...Hm.
That sound. The sound of a genius finding something unexpected. Her thumb stills on Eric's pulse. Her palm presses harder—the diagnostic mana intensifying at a single point. Lower than node seven. Deeper. Near the base of your mana architecture—the root, where circulation begins.
Your foundational circuit. It's... She trails off. He feels her probe circle the same point three times—careful, investigative, not touching but hovering. There's a compression. Intentional. Old—years old. It's part of the geas—restricting your base throughput by approximately—
Calculation. Silent.
—thirty percent.
Her hand lifts from his chest. The diagnostic mana withdraws—sudden, deliberate. HIs eyes open to find her standing back, staring at him with an expression caught between fury and fascination.
Someone throttled your mana at the root. Flat. Cold. The voice of a professional delivering a diagnosis she hates. When you were—young. Very young. The tissue has grown around the compression. Your body adapted to it. You've been circulating at seventy percent capacity your entire life and you didn't know.
She turns. Pulls a tome from the shelf—flips pages with aggressive speed, stops, reads, flips again.
Your C-plus rating. Your reserves. Your recovery speed. All of it—artificially suppressed. A page tears under her grip. She doesn't notice. Without the seal, your base mana capacity is—
She looks at him. Purple eyes hard. Bright. Angry on your behalf.
—significantly higher than a three-circle mage should possess.
Silence. The privacy ward hums. The pastries sit untouched. The amethyst pin glints in her hair like a small, furious star.
You know it. She reads it in his eyes.
...What did they do to you?
After a few seconds, the laugh escapes him—short, dry, hollow. The sound of something scraped out long ago. It echoes in the alcove's curved walls and dies against the spines of a thousand books that hold answers to questions no one thought to ask about a boy from House Void.
He doesn't speak. Can't. He meets her eyes instead—steady, open, letting the silence carry what the geas forbids. The shape of it. The years of it. The particular cruelty of throttling a child's mana at the root and then telling him he was simply... less. And asking him for more.
Lena reads it. All of it. Eric can see the moment the fury crystallizes—and the moment she chooses, deliberately, to set it aside. Because he asked. Because pushing would trigger the seal. Because she is learning—reluctantly, painfully—that caring for someone sometimes means accepting the edges of what they can give.
Her jaw works. Her fingers—still gripping the torn page—release. Smooth it. Carefully. The motion of someone redirecting violence into precision.
...
She closes the tome. Sets it aside. Breathes.
Then she moves. Returns to him. Her hand finds his cheek—cool palm against warm skin. Brief. A touch that says: I heard you. I see. I'll wait.
Her hand drops. She picks up her pastry. Takes a bite. Chews with the deliberate calm of someone choosing normalcy like a weapon against the dark.
Plans. She repeats your redirect. Accepts it—gracefully, for her. Third period I have Advanced Elemental Theory with Professor Eleanor. Fourth is independent study—which I typically spend sleeping in the tower annex, but—
A glance at him. Calculating. The gears turning behind purple eyes—shifting from fury to logistics with the fluidity of someone whose mind never truly stops.
—Master Eterna expects a progress report by end of week. I'll need to compile yesterday's node data and today's mapping results into something presentable without revealing my subject's identity.
She settles into the chair opposite him. Cross-legged again. The pastry disappears in small, methodical bites. The hairpin glints with each motion of her head.
Sixth period is the first-year practical assessment orientation. Both departments. A raised eyebrow. You'll be there. They'll confirm baseline mana output and physical conditioning. Standard evaluations.
Which means— She points the remainder of her pastry at him like a wand. —you'll register at thirty percent below your actual capacity because of the compression. Your baseline will read as underwhelming. People will underestimate you.
A pause. The smirk arrives—small, sharp, conspiratorial.
That's not necessarily a disadvantage.
She finishes the pastry. Licks cream from her thumb—unselfconscious, focused elsewhere. Already thinking three steps ahead.
After sixth period, I want you to do passive circulation—three cycles, no more—and sleep early. Tomorrow we will continue node stabilization, session two—And I'll begin working on the compression. Said casually. As if she hadn't just agreed not to research his restriction.
