The bushes parted around Damon's fingers. Ripples shimmered in the clearing ahead — water bending and spiralling, swirling around a single figure at its center.
Cythera.
She stood with her eyes closed, sleeves cut short at the shoulder, her midriff bare, breath slow and controlled. Water coiled around her arms as if listening to her pulse.
Her movements were quiet at first — a circling of the wrist, a flick of the fingers, a twist of the hips and the water obeyed like muscle and bone.
Then she snapped it down like a whip.
Daichi winced mentally. "Ouu. That would hurt."
Damon didn't answer. He couldn't look away.
Cythera lifted her arms again — palms slicing upward — and water surged skyward. Frost crawled across its surface, turning it into jagged ice. She stepped on a rising pillar of frozen water as if climbing a staircase made for gods.
She kicked downward; water cracked like a thunderclap.
Then — breath held — she shaped the rising surge into a colossal blade of ice, spanning taller than any tree around her.
It glimmered blue, sharp as regret, runes breathing faintly beneath the surface. Not a weapon but a declaration. She spun once, cutting a perfect 360° around the clearing. Grass split cleanly, trees shuddering under the chill.
The blade swept toward Damon, and he moved without thinking.
Light cloaked his fist, compacted like a star shrinking into his own palms. He braced then struck forward. The ice shattered into a thousand glittering shards.
Cythera opened her eyes finally. Calm. Focused. Unshaken.
"You're learning fast," she said.
Damon exhaled. "All thanks to Solaren."
"You weren't expecting anyone here?"
"We were just… looking for a spot to eat." He lifted the large basket. Even from here, the smell drifted.
Cythera blinked once, realizing. "Wait."
She wiped her brow with the back of her hand, soft droplets slipping down her temple. Her muscles were defined — not bulky, but carved by discipline.
"I'm hungry," she added simply.
She unwound her hair, letting it spill freely down her back. The droplets from before slid down her neck to her collarbone.
Damon didn't stare — but he noticed.
Then she flicked her fingers and pulled the moisture off Damon's face — condensed the droplets midair — then sent them drifting back to the plants in the places she cleared.
Damon raised a brow. "How did you—"
"You can ask when I start tutoring you one water." She stepped closer. "You look taller. I saw you a few days ago. And your arms…"
She touched his forearm, fingers lightly pressing.
"Sturdier. Denser. Different."
Damon stayed still — politely, respectfully.
He noticed the warmth in her hand. He noticed the subtle quickening of her breath. He noticed everything but he chose not to react.
Cythera stepped back. Her composure returned like a cloak sliding back over her shoulders.
"Follow me. I know a place."
They reached the far edge of Woewyn — a cliff overlooking a sweep of white sand. The water below was impossibly blue, the colour of a dream polished too many times.
Damon stared down.
"This water looks like someone edited a picture to advertise it."
Cythera sat in the sand and nodded. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"
Damon lowered himself beside her. Daichi flopped down with his tongue out.
Damon handed him a chunk of meat. "Reward for patience."
Cythera watched them with an unreadable softness — admiration, maybe. Or curiosity. Or both.
"So." She gestured at Damon. "How did this happen?"
He told her about the Resonant Stride, the cave, the Keeper, the sword only he could unlock.
Cythera listened without interrupting — eyes steady, breath measured — until he finished.
"That still doesn't explain… this." She gestured at his taller frame.
Damon sighed.
Tolrex's explanation was still fresh on his tongue.
"When I slept… I felt agony. Like every part of me was being rebuilt."
He swallowed. "And when I woke up… I was like this. Tolrex says its because I'm growing too fast."
Cythera's eyes softened — not pity, but something warmer, deeper. Like concern shaped into respect.
"So will you stop training?" she asked quietly.
"No."
He didn't hesitate.
"Tolrex said if I master my power, the Purges might stop."
"Good," she said, a faint smile tugging her lips. "Because I've joined the bet. I'm training you until you die."
