Then it was the duel between Lucavion and Rowen. They began to itch again. That familiar pulse. Not quite adrenaline. Not quite memory. Something older. Hungrier. The moment they stepped into that ring, something in him stilled—and something else accelerated. He deserved it. The attention. The weight. The fear. Rowen Drayke wasn’t just the Tower’s golden tactician, the scion of military brilliance. He was Varen’s rival. The Drakovs and the Draykes—rivals by blood, by tradition, by some ancient wound no one dared put into words. Varen had never hated Rowen. Because Rowen was the only one who understood what it meant to wield power while trying to stay precise. Rowen could use resonance. After all, Varen had not been staying idle in all that time... That rare, whispered state where the sword and the soul aligned. Where the blade didn’t respond to your grip—but to your will. And as Varen watched Rowen shift into form, shoulders loose but coiled, eyes narrowing with that assassin’s calm— ’He’s syncing again. Good. He hasn’t dulled.’ But as familiar as Rowen’s tempo was— As clean and honed as his strikes became— Varen’s gaze drifted. To the one that mattered more in this moment. The wild card. The unknown. The storm in a coat of shadows. Where had he reached? ’Was he still the same man who clashed with me all these months ago?’ ’Or... did he evolve?’ The question beat in his chest faster than his breath. He did not disappoint. He walked into that arena like he didn’t belong—and yet owned it all the same. No sect badge. No noble weight. No fanfare. And that maddening way of holding it— Like it was both sword and question. He moved with no formal discipline. No rhythm that any academy could recognize. But that was the beauty of it. Lucavion didn’t dance around the sword. Every swing wasn’t polished. Fluid when it needed to be. Abrupt when it wanted to. Like watching wind decide to cut. ’This isn’t just technique,’ Varen thought, hand unconsciously drifting toward his hip. ’It’s... instinct. No. It’s philosophy.’ Every movement reminded Varen of their clash. That one chaotic duel, back when Varen’s fire burned too recklessly and Lucavion simply listened to it—only to sidestep and grin. Now he stood before him. Face to face with the man who’d haunted every training session since that tournament. Still leaning like he had nowhere to be. Still watching the world like it was a performance put on just to amuse him. Still carrying that damn estoc like it was both burden and companion. And as Varen looked into those eyes— Unfazed. Undiminished. Sure, Lucavion looked older now. More worn around the edges. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes, a sharper set to his jaw, and a scar just brushing his collar that hadn’t been there before. He’d matured. Slightly. Because when Varen stared into those eyes, he still saw the same thing that made his hands itch and his heart race: That infuriating, intoxicating unpredictability. The kind that didn’t announce danger with rage or declarations— Lucavion tilted his head just slightly, as if the silence amused him more than any speech could. And then, with that same maddening nonchalance— "Still the same face?" he murmured, low enough for only Varen to hear. "Wonder where that fieriness comes from. Certainly not expression." It hit like a memory kicked out of its grave. He actually cracked a smile. Not a smirk. Not a sneer. A genuine, slow smile. "...Still the same as ever," he said quietly. Lucavion’s eyes gleamed with that insolent, boyish confidence. Then Lucavion’s gaze shifted. Deepened. For a beat, the mischief dulled. He looked at Varen. Really looked. And the grin faded just a touch. "But..." he said, softer now. "You’ve changed." It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even surprise. Like two men comparing scars neither had shown the world yet. Varen’s smile didn’t falter. But something behind it stirred. Lucavion didn’t know the hours Varen had trained under falling snow. The way he’d broken form just to build it back sharper. The way he’d stopped chasing the flames everyone expected—and started chasing the ones that belonged to him. That was the part that always got under Varen’s skin. Lucavion never tried to pry. "I had to," Varen said finally, his voice low, steady. "The last time we crossed blades... you made sure I couldn’t stay the same." Lucavion’s expression shifted again. Not to smugness. Not to pride. But to something else. Something... quieter. He didn’t bask in Varen’s words. Didn’t straighten his back or wear it like an accolade. Instead, he tilted his head ever so slightly, his voice barely above a whisper— "I didn’t do anything." Lucavion’s gaze didn’t waver. "At that time, I was just there to clash swords," he said. "That was all. I wasn’t trying to teach. Or change. Or... light any fires." He looked off for a beat, eyes catching the flicker of chandeliers above. The quiet laughter of nobles echoing faintly across the hall. "I just swung," he added, simple. Honest. "You’re the one who did something with it." There was no false modesty in his tone. Just a shrugging kind of truth. Like someone describing weather. A storm that happened to pass through. He snorted. Loud enough for Lucavion to hear. Quiet enough to make it personal. "Tch. You’re unbelievable." Lucavion’s brows lifted. "What?" Varen exhaled, half-laugh, half-grunt. He turned his head slightly, gaze sweeping across the ballroom—not in panic or paranoia, but with that sharpened awareness that had been drilled into him since childhood. The stares were there. Nobles pretending to sip from crystal glasses while angling themselves just enough to watch. Whispered exchanges tucked beneath polite laughter. Glances from tower officers, from high-blood scions, from political opportunists who understood what standing near Lucavion meant now. Not just proximity to chaos. Because Lucavion hadn’t just challenged the Crown Prince with his words. He had done it with ease. And now, here Varen stood. Speaking with him. Not out of necessity. Not out of diplomacy. Which made him complicit in their eyes. He turned back to face Lucavion, his expression unreadable for a long second. The Drakovs were never with the Crown Prince’s faction anyway. Not since the last purge. Not since the silence between their families had grown too wide to cross with pleasantries. They had the Silver Flame Sect. They had their own network. Varen’s jaw flexed, just once, as if to show his relaxation. Only slightly. Just enough that his voice could drop without being overheard. Just enough that the space between them felt... real. Not ballroom. Not theatre. Just two swordsmen at a distance no blade could cleanly swing. His eyes narrowed—not with judgment. "When you blocked Rowen’s strike," Varen said, voice low, edged with something quieter than awe but sharper than curiosity. "That last one. The [Veilpiercer Spiral]." His fingers twitched at his side. The phantom of a grip. The memory of a swing. "You shouldn’t have been able to."Not with that stance. Not with that delay. Not with—"Your center was wide open. Your footwork was all wrong." He looked at Lucavion now. Truly looked. And not just like a rival. Like a student. "...So how did you do it?"