Varen's gaze didn't waver.
Didn't flinch.
But something behind his eyes shifted.
A quiet draw of breath.
A flicker of memory.
Like an ember, still hot beneath the ash.
Lucavion's smirk lingered—untouched by tension, untouched by time. He was always like that. Wearing chaos like a coat. Wearing challenge like perfume. Unbothered. Always unbothered.
But Varen…
Varen remembered.
Not the outcome of their match.
Not the crowd.
Not even the final clash that split the arena's platform.
What he remembered—
Was how he had fought.
Back then—
His sword had not been clean.
Not refined.
It had howled.
He had howled.
Internally, of course. Outwardly, his grip had been firm. His footwork impeccable. The crowd whispered of his technique, of how the Silver Flame's heir had burned brighter than ever before.
But they hadn't felt it.
Not the way Lucavion did.
They didn't feel how the fire had scorched, not warmed.
