Three years had passed since the night the hunter found them.
Three years since Shoko stood trembling before death, before Ariandel stepped between him and the darkness like a shield woven from light.
Three years of running, training, learning, and coming.
Now, as dawn settled over the quiet valley, a thin silver thread shimmered in the air, dancing through the open clearing like a living thing. It twisted and spiraled, looping around a tree branch before snapping taut in Shoko's hand.
He stood barefoot in the dew-soaked grass, steady and poised, holding the thread as delicately as if it were a strand of hair. At sixteen, he had grown taller, lean, wiry muscle replacing the frail, starved figure he once was. His white hair had grown longer, now brushing past his shoulders, almost glowing when the morning sun caught it. His eyes remained the same brilliant purple, but they were sharper now, more focused, carrying a quiet intelligence and an old pain he no longer hid from.
The treads responded to that gaze.
Another strand flickered to life at his fingertips and snaked outward, weaving with the first. With a swift gesture, he swung both the threads upward; they sliced through the air and wrapped around a falling apple from a nearby tree, suspending it mid-air before gently setting it into his palm.
He took a breath no panting, but controlled. Calm.
"What do you think?" he asked over his shoulder.
Behind him, perched on a stump like royalty, Tilli flicked her tail and meowed with exaggerated disgust.
Shoko sighed. "Right. Still not good enough for her highness."
Tilli meowed louder.
Shoko turned, raising an eyebrow. "That was plenty graceful."
She gave him the slow, judgmental blink of an emperor tolerating a mediocre performer.
A laugh drifted from the tree line. Soft, warm, unmistakable.
"You two will never change," Ariandel said as she stepped into the clearing, a bundle of herbs tucked under one arm. "She criticizes. You argue back. The world spins on."
Shoko's face softened without him meaning to.
Ariandel always had that effect on him.
Her appearance had changed, too, over the years. She wore layers of deep blue and white mage's robes, embroidered with silver lines that caught the light like frost. Her hair, snow-whitelike Shoko's but threaded with faint shimmering runes, fell in loose waves to her waist. Her vivid gold eyes, held warmth that never dimmed, even when shadows lingered in her thoughts. Her presence was unmistakable, powerful, serene, and calming, the kind of person who walks into a room already forgiven for anything she hadn't even done yet.
Shoko still thought she was the most beautiful person he had ever seen.
She set the herbs down and approached him. "Your control is improving. That last wrap was cleaner than yesterday."
Shoko's chest warmed at the praise. He tried to hide it, but Ariandel always noticed everything.
"But," she continued, "you're still relying too much on instinct. Show me the sequence again."
Shoko nodded and took a position. "Center the mana at the fingertips. Visualize the thread's shape, not its path. Keep the mind quiet-"
"Not quiet," Ariandel corrected gently, touching two fingers to his forehead. "Focused. Let your thoughts flow toward the spell instead of away from it."
Shoko inhaled. The mark on his right hand a pale silver sigil shaped like a crescent woven through a vertical line pulsed gently. It had grown more intricate over the years, each new layer representing power gained, control refined. He was already near the end of Second Weave, edging toward the threshold of Third. A far cry from the hollow boy who couldn't even hold a spark.
He channeled mana through his hand.
A single thread appeared thin, clear, almost invisible.
Ariandel watched closely. "Good. Now three more. Keep them equal."
Shoko exhaled slowly. Another thread formed. Then a third. A fourth.
All hovering between his fingers like delicate strands of glass.
He moved them in perfect synchronization, weaving them into a square frame. Not a tremor in his hand. Not a flicker of instability.
He was proud of that. Three years ago, he could barely form one without it shattering like dust.
"Excellent," Ariandel said. "Now compress."
Shoko pressed his fingers together. The four threads tightened, spiraled inward, and fused into one stronger strand.
He pulled it taut and snapped it with a swift flick.
The sound cracked like lightning through the clearing.
Leaves rustled. Tilli jumped slightly, then pretended he didn't.
Ariandel laughed. "Well done. You're nearly ready for boundary threads."
Shoko blinked. "Boundary threads? Already?"
"You learn quickly," she said with a shrug. "Faster than I expected. And faster than most mages your age ever could." Her smile softened. "Your mind is sharp. You see patterns that others miss. You listen even when you pretend you don't. And you... try."
Shoko looked away, embarrassed. Trying was new to him. Wanting to improve was new to him.
But Ariandel made him want to.
