Lucavion didn't answer right away.
Didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
He just watched Varen.
Not with surprise.
Not even amusement.
Just that calm, sharp attention he reserved for the rare moments someone said something that actually mattered.
The chandelier light above them caught in Lucavion's eyes, refracted—cold silver threaded with ember.
And Varen—
He saw it again.
That flash.
That moment.
The instant in the duel where time didn't bend, but yielded. Where Rowen's [Veilpiercer Spiral]—a strike forged through perfect sequence, frame-tight momentum, and lethal precision—should have torn Lucavion apart.
But hadn't.
Lucavion had blocked it.
With wrong footwork.
With an off-angle parry.
With a position that defied every fundamental Varen had trained for fifteen years.
And it had worked.
It shouldn't have.
It shouldn't have.
There was something—fundamentally different—about that move.
It wasn't mana.
It wasn't technique.
It wasn't timing.
It was like…