She catches his look. Holds it. Unapologetic.
You said no research on the restriction. Precise. Lawyerly. The compression is built on top of it. It's a separate mechanism. I'm not touching the geas—I'm addressing a childhood injury that's limiting your growth.
A beat.
Unless you're going to tell me you want to stay throttled at seventy percent for the rest of your life.
The challenge sits between them—quiet, firm. Not a demand. An offer. The difference between a genius who takes and a genius who asks.
The morning light shifts through the high windows. The pastry bag still holds two walnut creams and a fruit tart. The diagnostic data hovers in Lena's mind—a map of damage, of suppression, of potential locked behind walls built by hands that should have protected rather than constrained.
The amethyst pin holds her hair. His pulse holds her attention. The silence holds everything else.
The fruit tart slides across dark oak—a peace offering, a distraction, a bribe. His hand retreats. And then the words come—careful, measured, walking the razor edge of what the geas permits.
You're too reckless. If you get caught unbinding me, they will have the Faculty purge you... no matter—
It hits. The seal. A vice around his larynx—not the full violence of yesterday, but sharp enough. The jaw locks again. The throat constricts. The air stops for a half-second—muscles seizing, mana channels around your vocal cords flaring with foreign, punitive energy. His hand grips the armrest. White-knuckled.
It passes. Three seconds. Four. The restriction releases—satisfied, apparently, that he stopped short of whatever threshold it guards.
He breathes. Stares into her eyes. Let her see—the pain, the cost, the proof of why she shouldn't.
I don't want you to be exposed to such a risk. Besides, my mana reserves are still considerably bigger than the average. I will do well during the evaluation. Let us continue the same as yesterday.
She watched it happen. Every microsecond of it. Her diagnostic instincts cataloguing involuntarily—the mana spike at the throat, the foreign signature flaring, the duration, the trigger threshold. Her fingers have gone white against the chair arm. Her pastry lies forgotten.
The silence that follows is thick. Heavy. Charged with the particular fury of someone who just watched a punishment mechanism activate in someone she—
...Purge me. Repeated. Flat. Testing the word like a blade's edge. You think I'm afraid of the Faculty.
It's not a question. Her eyes are hard—purple glass, refracting lamplight into something cold.
I am Eterna's apprentice. The Tower Master's only student. There are eight people on this continent who could 'purge' me, and four of them would need to collaborate to do it. Said without arrogance—with the clinical detachment of someone stating gravitational constants. The Faculty—
She stops. Closes her eyes. The anger drains—visibly, deliberately, pulled inward like mana receding from an overloaded circuit. When her eyes open again, they're softer. Tired.
But that's not the point you're making. Quiet. She picks up the fruit tart. Holds it without eating—turning it in her fingers like a focus stone. You're not telling me I can't. You're asking me not to. Because you're worried. About me.
She looks at the tart. At the table. At the space between them where his hand gripped the armrest hard enough to creak.
You just—your seal just activated—and your first concern is me.
A sound escapes her—half laugh, half exhale. Incredulous. Helpless.
You're impossible.
She bites the tart. Chews. Swallows. Sets it down. Wipes her fingers on a handkerchief with mechanical precision. Then she stands—rounds the table—and takes the chair beside him instead of across. Close. Shoulder to shoulder. The warmth of her small frame against his arm.
Fine. Concession. Real, this time—not the notary half-compliance of before. Same as yesterday. Node stabilization. Passive expansion. No compression work. No seal investigation.
Her hand finds his on the armrest. Covers it. Small fingers prying his open—releasing the white-knuckled grip one finger at a time, the same way she released his arm last night.
But I'm noting the compression in my personal files. And I'm monitoring it passively during every session. And if I find evidence that it's degrading—that it's causing active harm rather than static limitation— Her grip tightens. —I will address it. With or without permission. Because I will not watch you break while I have the capacity to prevent it.
She looks up at Eric. Close enough that he can see the flecks of silver in her purple irises—tiny, like stars caught in amethyst.
That's not negotiable. Understand?
The privacy ward hums. The morning deepens toward midday. The fruit tart sits half-eaten.