Damien lay on the ground, his body unresponsive, his breaths uneven. His gaze, however, was steady—fixed upon the figure before him.
The girl stood there, radiant in her simplicity, white hair cascading down her back like threads of moonlight, her eyes gleaming with the same pale purity. Her laughter still echoed faintly in the training hall, soft and light, without malice, without suspicion.
And he kept staring.
He couldn't stop himself.
For once, there was someone with no scrutiny in her eyes, no scheming intent, no harsh judgment. She hadn't interrogated him with questions, nor measured him against some expectation. Instead, she had laughed—purely, joyfully—at something as silly as their contrasting colors. Black and white. Night and day.
Damien's chest ached as the thought slipped unbidden into his mind: Could I ever… laugh like that? Could I ever be so carefree, so alive?
He had no answer.
Before he could dwell further, a sudden force coursed through his limbs. His body, which had moments ago been broken and numb, pulsed with warmth. His head turned sharply, eyes narrowing, only to find the girl pointing her finger at him. Mystical energy enveloped him, a whitish-blue essence weaving into his battered muscles.
Damien's instincts screamed. His battered body jerked slightly as he tried to pull away, crawling back with what little strength he could muster. His mind burned with alarms. She's a mystic cultivator.
The girl, however, only smiled calmly.
"Don't be afraid," she said softly. "I'm lending you a hand."
And with that, she flicked her fingers. His body froze—immobilized by a spell before he could protest. He struggled, his eyes flashing with guarded hostility, but it was useless.
Then she began to heal him.
Her hands moved with practiced care, weaving essence into his broken frame. The energy seeped into him like warmth from a hearth on the coldest of nights, knitting torn fibers, soothing strained muscles, mending what he had nearly destroyed through recklessness.
Damien stared up at her, speechless.
No one had ever cared for him like this. Not with such focus. Not with such sincerity. The world blurred around him, but her face—concentrated, calm, gentle—remained sharp in his vision. Something stirred within his chest, fragile and unfamiliar.
Why… does this feel so comforting?
Inside him, Albert broke his silence with a sigh, his voice dry but tinged with amusement.
Oh boy… he's a goner now.
When the girl finally pulled back, her essence receding, Damien felt lighter—his body whole again, though fatigue still clung faintly at the edges. He lay there for a moment longer, dazed, a foolish expression lingering on his face.
The senior girl, Evraine Valemont, watched him carefully.
To her eyes, he wasn't just a boy lying wounded on the ground. He was something far sadder.
When she had first noticed him intruding into her training room, she had nearly reacted with anger. But then she had seen it—the blackness. It bled from him in waves, colors invisible to most, but clear to her.
As a daughter of House Valemont, one of the Nine Great Houses, she bore the talent to perceive emotions as colors. And what she saw in Damien had left her silent.
Loneliness—so heavy it pressed against her heart. Helplessness—thick and suffocating. Desperation—for love, for care, for belonging. And most terrifying of all—vengeful rage, so vast, so consuming, yet locked behind an iron cage of restraint.
Blackness. A storm of black emotions tangled together, untempered by even a flicker of warmth.
Professor Virelius… he had radiated rage too, but it had been tempered—tempered with love, with compassion, with hope. This boy had none of that. And looking at his features she somewhat understood why he was filled with negativity, maybe he was a Dreadmore as well.
After gaining some composure she wanted to make the boy put away some of those thoughts.
So she had tried to lighten the atmosphere, to bring some warmth. His reaction to her joke—the silly way he had looked at her—confirmed what she had already guessed: even the smallest kindness meant everything to him.
And when she healed him, she saw something new emerge. Among the swirling blackness, a faint flicker of gratitude… and yes, a touch of something softer. Affection.
She felt her chest tighten. Just how much suffering has he endured, if so little care leaves him so overwhelmed?
Back in the present, Damien suddenly sat up, shaking off his daze. He bowed his head slightly, voice steady, polite.
"Thank you," he said firmly. "For helping me."
He wasn't someone who would forget courtesy. Miss Beckar's lessons about etiquette rang clear in his mind. And truthfully, he meant it.
To his surprise, the girl sat down too. She extended her hand, smiling faintly.
"Evraine Valemont," she said. "Second year."
Damien's eyes flickered with realization. A name of one of the Nine Great Houses.
Still, he reached out, taking her hand with the poise drilled into him since childhood. "Damien," he replied simply.
Her smile deepened. And he found himself staring at it. Not in passing. Not with caution. But with full, unbroken concentration.
Her lips curved gently, her pale eyes softened, her entire face seemed to brighten with that smile. Something about it drew him in.
Evraine tilted her head slightly, raising a brow. "Why are you staring at me like that?"
For once, Damien didn't dodge, didn't deflect. His answer came without hesitation, sincere and unguarded.
"Because your smile," he said quietly, "is very beautiful. And I want to see every moment of it."
Evraine froze. Her breath caught in her throat.
For a heartbeat, the silence stretched. Albert, inside, went dumbstruck. This… this brat! What kind of game is he playing with her?
But Albert knew better—Damien wasn't playing any game. He had no clue about matters between men and women. He meant it. Every word was genuine.
That sincerity radiated from him, so clear that Evraine could see it even without her gift. He wasn't flirting. He wasn't teasing. He was simply speaking the truth.
And that truth, unvarnished and pure, embarrassed her more than anything else.
Her cheeks flushed pink. She turned her gaze slightly away, lips parting without words. For the first time in a long while, Evraine Valemont, noble daughter of one of the Nine Great Houses, felt shy.