Then it was the duel between Lucavion and Rowen.
And Varen's hands—
They began to itch again.
That familiar pulse. Not quite adrenaline. Not quite memory.
Something older. Hungrier.
'Sword resonance…'
The moment they stepped into that ring, something in him stilled—and something else accelerated.
First, Rowen.
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.
Always had been.
The Drakovs and the Draykes—rivals by blood, by tradition, by some ancient wound no one dared put into words.
And yet—
Varen had never hated Rowen.
Because Rowen was the only one who understood what it meant to wield power while trying to stay precise.
Because Rowen—
Rowen could use resonance.
Just like him.
After all, Varen had not been staying idle in all that time…
