Lucavion,” he said. “Just Lucavion.” Then, with a faint, deliberate bow—mockery and politeness intertwining in equal measure—”Nice to meet you, Elowyn Caerlin.”

He straightened, gaze locking with hers again. Steady. Measured.

Lucavion extended his hand toward her, fingers relaxed, palm open—not commanding, not pleading. Just… offered.

An invitation.

Harmless on the surface.

But Elara’s body stiffened. Her eyes flicked to the hand like it was a knife half-sheathed. Instinct screamed to bat it away. To recoil from the familiarity he so easily cast around himself like a net.

Why should I shake his hand?

Why should I play nice with him?

Every part of her past roared in resistance. Every scar he didn’t know he’d left whispered a warning. You know what he did. You know how easily he smiled while doing it. A handshake was nothing, yes—but from him, it was always a beginning. An opening.

And Elara did not want to be opened.

Not to him.

Not again.

But then—

The thought shifted. Warped.

Twisted, not into forgiveness—but something colder.

Unless…

Her eyes narrowed, just a hair. Not enough for him to notice. But she saw it. Saw the shape of a possibility forming like frost along glass.

He didn’t know who she was.

And yet here he was—inviting her in. Smiling. Smirking. Extending a hand to the very thing he’d helped destroy.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t even suspect.

But he would.

He would.

All she had to do was get close. Closer than he’d ever expect. Closer than any knife at his throat.

Isn’t it better this way?

The question rose like a slow, venomous tide. If you really want revenge… isn’t it better to stand beside him before you bring him to his knees?

Lucavion could lead her to Isolde. To the web behind it all. To the rot at the Academy’s heart. He was a door. A channel. A weapon waiting to be used.

And if he was arrogant enough to open that door himself…

’Yes,’ she thought, her fingers slowly curling. ’That would be a nice start.’

So she smiled. Small. Controlled. Chilled at the edges.

And then, without flinching, she took his hand.

“Likewise,” Elara said, her voice smooth, composed, utterly unreadable. “It is nice to meet you too, Lucavion. Name is Elowyn Caerlin.”

Her fingers rested in his for just a moment longer than custom required—firm, deliberate.

And yet, in that contact… something threaded through her that she hadn’t prepared for.

His hand was cold.

Elara tried not to react. Not outwardly. But still—still—something in her spine flinched. Not from pain. Not even discomfort. Just… the wrongness of it.

A shiver curled through her shoulders, almost imperceptible, but real.

Why…?

She’d touched Awakened before. More than touched—sparred beside them, bled beside them, bled because of them. She’d brushed fingers with nobles and outcasts alike. Cultivators whose mana ran hot like lightning beneath skin. Swordsmen like Cedric, whose grip radiated the kind of warmth that pulsed from well-disciplined cores. Scholars, duelists, enchanters—no matter their origin, the truth was always the same.

The Awakened did not run cold.

They burned from within. Mana sustained their bodies as much as blood did. It was part of why they didn’t sicken easily, why fever and chill became tales of the past. Why, even in frostbitten winters, they walked unbothered through snow.

Lucavion Thorne should not have cold hands.

And yet—

’It’s in your head. You’re remembering too much.’

The voice inside was bitter, dry.

Maybe she was.

Maybe it was just the residue of the past clawing its way up her throat. The memory of his silence in that hall. Of blood on marble. Of betrayal that hadn’t even come with the decency of clarity.

Maybe it was nothing but nerves. Trauma playing tricks again.

Still…

Her fingers twitched slightly in his grip before he released her. A clean, easy withdrawal—no clench, no tell.

But the sensation lingered.

Like frost pressed into the seam of her palm.

Lucavion gave no indication of noticing. He merely tilted his head again, as if measuring the weight of her presence now that a formal exchange had passed.

“Well then,” he said lightly, still watching her with that too-sharp smile. “I suppose we’re no longer strangers.”

Elara held his gaze, her hand ghosting back to her side, fingers flexing once—testing the feel of her skin, as if expecting to find frostbite. But there was none.

Of course there wasn’t.

She was an ice mage.

Cold wasn’t unfamiliar—it pulsed in her core, moved with her breath when she shaped it, hummed in the marrow of her bones when she pushed too far. She’d conjured snow from clear skies, frozen rivers that had never known winter. Cold was hers.

So she shouldn’t care.

And yet…

It’s not the cold. It’s the source.

But she smothered that thought like the others, flattened it beneath years of training, of forced composure. Her voice was steady as she gave the faintest shrug, the kind people used to brush off ghosts.

“I guess so.”

Lucavion raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. It’s become quite awkward for no reason now, hasn’t it?”

Elara blinked once, slowly. “…You made it awkward.”

“I did?” His eyes widened, as if she’d accused him of something utterly outlandish. “Come on.”

She tilted her head, unimpressed. “What?”

He mirrored her tone, grinning. “What what?”

“Why are you blaming me?”

Lucavion leaned forward, hands spread in mock innocence. “I mean, isn’t the reason obvious?”

Elara stared at him, utterly deadpan. “No. Enlighten me.”

He sighed—dramatic, overly theatrical—as if burdened by the gravity of his own charm. “Because you’re the one glaring holes through my soul. Remember?”

“You don’t have a soul.”

“I might. You don’t know that.”

“I know enough,” she said coolly.

Lucavion gave a low whistle, amused. “Damn. I didn’t know I was dealing with a soul mage. Didn’t even know they existed.”

Her face twitched—just slightly. A flash of something taut behind her eyes, gone before it could root into expression. It wasn’t a laugh he drew from her, not truly. But it was a reaction—and that seemed to satisfy him.

Elara exhaled slowly, masking the ripple that passed through her. “I’m not.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said, grinning. “Cut right through my metaphysical being with those eyes.”

She ignored that. Or tried to. Instead, she folded her arms, the wind tugging gently at the hem of her cloak. “Why didn’t you go into your room to rest?”

Lucavion cocked his head, blinked once. “Why didn’t I go into my room?”

He repeated the words as if tasting them aloud made them less absurd. Then, without missing a beat, he motioned loosely to her.

“Same reason you didn’t, and the same reason why you were staying here by yourself”