Lucavion stepped into the forge with the kind of presence that didn't seek attention—but seized it all the same.
The moment the ward-sealed door hissed open and the light of the enchantments spilled over his form, the air in the room shifted. Not from heat. Not from pressure. From recognition.
The runes along the walls flickered.
The forge flame bent ever so slightly toward him.
And the blade—still nestled on the anvil like a relic awaiting war—seemed to resonate.
Not loudly. Not visually.
But with a hush. As if the weapon itself had held its breath.
[Why are you smiling?]
Vitaliara's voice drifted beside him, not amused, not accusing—just curious, with that airy, feline tilt of mischief beneath the words.
"I'm not," Lucavion replied, his tone smooth, casual.
[You are,] she shot back instantly. [Your smirk's spread halfway across your face. You look like a fox caught in the chicken coop.]
He gave a slow exhale that might have been a laugh. "I'm simply curious."
[Curious?]
