The wind passed without song, brushing the academy terrace like the breath of something long dead.
Aevion stood barefoot, eyes closed, holding Nyxara in his arms. She shifted slightly—heavy, warm, and alive.
Without a word, she stirred.
A moment later, the air twisted in silence. Her body rose, pulsed, unfolded—light bending around her limbs as she transformed into her teenage form. Wings spread wide, head held high, gaze sharpened.
Aevion stepped back and lowered into stance. No theatrics. No bravado.
Just breath.
She lunged first. Fast, no warning. Aevion tilted his body just enough to slip past her claws. His foot swept low—intercepted. She spun and slammed her tail toward his side, but he'd already vanished a step forward, elbow slicing through the slipstream she left behind.
Then came the light.
Nexis.
White and violet surged through him, not wild but precise—like a second soul threading through bone.
He moved again, fist striking upward with a crescent flare, then dipped low, twisting his foot in a clean arc across the stone. She met him step for step. Wings flared. She ducked his punch, then countered with a claw slash lit by paradox layers.
The blow missed.
Veritas had already bent the outcome.
He didn't dodge. He simply wasn't there.
Their sparring was not violent. It was measured, quiet—each movement a conversation between power and restraint.
Then he called it:
Vexiaris.
It didn't shine. It didn't sing. The blade hummed only with absence—absence of illusion, of noise, of falsity. With one swing, it erased the lingering after-image Nyxara had left behind.
She watched him with unreadable eyes.
Then, she lunged again.
They exchanged ten more movements. Then five. Then one.
Until she stopped.
Nyxara's chest rose and fell, wings twitching slightly. She stepped forward, rested her forehead against his shoulder, and sighed.
Light spiraled around her again—less fierce this time, softer. She folded back into her smaller form, the glow dimming as her shape curled in on itself.
In seconds, she returned to the form Aevion knew best.
Quiet. Small. Familiar.
He knelt, scooped her into his arms without a word, and held her close. She made a faint sound—more comfort than exhaustion—then curled into his chest.
He turned toward the rising sun.
The stone beneath his feet held the memory of their steps.
But the future they moved toward had no footprints yet.