...who're you? Her voice is soft, half-swallowed by a yawn. Did the ceremony... start already...?
The girl makes no move to sit up. Just watches him with that single sleepy eye, utterly unbothered by a stranger sitting on her bench.
I'm a stranger who prefers quiet.
His fingers pluck the petal delicately from her nose. She blinks—both eyes open now, purple irises catching the dappled sunlight filtering through the willow.
If you keep sleeping with that much mana leaking, you'll attract more than just a passing student.
She watches the stranger's hand retreat with the petal between his fingers, expression blank but faintly curious.
Leaking...? She yawns wide, jaw cracking softly. Mmn... 's fine. Too much effort to suppress it all the time...
One purple eye regards him with lazy interest—the way a cat might observe a new piece of furniture in its territory.
You said mana leaking. So you can sense it. A small pause. Another blink. ...You're not bad. Most first-years can't feel ambient flow yet.
Eric holds her gaze with quiet interest.
The ceremony is hours away.
Hours, huh... good. A sleepy, satisfied exhale. Then there's no problem.
She shifts the book to one arm and raises her free hand vaguely in his direction—a non-committal wave that might be a greeting.
Lena. Magic Department. You?
Her tone carries no formality, no deference, no particular interest in his status. Just a plain question between two people who happen to share a bench. The vast ocean of her mana continues its lazy orbit around her, undisturbed—as natural to her as breathing.
A bird lands on the armrest above her head. She doesn't notice.
Eric, of House Void. His voice softer than earlier in the Registration Hall. And you're right, I can sense it. It's... impossible to ignore.
His hand closes around hers. It's small—delicate, almost fragile-feeling—but the moment the skin makes contact, he feels it. The mana coursing beneath her surface is like pressing his palm against the side of a dam. Vast. Endless. A depth that makes his own considerable reserves feel like a puddle beside an ocean.
You are amazing. He says, looking into her eyes—genuinely impressed.
And those purple eyes widen—just a fraction. Not from his words, but from the contact itself. The sudden, earnest intensity in Eric's expression catching her off guard.
...
A beat of silence. Then color creeps up her pale cheeks—faint, barely there, like dawn touching snow.
Wh— She pulls her hand back slowly, tucking it against the book on her chest. ...You're weird.
She says it plainly, but her eyes dart away—toward the willow branches, the fountain, anywhere but his face. Her ears, peeking through silver hair, are pink at the tips.
Amazing is... that's too much effort to live up to. She rolls onto her back again, holding the book up above her face as a shield. House Void... the spatial magic family. Mm. I've read about your bloodline's mana circuits. Unusual structure. Interesting.
She's deflecting—burying the compliment under academic analysis. But her voice is slightly faster now. Less drowsy.
...You should let go of strangers' hands faster. Mumbled into the book's spine. People will misunderstand.
The bird on the armrest chirps and flies away.
Let them misunderstand. I find your reaction far more interesting than gossip, Lena.
His fingers push the book aside. Her purple eyes are right there—wide, unguarded, caught mid-retreat. The morning light catches the flecks of violet in her irises, and for a moment she looks genuinely startled. Not afraid. Not angry. Just... unprepared.
Your eyes are as vast as your mana.
The distance between them is close enough to feel the warmth of their breath.
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
...You're really weird.
This time the words come out quieter. Her cheeks aren't faintly pink anymore—they're decidedly red. She clutches the book tighter against her chest like a shield that's already been breached.
Then—abruptly—she moves. Not away from him, but upward. She sits up in one swift motion, silver hair cascading messily over her shoulders, and shoves the book directly into Eric's face.
H-Here. Read this. Chapter seven. Your family's spatial circuits would benefit from asymmetric mana threading. She's talking fast—too fast for someone who was half-asleep thirty seconds ago. It's more productive than... whatever this is.
She swings her legs off the bench, feet barely touching the ground, and hunches forward with her elbows on her knees. She's not leaving. But she's not looking at him either.
...Lines like that. Do they work on noble girls? A pause. ...Don't answer that.
Her ears are burning red. She kicks her feet idly against the grass.
Somewhere in the distance, the academy bell chimes the half-hour.
He looks at her with serious eyes. I would not know. They are boring... you are the first girl to pick my interest.
She stops kicking her feet. The idle motion just... halts. Her shoulders tense—just slightly—and she finally turns her head. Not all the way. Just enough to peek at him from behind the curtain of silver hair.
