Lytharos poured the steaming tea with a steady hand, the soft scent of herbs rising between them. The clay cups were mismatched—one chipped, the other too small—but they had history. This was the kind of tea they hadn’t shared in years. Not since before everything cracked apart.
The wooden cabin creaked gently around them, wind brushing against the windows. It wasn’t much—stone, timber, and quiet—but it was ho.
Lytharos
leaned back in his chair, cradling his cup. His gaze didn’t need to linger; it flicked, precise, to the way Leon subtly rubbed his right shoulder before lifting his own.
“Still hurting?” Lytharos asked, his voice low, calm — but not without concern.
Leon didn’t look up. “It doesn’t scream anymore,” he said flatly. “Just whispers.”
Lytharos nodded once, slowly.
“And the channels? Still blocked?”
Leon didn’t answer right away. He turned the cup in his hands, watching the ripples swirl with quiet fixation.
“So of them,” he said finally. “Flow’s slower. Less volu. I manage.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
A tired smirk tugged at Leon’s lips.
“You’d hate the answer.”
“I already do.” Lytharos leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re suppressing — compressing every pulse just to keep your form stable. That’s not managing, Leon. That’s gambling.”
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit for the authentic version.
Leon’s jaw tightened. “What choice do I have? My body’s not what it used to be. If I force it, it breaks. If I rest too long, I fall behind. Either way, I lose.”
Silence settled between them — thick, heavy, broken only by the soft clink of ceramic as Leon set his cup down.
Lytharos’s tone softened. “You didn’t deserve that wound.”
Leon shrugged, eyes distant. “I was too proud. Thought I could outpace her.”
“You did,” Lytharos murmured. “You just didn’t survive it.”
A low breath escaped Leon — almost a laugh, though there was no humor in it.
“Still lecturing after all this ti.”
“Still pretending you don’t need it,” Lytharos replied, a faint grin ghosting across his face.
For a while, neither spoke. The steam rose lazily between them, curling like a fragile bridge — one made of old mories neither dared to cross.
Finally, Lytharos broke the quiet.
“So… how long do I have with them?”
Leon’s gaze flicked up. “Hard to tell. Could be a long ti… or so short you’ll barely rember next year. I’ve got a weird feeling.”
Lytharos huffed. “That Elliot kid didn’t even blink when I nearly broke his ribs. He’s not going anywhere.”
Leon smiled faintly. “No. He’s not.”
Lytharos sipped his tea. “There’s sothing about him, though. Not obvious. Not loud. But… there’s weight in his movent. Rhythm in his heartbeat. Like sothing deep inside him’s trying to shake loose.”
Leon’s eyes sharpened. “Thunder.”
Lytharos looked up, silent.
“Not yet,” Leon said quietly. “But it’s there. Coiled. Waiting.”
He leaned back. “That’s why I ca to you.”
“And the other one — Towan?”
Leon exhaled through his nose, thinking. “He fights like he’s rembering. Like his Essentia’s teaching him things his mind forgot. He’s… catching up to himself.”
Lytharos turned toward the window, watching the faint glint of moonlight on the glass.
“It’s happening again, isn’t it.”
“Yeah,” Leon said softly.
Lytharos nodded, slow and resolute. “Then I better train them like it’s the last ti I get to.”
Leon’s expression eased into a faint, weary smile.
“That’s the idea.”
User Comments
0 comments from readers