The illusion faded without drama.
There was no surge of mana, no violent recoil of power, no audible sign that something unnatural had just been undone. The artifact at Mariella's collar dimmed first, its faint glow sinking inward as if exhaling its last breath. The Thread Magic followed, loosening its grip on reality strand by strand.
Lencar watched the process with trained stillness.
Rebecca watched it with wide, unblinking eyes.
Mariella's height shifted subtly, her shoulders relaxing as the rigid posture she had maintained for hours finally released. The coat—his coat—no longer sat with the same weight. The illusion peeled away layer by layer, revealing contours that had never truly belonged to Lencar.
Then the face changed.
The sharpness softened. The distant, analytical gaze gave way to something more fluid, more expressive. Her eyes regained their own depth—alert, observant, edged with intelligence and restraint, but unmistakably not his.
Mariella stood revealed.
Not as a disguise.
As herself.
Rebecca inhaled sharply.
Her fingers curled against the chair she had risen from, knuckles whitening as realization crashed over her in full. This wasn't confusion anymore. It was confirmation.
"So…" she whispered. "I wasn't imagining it."
Mariella inclined her head slightly. Not an apology. Not a challenge. An acknowledgment.
Lencar stepped forward just enough to place himself clearly between them—not as a shield, but as an anchor.
"This is Mariella," he said quietly.
His voice was steady, but there was an unfamiliar tension beneath it now. Something exposed.
"She is my companion," he continued.
The word lingered.
Companion.
It carried more weight than ally. More permanence than subordinate.
"…And a subordinate," he added after a pause. "Of sorts."
Rebecca's gaze flickered between the two of them.
Companion.
Subordinate.
Neither explained everything. Both explained enough.
Mariella shifted her stance slightly, clearly aware that her presence now carried weight she hadn't intended to impose. She said nothing. This was not her conversation to lead.
Rebecca finally looked back at Lencar.
Her expression wasn't angry.
It wasn't accusatory.
It was afraid.
"Lencar," she said softly, "what is it that you're doing?"
The question was gentle.
But it cut deeper than any demand.
"And why," she continued, her voice trembling just slightly, "would knowing it put me in danger?"
Sunlight streamed in through the window, bright and honest, illuminating dust motes suspended in the air. Outside, the sounds of the Scarlet Hearth continued—footsteps, voices, the quiet resilience of people trying to reclaim normalcy.
Inside the room, everything felt suspended.
Lencar closed his eyes.
Only for a moment.
When he opened them again, he exhaled.
A sigh.
Not frustrated.
Not defensive.
Just… weary.
"I'm sorry, Rebecca," he said. "I can't tell you."
The words fell softly.
But they shattered something fragile all the same.
Rebecca's lips parted, but no sound came out at first. Her breath hitched, caught somewhere between disbelief and pain.
"…I thought you'd say that," she whispered.
Her shoulders trembled.
"I knew it," she said. "I knew there was something you weren't telling me. Something big. Something dangerous."
A tear slipped down her cheek.
She didn't wipe it away.
"I'm afraid," Rebecca said quietly. "I'm really afraid."
The admission was bare.
Unprotected.
"I'm afraid that one day," she continued, voice cracking, "you'll leave like this again… and you won't come back."
Her hands clenched in her lap, nails digging into her skin as if grounding herself.
"You walk into danger like it's routine," she said. "You don't even look shaken when the world is falling apart. And today—today you came back without a scratch. Without a trace of fear. Like death didn't even look at you."
She looked up at him then.
Her eyes were red.
But steady.
"I don't know what you're doing," she said. "But I know it's dangerous."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Not awkward.
Not empty.
It pressed inward, filling the room until even the sunlight felt subdued.
Seconds passed.
Then minutes.
Lencar did not interrupt it.
Mariella remained still, her presence quiet, respectful.
Rebecca's breathing slowly steadied, though her hands still trembled.
Finally, Lencar spoke again.
"Rebecca," he said quietly, "what I do will put anyone near me at risk."
He met her gaze directly.
"I don't want that for you."
Her brows knit together.
"I don't want you in danger because of me."
She swallowed.
Then answered.
"…I don't want you in danger either."
The simplicity of the response struck harder than any argument could have.
Rebecca stood slowly, moving closer.
"I don't care if it's dangerous," she said. "I care that you keep doing it alone."
Her voice wavered, but she didn't stop.
"So please," she said, "let me help you."
Lencar shook his head once.
"No."
The refusal was immediate.
Firm.
Rebecca didn't flinch.
"I won't be on the battlefield," she said quickly. "I won't ask to fight. I know my limits."
She took another step closer.
"But I can support you. I can anchor you. I can be someone who knows when you're lying to yourself."
Her voice softened.
"I don't want to be protected by ignorance."
The words hung between them.
Mariella watched quietly, sensing the shift. This was not a negotiation. This was something deeper—a fracture in the walls Lencar had built around himself.
Lencar didn't answer right away.
Instead, he studied Rebecca's face.
The fear.
The determination.
The exhaustion she hid behind routine and smiles.
And something else.
Care.
Real, unguarded care.
For the first time, Lencar realized something he had never allowed himself to consider.
It wasn't only his parents who waited for him.
There was someone else.
Someone who noticed his absence. Who felt the weight of his silence. Who feared losing him—not as a protector, not as a figure of strength—but as him.
The realization didn't strike like lightning.
It settled slowly.
Quietly.
And it changed something fundamental.
Lencar's expression softened.
Just slightly.
Then—
He smiled.
Gently.