"I'm sure you won't take too long to figure it out either."

Vitaliara let out a sharp huff through her nose—a feline scoff wrapped in mental static.

[You're tiring me out, you know.]

Lucavion smirked, shifting his weight on the bed and tilting his head toward her. "Take that as a small game," he said, voice relaxed. "Shouldn't be that hard, as long as you keep your head spinning."

She stared at him, unimpressed.

[You always do this.]

"Mm, this time," he replied, his grin deepening slightly, "it's a bit different, let's say."

[Different how?]

He didn't answer—only gave her that infuriating look again, the one she'd seen a thousand times before. The kind that meant you'll see soon enough.

[Infuriating male.]

"Flattering."

She finally leapt off his shoulder and back onto the bed in a smooth arc, curling once before settling into a loaf position, tail flicking behind her.

Lucavion stood and stretched, rolling his shoulders. "Coming with me?"

[No.]

He raised a brow. "Seriously?"

[Yes. I'm going to sleep.]

"You'll miss the opportunity to identify her," he said lightly, grabbing a clean shirt from his drawer.

[I'll live.]

"Will you?"

[If she's important enough, she'll show up again. And when she does, I'll be rested and ready.]

Lucavion chuckled. "Smart."

[Always.]

Lucavion pulled open the drawer with a soft clack, fingers brushing across the neatly folded shirts until he settled on one—simple black, nothing fancy. A towel followed, slung over his shoulder as he stripped off his training top, muscles tensing slightly from the residual cold of the morning air.

Vitaliara's eyes followed him lazily from her perch on the bed, but she said nothing. No quip. No sarcastic commentary.

Lucavion didn't offer one either.

No peeping cat joke. No teasing back-and-forth. Not this time.

There was something heavier in the room—silent, mutual. A weariness in the air that neither of them felt like naming.

He moved toward the private washroom attached to his dorm, as it was enchanted with the basic amenities: temperature-regulated faucets, water-cleansing wards, and a mana-filtered mirror that could monitor spell stress if he asked it to.

Lucavion didn't bother with any of that.

He just stepped inside, shutting the door with a quiet click behind him.

Tiled floors cooled beneath his feet. A faint glyph on the wall lit up as he approached, sensing his presence. He twisted the dial on the enchanted shower crystal—cold, as always—and let the water burst down with a sharp, biting hiss.

The shock was instant.

Ice-cold needles rained down his spine, chasing the lingering static of overheated mana and sleepless tension from his bones. He exhaled through clenched teeth, shoulders relaxing slowly under the sting of clarity.

Not tired exactly. But tight.

Too much heat, too much thought.

This—this was better.

Splash.

The cold hit first.

Sharp. Instant. Perfect.

Lucavion exhaled slowly as he submerged himself into the chilled basin, letting the magic do its work—soothing frayed mana threads, grounding his pulse, washing away the lingering static of flame and thought.

For a moment, there was no past.

Just water.

And silence.

Lucavion leaned his head forward under the stream, eyes closed as the water sluiced down his face and back. The rune-siphoned chill wasn't just physical—it scrubbed clean the echoes in his mana pathways.

"Decent."

*****

The dining hall of the dormitory was quieter than expected for the morning hour, its high-vaulted ceiling diffusing the clatter of utensils into something almost polite.

Rune-light traced the walls in steady amber pulses, mimicking firelight without smoke, while a row of crystal-paned windows looked out onto the courtyard, where dew still clung to trimmed hedges.

Breakfast here was never ordinary. Silver dishes, clean as mirrors. Steam rising from plates layered with bread so soft it nearly folded under its own weight, fruit glistening with mana condensation, and cuts of meat seared to perfection under enchantments that guaranteed balance in flavor and nutrition alike.

It was clear that the Academy prided itself on its meals as much as its lessons—feeding students like royalty, even though most of those were technically weren't.

Caeden was the first to arrive, shoulders squared as he carried his plate to the long table. His movements were… measured. Not stiff, but definitely conscious—like a man reminding himself that, yes, this was normal now. He cut into his food with precision, posture straight, every gesture echoing the etiquette drills they'd been forced into earlier that week.

Mireilla slipped in soon after, balancing a mug of coffee in one hand, her plate in the other. She set them down with far more ease than Caeden, but the care was still there: knife and fork angled neatly, napkin unfolded just so. She caught Lucavion watching her with that irritating glint in his eye.

"What?" she asked, brows raised.

"Nothing," he said, sliding into the seat opposite her with all the grace of a man who couldn't care less about forks. He tore into a slice of bread with his hands, crumbs scattering like defiance across the immaculate tablecloth. "Just marveling at how civilized we've all become."

"You say that like you're above it," Mireilla shot back, though the corner of her mouth curved.

"I am above it," Lucavion replied easily, swallowing his bite and reaching for the roast without a second thought for serving spoons. "These lessons are for people who need to pretend."

"That's rich, coming from you," she muttered.

Caeden shook his head, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. He lifted his cup, sipping with quiet steadiness. "I'll admit, though… it doesn't feel strange anymore. Eating like this. Not after the week we've had."

Toven slid into the seat at the far end of the table with a plate stacked higher than anyone else's, his robe wrinkled, hair still sticking up in a half-burnt tuft. He dug into the eggs first, then paused—fork halfway to his mouth—as his gaze slid toward Lucavion.

Lucavion didn't miss it. He looked up mid-bite, a smear of butter still on his thumb, and smirked.

"You want to eat like this too," Lucavion said, tearing off another chunk of bread with his hands, "but you're afraid of the discipline you'll get from Kaleran."

Toven frowned, jabbing his fork into a slice of sausage. "Mister Kaleran is the Vice-Headmaster of the Academy."

Lucavion leaned back, grin tugging wider. "And? His name is still Kaleran."

That earned him a glare across the table. Toven muttered something inaudible and shoved the food into his mouth instead of answering.

Caeden exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh, but not quite. "You're hopeless."

Silence hovered just long enough for Mireilla to lean in, elbows on the table, her sharp eyes fixed on Toven. "Speaking of hopeless. What were you doing all night with those diagrams?"

Toven froze. "Diagrams?"

He raised his eyebrows, the word slow and deliberate, like she'd accused him of practicing necromancy instead of staying up late. "What diagrams?"

Mireilla tilted her head, smirk curving sly. "The ones that cover your floor. The ones you trip over every time you stagger out of your room."

Toven blinked at her, then let out a half-laugh that sounded more like he was trying to buy time than anything else. "Ah, those…" He jabbed at his eggs again, shoulders rolling like he'd just remembered something trivial. "They're not diagrams."

Mireilla arched a brow, coffee mug halfway to her lips. "Not diagrams?"

"Nope." He stuffed another bite into his mouth, chewed, and pointed his fork vaguely in the air as if that settled it. "Definitely not."

Caeden tilted his head, skeptical. "Then what are they?"

Toven froze for half a second too long before smirking, all false confidence. "Can't tell you that."

Mireilla set her cup down with a quiet clink. "...Suspicious."

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