The morning sunlight filtered gently through the leaves, casting golden patterns that danced across the forest floor. The air felt crisp, dew still clinging to the tips of the grass, and the distant sound of birds marked the start of a new day.
Riven slowly opened his eyes.
His body was still leaning against a large rock that radiated leftover warmth from the fire. A worn-out blanket draped loosely over part of his body—but that wasn't what he noticed first. There was a soft, warm weight against his right side. As he turned his head slowly, his breath caught.
Ashtoria was sleeping soundly, resting against his shoulder.
Her face was calm, her breathing steady. Her blood-red hair spilled across his shoulder, with some strands falling against his chest. And from those strands wafted a subtle scent—sweet and alluring, like a blend of forest breeze and wildflowers. It was a scent hard to define, yet impossible to forget.
Riven's gaze lingered on her face.
Her skin was pale and smooth, her brows perfectly shaped, and her lips slightly parted with each quiet breath. There was peace in her expression, something nearly unimaginable from someone who usually appeared so cold and distant.
In silence, Riven studied every detail of her face.
"Who is this woman really?" he wondered silently. "Why were those people trying to kill her? Is she truly just a fugitive noble? Or is there something much deeper?"
He didn't move. His shoulder had gone stiff, but he didn't want to disturb her sleep. Whether out of sympathy—or something else—he wasn't sure. Something he didn't quite understand yet.
He let out a quiet sigh and closed his eyes again, returning to his mana absorption technique. He calmed his mind, opened himself to the flow of mana around him—drawing it in slowly like morning dew, guiding it into his body, and stabilizing it at his spiritual core.
His control had improved significantly since last night. He could now maintain the flow of mana much longer and with greater stability. Still, keeping the balance while moving was a challenge. He knew it would take time. And time wasn't always on his side.
Time slipped by unnoticed.
But the moment was broken by the sound of a loud groan and a small whine.
"Uuugghhh… my back hurts… Broooother…"
Mira sat up, scratching her head and stretching as if waking from a thousand-year slumber. Her loud voice cut through the morning stillness, echoing along the riverside.
"Ugh, my head is spinning. Why did I fall asleep against such a hard rock—"
The noise was enough to stir Ashtoria.
Her eyelids fluttered before slowly opening. She took a deep breath as she lifted her head from Riven's shoulder. Her gaze was still hazy, but as soon as she realized her position, her expression froze. She turned her head slowly toward the man still sitting beside her.
Riven opened his eyes.
Their gazes met.
For a few moments, neither of them spoke. But something passed between them—whether it was embarrassment, warmth, or perhaps a quiet comfort they wouldn't dare admit.
Ashtoria eventually turned her face away and straightened her posture. She said nothing, though her movements were slow, as if still processing what had just happened.
Riven let out a quiet sigh.
Mira, completely unaware of the subtle tension, blurted out while patting her stomach.
"Brother, I'm hungry again! Do we still have any grilled fish?"
Riven sighed. "You just woke up. Can't you think of anything else besides food? How did I end up with such a gluttonous little sister?"
Mira laughed to herself.
Riven shook his head as he stood up. He stretched his arms, loosening the stiff muscles from sleeping outdoors. His gaze returned to Ashtoria. She was now tidying her hair before quietly walking toward the river.
He touched his shoulder briefly. It was still warm. He smiled faintly, said nothing, and began rekindling the fire that had gone out.
The morning began, carrying with it the last traces of dew and the slow emergence of feelings neither of them fully understood.
And without realizing it, a fragile closeness had started to grow among the silence and leftover embers of the night.
.
.
.
Before the sun fully rose and they resumed their journey, Riven stepped into a small clearing near the river. He drew his sword—Crysthalis, a silver-gray blade that reflected the morning light like frosted glass. Its surface gleamed coldly, and a fine line resembling a crystal fracture ran along its center.
He took a deep breath, planted his feet firmly, and began to move.
His motions were slow, yet precise. Every swing was measured with near-meditative care. His left hand balanced his stance, while his right guided Crysthalis through the air, carving soft but sharp whooshes. This wasn't a practice of strength, but of control. Not to show off technique, but to refine a feeling—a bond with the weapon.
From afar, Ashtoria sat on a large rock, tying her still-damp hair into a simple knot. Her gaze was quiet but focused, fixed on the man dancing with his sword.
Then, in the blink of an eye, she stood and was suddenly beside Riven.
"Why did you choose the sword as your weapon?" she asked, her voice calm, but laced with a curiosity she couldn't hide.
Riven halted mid-motion. His body remained in a half-crouch, the tip of Crysthalis pointed toward the earth. He turned toward the voice, slightly surprised to realize she had truly been watching him.
It took him a few seconds to respond. Slowly, he straightened his posture and met Ashtoria's eyes from where he stood.
"I just feel... the sword fits in my hand," he said softly.
Ashtoria raised one eyebrow slightly.
Riven wiped a bead of sweat from his neck. His eyes trailed along the length of Crysthalis, observing its form in silence for a moment before nodding faintly.
"I don't know why exactly," he continued.
"But every time I hold it, I feel something strange. It's like… I could cut through anything."