Dawn crept in quietly, the kind that felt hesitant, as though even the sun was unsure whether it should intrude.
Auther woke to find Viola already gone and Lana occupying the small study carved into his bedroom, the desk crowded with notebooks and strange glass cylinders, her attention so deeply fixed on her work that she didn't look up when he stirred, and for a moment he simply watched her and wondered how everyone else always seemed awake before him.
The air outside still smelled of dew, and inside his chest the storm from the night before had only barely settled.
He rose, crossed the room, and stopped beside her.
She didn't turn.
She didn't acknowledge him.
She just kept grinding something down, scribbling notes, erasing them, then writing again with quick, precise strokes.
She really is confident when she's in her element, he thought, oddly impressed.
Without ceremony, he tugged his shirt off and let it fall aside.
Lana turned at the sound.
Her eyes flicked over him once—quick, startled—then immediately away.
"What," Auther said lightly, stretching his shoulders, "were you expecting every man you meet to look like a porcelain statue?"
She rolled her eyes, cheeks pink, refusing to rise to the bait, and instead reached for several narrow cylinders filled with a green, viscous liquid.
She stepped behind him.
Cold spread across his back as she slathered the substance generously along his spine, her hands moving with practiced certainty even as her breath stayed shallow, her fingers sliding up his shoulders, down his ribs, along his chest and stomach, then back again in a careful loop that made him acutely aware of how close she was.
"What's that supposed to do?" he asked, mostly to break the silence.
"You wouldn't understand," she said softly. "It's an alchemy thing."
He frowned—not offended, just curious—but let it go.
For a while, the only sound was her breathing and the scratch of her pen as she noted something down between passes, and when he finally spoke again it was almost a complaint.
"I don't feel anything."
"You're not supposed to," she replied, forcing steadiness into her voice. "I have an ability. I can see magic circuits. Veins. Flow. The cream just acts as a medium."
She hesitated, then added more quietly, "That's how I knew how to counter the toxin."
That explained more than he'd realized he'd been wondering.
She gasped suddenly.
The pressure of her hands didn't stop, but it faltered just enough that he noticed.
"What is it?" he asked, tension tightening his shoulders.
She swallowed.
"…Why do you have two soul cores?"
The room seemed to still.
"Doesn't everyone?" Auther asked, uncertain now. "One for class. One for grade."
Lana's hands didn't leave his skin, but her touch grew slower, more careful, as if she were afraid of what she might confirm if she pushed too hard.
She'd seen enough bodies—enough mana structures—to know that wasn't true.
But she smiled anyway.
"Oh," she said lightly. "Maybe you're just weird."
He laughed, relieved, and didn't notice the way her fingers trembled.
She's incredible, he thought. If I'd gone to anyone else…
And then the thought didn't stop.
Elizabeth—the queen—the only human magus alive.
Viola—one of the greatest swordswomen in the realm.
Lana—an alchemist who could see what others couldn't and calculate what shouldn't be possible.
Poisoned, and the answer had been right there.
Awakened, and his teacher was the best alive.
Protected, and his guard was overqualified.
The pattern slid together too cleanly.
Too neatly.
His breath caught.
Have I ever been this lucky?
The question dug in, cold and sharp.
His chest tightened.
His throat scratched.
His hands curled into fists as his breathing sped up, shallow and fast, the room shrinking around him.
Lana's hands snapped away.
"This isn't the lotion," she muttered, backing up. "This is—this is internal."
The door burst open.
Viola was there instantly, eyes scanning the room, blade half-drawn, her gaze snapping from Auther's heaving chest to Lana standing frozen by the desk.
"What did you—"
The words left her mouth before she could stop them.
Regret hit immediately.
"I didn't do anything," Lana shot back, voice tight, fear bleeding through the anger. "He just—he just panicked."
Auther grabbed her shoulders suddenly, eyes wild, grip too tight.
"Which god are you working for?" he demanded, voice cracking. "Tell me who's playing with my life."
She shoved him away, stumbling back.
Viola lunged.
Steel flashed.
Auther didn't fight when she pinned him, didn't resist when she forced him into a chair and bound his arms with his own shirt, didn't even look angry—just terrified in a quiet, hollow way that scared her more than violence ever could.
He wasn't mad.
He was afraid everything around him was fake.
He kept whispering to himself, breathless, "I was never this lucky. Not once. Not ever."
The room fell silent.
Lana stared at him, confused, shaken, guilt gnawing at her ribs even though she'd done nothing wrong.
"I—I need air," she said suddenly. "I just—"
She fled onto the balcony, gripping the railing as the city stretched below, people waking, moving, living as though the world hadn't just cracked open.
Two souls, she thought. Unknown origin. Unstable reaction.
And yet…
"…He doesn't scare me," she whispered.
Viola watched her go, jaw tight.
She followed a moment later.
"You don't believe me," Lana said without turning, voice small.
Viola hesitated.
"You have a lot to gain," she said finally, forcing the words out. "And I've seen people do worse for less."
Lana turned, hands shaking, and stepped closer—too close.
"If that's what you think," she said, tears brimming, "then punish me."
She guided Viola's rapier to her own throat.
Viola yanked it back instantly, heart hammering.
"A rapier is for thrusting," she snapped. "Not slashing. Learn your weapons before offering your life."
She sheathed the blade.
"You believe me?" Lana asked, voice breaking.
"Paid assassins aren't that clumsy," Viola said quietly.
She turned away.
Lana sank to the floor, gasping, fear finally catching up to her, but somewhere beneath it all something steadier remained.
Concern.
Care.
Whatever Auther was—
Whatever he might become—
She wasn't afraid of him.
And that frightened her more than anything else.