The moment the words left his mouth—"By needing to."—the classroom fell into a strange, heavy quiet. It wasn't reverent silence, nor mocking silence, but something in between. A few students exchanged looks as if expecting a punchline; others smirked, assuming Lucavion was trying to be dramatic or clever. Yet the weight in his tone lingered longer than anyone anticipated, settling into the room like dust after a collapse.
Selenne did not blink. She watched him instead, waiting for the shift beneath the surface. And she saw it—the tiniest flinch, so quick and controlled that no one else in the room seemed to register it. But she was close, far too close, and her senses were sharpened not by empathy but by irritation and scrutiny. His fingers tensed. His shoulders drew inward by a hair. He regretted saying it, or perhaps he regretted saying it honestly.