"Boundary threads will be dangerous," she warned. "You'll need to strengthen your core first, and-"
A sudden tremor rippled through the ground.
Shoko froze.
Tilli hissed, her fur puffing out like a terrified feather duster.
Ariandel turned toward the mountain path, golden eyes narrowing. "It's happening again."
Shoko's heartbeat quickened. They had felt this before. Three years ago, the night the hunter appeared. And twice since then, faint echoes of the same presence, watching from somewhere unseen.
Not attacking.
But searching.
Ariandel touched his shoulder, grounding him. "Shoko. Breathe."
He did. Slowly.
What do you think it is?" he asked.
She hesitated. Ariandel rarely hesitated.
Finally, she shook her head. "I don't know. But it means we must accelerate your training."
Shoko's hand tightened involuntarily.
He knew what it meant.
New spells. New techniques. New pain.
He wasn't afraid of the danger. He was afraid of failing her.
"I can handle it," he said quickly.
Ariandel tilted her head. "I know you can. But strength without calm is just chaos. And magic without understanding is..."
Shoko finished the phrase automatically. "...self-destruction."
She smiled. "Good boy."
He turned red immediately. "Don't call me that."
"You'll survive," she teased. "Now, let's continue with your conditioning.
They moved to the center of the clearing. Shoko removed his vest, standing in loose training wraps. Thin scars crossed his arms and collarbone, remnants of the past, remnants of mistakes, remnants of lessons. His muscles were defined but not bulky; his body was built for agility, focus, and precision.
"Begin stance cycle," Ariandel instructed.
Shoko flowed into a grounded position, feet, steady, fingers curved like he was holding invisible strings.
He moved.
Each step was silent. Each motion is controlled. Threads flickered in and out of existence as he practiced, cutting, binding, pulling, and weaving.
Ariandel walked around him, studying his movements with a mother's worry and a teacher's pride.
"You've grown," she murmured, almost too soft to hear.
Shoko almost faltered. "What?"
"I was thinking," she said quickly. "You've changed more in three years than most do in ten." She paused. "You smile more."
Shoko frowned reflexively.
"Case in point," she added with a smirk.
He huffed. "Smiling isn't… natural. For me."
"Then it's good we're practicing," she said.
He groaned. "That's not how that works."
"It is if I say so."
He glared, but his lips twitched despite himself.
Ariandel's expression softened again. "I'm proud of you."
Shoko froze.
He had heard praise before. Encouragement. Guidance.
But proud?
That word was heavy. Too heavy.
He swallowed, his voice rough. "You don't have to say that."
"I want to," she replied gently. "You deserve to hear it."
His chest felt too full. Too warm.
Why did words hurt more than the training?
Ariandel stepped in front of him and brushed a lock of white hair from his eyes. "You're not the frightened little boy I saved. You're becoming someone strong. Someone kind. Someone who chooses their own path."
Shoko lowered his gaze, blinking hard. "You… made me that."
"No," she whispered. "I gave you a place to grow. You chose to grow."
He didn't know how to respond. So he didn't.
She patted his cheek. "Now—again. But faster."
He groaned. "You're cruel."
"And you love me for it."
He didn't argue. He just resumed the stance, threads igniting around him like strands of captured moonlight.
A flutter of motion caught his eye—Tilli, chasing the threads, paws batting at the shimmering lines. Shoko jerked his hand away, nearly tripping. Ariandel burst into laughter.
"Oh spirits—Shoko, you really are like a cat."
He flushed. "I'm not—! Why does everyone—?!"
Tilli meowed triumphantly, clearly agreeing.
Ariandel bent over laughing. "You pounce. You stalk. You glare at everything. You hate loud noises. And you almost knocked over a pot yesterday because it startled you."
Shoko sputtered. "That was ONE TIME—!"
She wiped tears from her eyes. "My sweet little string-cat."
He groaned again, covering his face. "Please stop talking."
"No," she said cheerfully. "Never."
But when she spoke again, her voice turned gentle.
"Come. Let's finish your training. We don't have much time."
Shoko nodded, the humor fading into something more serious.
He felt it too—the looming danger, the shifting air, the weight of three years catching up.
He stepped forward, threads swirling around him like silver ribbons.
Ariandel watched him with pride, fear, and love intertwined.
"Ready?" she asked.
Shoko took a breath.
"I'm ready," he said.
And as the morning sun rose behind them, the clearing shimmered with threads of silver, weaving the beginning of something far greater than either of them yet understood.