When Luna left that afternoon, the room fell quiet again. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, scattering faint dust motes across the spell books and crystal spheres. I caught myself smiling — she really was extraordinary.
It wasn't just her progress in magic; it was the energy she brought into the world. Her curiosity, her excitement, the way she looked at me as if every lesson mattered. I could sense her admiration growing, a subtle warmth that lingered after each session.
I exhaled softly. That's natural, I reminded myself. Students often admired their mentors. What mattered was how I handled it — the line I could never cross.
Still, I couldn't deny the faint tug in my chest. To teach, to inspire, to be looked up to — it was intoxicating in its own way. But I'd learned long ago that power and trust were sacred things. Misusing them, even unintentionally, could shatter everything I stood for.
So I straightened the books, refocused my mind, and began sketching notes for our next lesson — a combined charm of protection and empathy. If Luna's admiration was genuine, then I'd use it to help her grow stronger, wiser, and more confident in herself.
And if she did feel something deeper? Then I'd guide her toward understanding it — not for me, but for her own journey.