He points to the book. I'll read it, thank you. But I would like your promise to explain the theory to me yourself.
His expression is serious. No smirk, no playful edge. She searches his face for the joke, the performance—and finds none.
...
She stares at him for a long three seconds. Then her gaze drops to the ground.
...You're dangerous. It comes out barely above a whisper. People who say things like that with a straight face are the most troublesome kind.
She pulls her knees up onto the bench, hugging them to her chest—making herself even smaller than she already is. The morning breeze plays with her hair.
...Fine.
The word is so quiet he almost miss it.
Chapter seven. If you actually read it—all of it—and have questions that aren't stupid... She rests her chin on her knees, purple eyes fixed firmly on a patch of clover in the grass. ...I'll explain. Once. Maybe.
A pause.
But only because your spatial circuits are academically interesting. Not because— She bites her lip. ...It's purely academic.
She unfurls one hand from around her knees and holds it out—pinky extended. Then seems to realize what she's doing, and her face goes scarlet all over again.
...Forget it. Just read the book.
She buries her face into her knees.
His pinky catches hers before she can withdraw it. Her finger is small and warm—it twitches in his grasp but doesn't pull away. She lifts her face just enough to peer over her knees at their interlinked hands.
Then he speak. A promise is a promise, Lena. I'll read every word... The softness. And I assure you, I'm not trying to be close to you just because you are cute... or useful. The assurance.
And then—that flash. Something cold and sharp passes through his eyes like a shard of black glass.
My family... tsk, what am I even saying.
His voice dips into a whisper, catches on something unsaid about House Void, and he cuts himself off and starts reading.
She sees it. All of it.
...
Her purple eyes linger on his face—no longer flustered, no longer deflecting. For a brief moment, that lazy genius gaze sharpens into something perceptive. Quiet. Reading him the way she reads her books—absorbing, cataloging, understanding.
But she says nothing about it. She simply unhooks her pinky slowly and tucks both hands back around her knees.
...Mm. A soft sound. Neither prying nor dismissing. Chapter seven. Don't skip the footnotes.
That's all she offers. No prodding. No curiosity voiced aloud. Just... acceptance of the boundary he drew.
Eric opens the book. 'Advanced Mana Circuit Theory, Vol. III.' The pages are dense—diagrams of mana threading patterns, theoretical frameworks for non-standard circuit architectures. Chapter seven is titled: 'Asymmetric Flow States and Spatial Mana Deviation.' It's complex. Fourth-year material at minimum. But his training and his bloodline knowledge give him footholds.
Beside him, Lena settles back down—not lying flat this time, but leaning against the armrest, knees still tucked up. Her eyes drift closed again. But she's not sleeping. Her breathing is too shallow, too aware.
The two of them sit in silence beneath the willow. The fountain trickles. Pages turn.
Twenty minutes pass. Then forty. The gardens slowly fill with more wandering students, but the willow bench remains an island of quiet.
Eventually—
...You're a fast reader. Mumbled, eyes still closed. Most people get stuck on the Veren diagrams.
He leans back, mimicking her posture. I get stuck on the diagrams, but not for the reason you think. I'm too busy wondering why the author is hiding the truth.
Her eyes snap open.
Not drowsily. Not lazily. They open with the sudden clarity of someone whose mind was already running at full speed behind closed lids. She turns her head toward him—slowly, deliberately—and for the first time, Eric sees something in those purple eyes that isn't sleepiness or embarrassment.
Interest. Real, genuine, intellectual interest.
...Hiding the truth. She repeats it quietly, tasting the words. You noticed.
She unfolds from her curled position, sitting up properly now—legs crossed on the bench, body angled toward him. Her silver hair falls messily around her shoulders, but she doesn't seem to care. Her attention is entirely on the interesting noble in front of her.
The Veren diagrams assume symmetrical mana distribution as a baseline. Every model in that chapter treats deviation as an anomaly to be corrected. Her voice has changed—no longer mumbling, no longer half-asleep. It's clear, precise, fast. But for someone with spatial-type circuits like yours... the deviation is the function. The author knew. Footnote forty-three references a Void family thesis from eighty years ago—then dismisses it in half a sentence.
She leans forward slightly, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands.
So. What do you think he's hiding? And why?
It's a test. But not a condescending one—not a professor quizzing a student. It's the look of someone who found an unexpected conversation partner and wants to see how far the thread goes.