The corridor leading to the changing rooms was quiet—blessedly so.
Astron stepped through the mana-scanned threshold, the door sealing behind him with a soft hiss. He didn't speak, didn't glance at the other lockers, most of which were unoccupied. His fingers moved automatically—cloak undone, gear stored in dimensional space, tunic peeled off with clinical efficiency. One by one, the layers came away until only the low hum of cooling enchantments filled the space.
But his mind wasn't here.
It was still on the platform.
On the fight.
On her.
Julia Middleton.
He exhaled slowly, the faint warmth of exertion still clinging to his skin.
She's gotten better.
The illusion work had surprised him—not because of the concept itself, but because of the execution. It wasn't cast like traditional illusion spells. It wasn't projected with mana tags or visual refraction techniques.
It was built directly into her swordplay.
Woven.
