"I have been wanting to meet you, Mister Lucavion."
The hall around them hummed with subdued curiosity — the collective strain of students pretending not to listen.
Isolde's tone was perfect: warm, polite, no hint of recognition. As though they were strangers.
As though she hadn't watched him burn.
As though she hadn't erased him from the world herself.
A test wrapped in courtesy.
Lucavion met her gaze, his smirk sharpening. "It is an honor to hear that, Miss—"
"Isolde."
She offered the name again, soft as silk, the smallest tilt of her head inviting something more intimate.
A gesture she had used on him once, long ago, to guide him where she wanted him.
He froze.
Just a fraction.
Just enough.
A single heartbeat of silence.
"…. "
Her lashes fluttered once — feigned softness, real calculation.
"You can call me Isolde."
Another invitation. Another test. Another needle pushed subtly into the skin of his composure.
