Erin slowly lowered her hand.
The mana dispersed—not like a snapped string, but like a tide drawing back into the sea. Smooth. Controlled. Absolute.
But beneath that composure, something churned.
If what he says is true... then this doubt—this pain—it's my fault.
Her gaze lingered on Damien—not as a Seer, not as a Valeheart, not even as a wielder of Mystery.
But as a grandmother.
And what she saw now… was a boy with fire in his eyes that did not belong to someone ordinary. Not just anger. Not just spite. But conviction. Direction. It was the kind of will that did not survive on its own—it was forged.
This child—no, this man—just walked out of Cradle… and already...
She narrowed her eyes, faintly. His core is nascent. Raw. The mana flow is unstable. He is a beginner, no doubt.
Yet the pressure he exuded...
The presence...
It whispered of someone older. Someone hardened.
And for the first time in decades, Erin Valeheart did not know what she wanted to do.
