Lucavion’s gaze didn’t waver. His tone remained light—but beneath it, there was something steadier. Rooted.
"I was keeping my eyes on the Cloud Heavens Sect," he said. "Making sure they didn’t escape or anything."
His arms folded, not defensively, but in that relaxed, almost lazy way that always belied the sharpness beneath.
"And while I was watching them," he added, "your name kept showing up."
Valeria blinked once, not visibly startled—but enough.
"In reports. In rumors. In complaints, actually." He chuckled softly. "Apparently, the Pink Knight doesn’t know how to stay quiet. Or still."
She crossed her arms, arching a brow. "I was doing my job."
And the way he said it—it wasn’t casual.
There was no joke in it.
"You were chasing nobles across four provinces, breaking networks, dragging shadows into daylight. Even forced the Lesser Counts to close their little auction circles in the south." He tilted his head slightly. "That took real effort."
His smirk returned, softer now. Not the teasing thing she’d grown used to—but something quieter. Gentler.
"As expected from the Pink Knight, isn’t it?"
Valeria didn’t speak.
Because his voice—his presence—wasn’t the same as before.
Still Lucavion. Still impossible.
But the way he said those words...
It wasn’t pride in himself.
And it curled through her like unexpected warmth.
How something so small—just being seen, being recognized—could feel .
She met his gaze again.
And Lucavion—damn him—saw everything in that silence. He always did.
Which was precisely why he ruined it with a grin.
"Still," he said, rocking back slightly on his heels. "It’s a little unfair, don’t you think?"
Her brow rose, cautiously. "What is?"
"That you got better while I wasn’t looking." He sighed dramatically. "Last time I saw you, you were still tripping over your own cape trying to scold people."
Valeria narrowed her eyes. "It was you."
"Yes," he nodded with mock solemnity. "The terrifying knight."
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her—twitching upward just slightly.
Lucavion wasn’t done.
"Now here you are," he gestured lazily, "swinging justice like a warhammer, shattering old houses, collecting noble frowns like medals... Honestly, it’s adorable."
"Adorable?" she repeated, incredulous.
"Oh, deeply," he said with a lopsided smile. "Especially when you try to hide that little glow you get when someone says your name with respect."
Her cheeks flushed—not from embarrassment, but from the sheer audacity.
"I don’t glow," she muttered.
"No, no, of course not." He leaned in slightly, voice lower. "You radiate... righteous fury. Completely different."
Valeria’s eyes narrowed. "You’re unbearable."
Lucavion smirked. "And yet, still charming. A curse, truly."
She folded her arms. "You always did love talking, didn’t you?"
"Only when someone listens."
She exhaled—half-exasperated, half amused—and then took a step forward. The flicker of humor faded from her eyes, replaced by something steadier. More grounded.
Lucavion tilted his head, still relaxed. "Me?"
Her gaze didn’t waver.
"What were you doing all this time?"
His smile didn’t vanish—but it shifted.
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her.
"I was doing my own part," Lucavion said at last, his tone measured. "Finding my path. Doing... my own things."
Valeria’s brow arched.
"That," she said flatly, "tells me absolutely nothing."
His smirk twitched. "You asked. I answered."
She narrowed her eyes. "You deflected."
Valeria brought her glass to her lips, watching him over the rim. The liquid was cool, but it did nothing to cool the flicker of irritation beneath her calm.
He always did this—gave just enough to keep the door open, but never enough to let her walk through it.
And maybe that had worked years ago.
Not after everything.
She lowered the glass slowly, letting silence speak first.
"You say you’ve been watching," she said, tone cool. "Keeping an eye on names. On rot. On me. And yet, when I ask what you were doing—truly doing—you answer like a man reciting riddles."
Lucavion’s gaze held hers for a beat longer than expected.
That infuriating smile again.
Soft. Amused. And laced with something else—something almost fond.
"Soon," he said, voice lowering, "you’ll come to learn."
He leaned back, raising his own drink in a half-toast.
"Till then... let this surprise grow."
Because this—this vague, infuriating blend of charm and shadow? This was him. Always had been.
She’d seen it before, in the halls of Andelheim, in training yards, in quiet corners where words meant more than they said.
Lucavion never answered straight. Not unless he wanted to.
And right now? He didn’t.
She shook her head slowly, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite herself.
"As always," she muttered, "impossible bastard."
Lucavion gave a small, mocking bow. "That’s who I am."
His eyes glinted with something smug—but not cruel.
It was the pride of someone who knew exactly what he was and saw no reason to apologize for it.
"Taking pride in that..." she added, exasperated.
"Hehe," he chuckled, soft and low. "Would you like me any other way?"
Because he already knew.
Valeria’s eyes drifted—not to his grin, not to the glass in his hand.
Specifically, the place just above his right eye.
The scar that once split across his brow, cutting a sharp line through defiance and memory—it was gone.
Her voice was quieter when she spoke next.
"That scar," she said. "You’ve gotten rid of it."
Lucavion’s head tilted just slightly. "Yes."
Simple. Unapologetic.
But her thoughts weren’t simple.
They spun back, years back, to a colder night. To a campfire just outside Andelheim’s walls. When she’d asked the same thing, fingers brushing near that wound.
"You could have healed it," she’d said back then. "You have coin. Access. Why leave it like that?"
And his answer had been equally simple.
At the time, she hadn’t pressed.
She’d let the silence be the answer.
And the question felt louder.
"Why?" she asked softly, gaze never leaving the now-smooth skin. "Why now?"
Lucavion didn’t answer immediately.
Didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease.
He just looked at her.
Lucavion’s gaze lingered—calm, unwavering. The ever-present glint of mischief was gone, replaced by something quieter. Something that, in him, passed for solemnity.
"Back then," he said, his voice low, "it was there to remind me of something."
He lifted a hand, fingers grazing the place where the scar used to be—but they didn’t linger. They passed like wind over old stone.
"A ghost," he continued. "Of the past, if you want to call it that."
Valeria’s breath caught slightly. She didn’t interrupt.
"And that ghost..." He paused, eyes finding hers again. "It no longer exists."
The weight of his words didn’t need embellishment.
He wasn’t speaking just of a scar. Or even the event that caused it.
He was speaking of whatever—or whoever—had haunted him all these years.
He dropped his hand, and for a moment, he looked older—not in body, but in presence. Like someone who had finally set something down after carrying it far too long.
Valeria’s lips parted, but the words didn’t come immediately.