Ophelia moved slowly, as if each step outside the circle was a quiet test of this new part of herself—or perhaps a quiet answer to all the silent questions she'd carried for so long.
Damian walked beside her, not rushing ahead like usual. Instead of his typical sarcastic remarks, he gave her a quick sidelong glance and said simply,
"You won't master it overnight… but what you just did? Most couldn't achieve that in years."
She pulled her coat tighter around her and asked,
"How much time do I have to learn everything I need?"
He answered calmly,
"Not much, if you plan to enter the Grand Duel Tournament."
She stopped walking, turning to him with wide eyes.
"You mean… I could actually compete?"
Damian gave her a half-smile.
"If you summon me properly, learn to channel the mana... You won't just compete. You might win."
Ophelia looked ahead—beyond the palace grounds, toward the horizon just beginning to glow with morning light.
A thought stirred inside her, growing stronger with each breath:
What she once believed was a flaw… might be exactly what could change her life forever.
She whispered to herself, as if making a vow:
"I'll do it… even if I burn again."
Damian walked beside her slowly, casting sidelong glances her way.
Then suddenly said, his tone less teasing than usual:
"You know… that fire in you—that's what makes it all worth it."
She looked at him, her frown failing to hide a hint of curiosity:
"Burning my face off is worth it to you?"
He chuckled softly, then replied:
"I mean the way you try. The way you get back up every time you fall. You don't see it, but I do. There's something different about you, Ophelia."
She went quiet, staring at her hand, which still held a trace of the mana's warmth—
that strange force which, just days ago, had been nothing more than myth to her.
Softly, she said:
"I never thought I'd get this far… never thought I deserved to."
"You haven't gotten there yet," Damian said, his voice more serious now.
"What happened today was just the first step. If you want to control mana…
you have to face what's inside you—not just what's around you."
She asked, eyes drifting toward the horizon:
"And what is it… that's inside me?"
He smiled—but this time, it was a cryptic smile, more like a hint than an answer.
"That… is something you'll have to discover for yourself."
Then he nodded toward the castle.
"Go back inside. They'll worry if they find your bed empty. We'll continue tomorrow."
She opened her mouth to ask him something—
but he vanished, just like he always did.
And she was left alone,
beneath the first dawn that truly felt like her future was no longer being written for her…
but by her own hand.
As the first strands of dawn slipped through her window, Ophelia returned to the manor. Her eyes—calm on the surface—carried a resolve that had settled within her, unshakable and final.
She closed the door behind her as if sealing the world away. From the depths of her wardrobe, she pulled a small leather satchel. Into it, she placed the Book of Spirits and the summoning manuscript with meticulous care, alongside a simple white dress.
Drawing her cloak tightly around her, she concealed the bag beneath its folds and whispered to herself, as if to make the words more real:
"There's no turning back… today decides everything."
She slipped out of her room, only to cross paths with Adelia in the corridor. Concern and barely veiled curiosity flickered across Adelia's features.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
Ophelia's reply came with quiet finality:
"There's something I must do. Alone. Don't ask—just trust me."
Then, as if saying goodbye to a wish she couldn't carry:
"And if my father asks, tell him I'm at the temple. Or wherever he'd prefer me to be."
She walked past without waiting for a response, leaving behind a silence that clung to the air like the closing of a chapter.
She did not choose the estate's grand carriage, nor summon attendants. Instead, Ophelia walked—step by deliberate step—across the cold stone path, until she reached the main road. There, she hailed an old hired cart, worn with age, quiet as the dawn.
Her destination was simple, and sacred in its solitude: the river hidden between the hills, where the morning sun had begun to peel back the fog's veil, revealing a glassy surface undisturbed even by wind.
She chose a spot beneath the sweeping shade of an ancient oak, far from curious eyes. With careful hands, she spread the white cloth over the grass, her movements reverent, as though preparing a stage for something inevitable.
Kneeling, she took out the manuscript, and closed her eyes for a long moment—to gather courage that had almost scattered in the early chill.
From her satchel, she drew a small knife, and gently nicked her fingertip. With that single drop, she began to trace the summoning circle upon the cloth, following the ancient lines with quiet precision—each stroke a boundary, each mark a silent vow.
When it was done, she gazed at the circle. Then whispered, voice trembling:
"Please… don't let this fail."
She shut her eyes once more, placed her palm over the manuscript, and focused—just as Damian had taught her—guiding the mana, not commanding it.
The circle shimmered to life, a soft blue glow blooming beneath her, pulsing like a quiet heartbeat. The air around her began to tremble, ever so slightly, as if something unseen had begun to stir.
Then, in the stillness, she spoke his name—
"Damian."
The name she held in her chest like a secret flame, the name that bridged her world to his.
The light swelled, spilling over the clearing in a wave of brilliance. A crushing weight pressed against Ophelia's chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe—as if she were drowning beneath an unforgiving tide.
Still, she didn't flinch. She didn't open her eyes or falter. She clung to her resolve, gripping one thought like a lifeline: Success. That's all that matters now.
Gradually, the pressure eased. Air returned to her lungs in shallow, shaky breaths. When she finally opened her eyes, she saw him—
A figure suspended before her, cloaked in a quiet radiance, as if the very air shimmered in deference to his presence.
He lifted a hand to his chest, and spoke with a calm, unwavering voice:
"I am Damian, hybrid of water and light.
I vow to be your shield and your blade,
Your shadow and your flame,
So long as you call my name."
Ophelia caught a strange reflection in her own eyes—no longer the pale blue she knew, but something deeper, colder… mirroring the light that pulsed around Damian.
Her body shivered. The surge of energy was too much—her limbs trembled, her vision blurred, and her eyelids grew unbearably heavy. She staggered beneath a weight not entirely physical, as if the mana itself demanded tribute.
Before darkness fully claimed her, Damian sensed the collapse.
He descended swiftly and gathered her into his arms, holding her close with a tenderness that defied the power he carried.
He whispered softly into her ear, as if soothing a weary soul:
"You've succeeded. Now rest. There's no need to resist."
As Ophelia surrendered to the heavy sleep, the light gradually dimmed, and a deep stillness settled over the place.