Black emerged from the wreckage.
Not a single step faltered.
The devastation Belle had carved into the world still screamed around him, fractured air, collapsing pockets of gravity, drifting ash where mountains had once stood, but none of it touched him.
He walked through the ruin as if it were nothing more than morning fog, his coat settling neatly against his frame, his hair untouched, every strand exactly where it belonged.
He stopped a short distance away.
Placed a hand over his chest.
And sighed.
The gesture was theatrical. Almost wounded.
"My, my," Black said lightly, tilting his head. "Is that really how you greet your favorite student now?"
His voice carried easily through the ruined air, smooth and amused, as if they were speaking in a quiet hall rather than atop the corpse of a landscape. "Attacking with the clear intent to kill? I must say, Master… that hurts."
Belle didn't respond.
She didn't shift her stance.
Didn't tighten her grip.