Damon blinked. "I thought the bet was a joke."
"I'm taking it seriously."
She picked up a bread-wrapped strip of meat and bit it.
"Have you learned anything about Ki?"
"No. What's Ki?"
She swallowed, eyes narrowing playfully.
"I know you're healing right now. But are you up for a lesson? I want to be the first to teach you, out of the five of us."
Something in her voice — calm, cool, but edged with intent — sank into his chest.
Damon stood. "Yeah. Sure. Why not?"
He offered her his hand.
She took it.
"Ki isn't magic or Eterna," Cythera said as they stood on the sand.
"It's older. It's the language of the body — breath, blood, tension, intent."
She tied a cloth around her eyes.
"Hit me."
Damon hesitated. "My first time striking a lady." he thought.
He aimed at her shoulder.
She tilted her head. The strike missed cleanly and she pulled the blindfold off.
"It's not prophecy or seeing into the future" she said. "It's studying ones presence."
She stepped closer.
"Stance." she commanded.
He adopted a fighting pose.
"No," she corrected.
She gently nudged his feet apart. Lowered his shoulders. Relaxed his fists. Then she pressed two fingers to his sternum to straighten him. Her heart had these micro-beats, small touches, quick breath she tried to hide.
Damon pretended not to notice.
"Eyes closed," she said.
He obeyed.
"Now listen. Not with your ears — with your skin." she said as she wrapped a blindfold gently on his eyes.
She moved, a shift in her weight, a warm ripple of air.
Damon reacted too late.
She circled him. "Stop predicting and start feeling."
He tried again. Listened. Breathed.
Her intent brushed the air — subtle, like a whisper before a storm.
He dodged before she moved.
She stopped mid-strike, lips parting in surprise.
"Good," she murmured. "Now you're not fighting me. You're dancing with me."
The lesson grew faster.
She feinted — he ignored it.
She shifted — he followed.
She kicked — he blocked.
Sun dipped low, surrounding shadows grew long.
Cythera spun, intending a spinning kick from above. Damon raised his arm — she vaulted off it, flipping overhead.
A mistake.
Damon struck the air — wind burst forward and pushed her mid-motion. She lost her footing. He sensed it instantly and dashed forward.
He caught her. One hand behind her back. One palm on the sand to brace them both. Their faces inches apart.
Her breath hit his cheek like cool mist. Her heartbeat — just a fraction too fast thudded against his arm.
He took of the blindfold. Damon looked into her eyes. Calm. Concerned.
"Did I hurt you?"
She didn't answer at first.
Then she thought "He caught me. Why is my chest tight? Why does his arm feel this warm? Why is he looking at me like that? Get a grip, Cythera"
She swallowed.
"No. You were… smart to take advantage there."
Damon nodded once and helped her up — perfectly composed.
He noticed her fluster.
He simply chose not to react.
A flicker — a thin thread — of Natsuki tugged at him.
Then faded.
"How'd I do on my first lesson?" he asked.
"You did well," she said, brushing sand from her clothes. "Very well."
They returned to Daichi — who had somehow not finished the food.
"You got a BB," Cythera said.
"A what?"
"Bottomless basket," she said. "They can hold more than you think."
She reached for another piece. Damon let her.
She ate slower than Daichi — but with visible contentment.
"Will you join the Trineum Festival?" she asked.
Damon blinked. "Probably not. I'm bad at sports."
Cythera stared. "You'll be forced to. The headmaster runs the festival."
"…What does the headmaster have to do with a festival?"
"It's a school festival, Damon."
He stared.
"Oh. Trineum is a school?"
"…What did you think it was?"
"Never mind."
On Earth, Natsuki held the Shard of Luminaris in her hand.
It pulsed faintly.
She saw Damon — the cliff, Cythera close to him, their movements in training.
Her breath hitched.
"…Does Damon… like her?"
The shard glowed once — soft. Unanswered.
The question hung in the dark.