Chapter 935: That is why
Selenne.
His gaze shifted upward again, as if the stars might reappear just to confirm what he already knew.
"...That’s when I knew," he murmured, the words slow, quiet, weighted with finality, "she was the Selenne from the novel."
It had to be.
Even before the name. Even before Gerald’s voice softened in that rare way that meant something still mattered to him.
The details were too precise. Too sharp.
A girl born in the fog, cradled by starlight before she ever knew how to wield it. A nameless child who stepped into power not by will—but by resonance. Who didn’t force the light to obey, but invited it. Who listened.
And then... there was the starlight itself.
Lucavion had read Shattered Innocence four times. Each time more carefully than the last. And he knew this much:
There weren’t many starlight cultivators in the world, after all.
"Isn’t that, right?"
The words left his lips like mist, drifting toward a sky that had already swallowed its stars.
From that point on, he knew.
Not just suspected. Not wondered. Knew.
That the woman now watching over Arcania’s scholarship students with starlight in her veins and thunder in her silence—the one who had pinned him to a wall with a single breath and judged him without a word—
She was that girl.
The girl his master had named.
The girl the novel had forgotten.
The girl who should have never died so early.
Selenne.
Back then, though—he hadn’t known how his life would unfold. Not yet. Not fully.
He hadn’t known he’d stand across from her in a hallway of marble and politics, carrying knowledge not meant for this world.
He hadn’t known he would bear the weight of a future already written.
So, in that moment beneath Gerald’s tree, he’d simply swallowed his breath and masked the look on his face as best he could.
But Gerald, of course, noticed.
The old man tilted his head, eyeing Lucavion over the rim of his cup with that maddening, piercing gaze that saw far too much for how little it revealed.
"...Huh," he muttered. "Something shifted."
Lucavion tensed. Just slightly. "What?"
Gerald narrowed his eyes. "You’re hiding something."
Lucavion’s jaw clenched.
Tightly. Too tightly.
He wasn’t good at lying—never had been.
Not because he lacked the skill. No. He could speak in half-truths, redirect a conversation, play coy like any court-raised noble. He’d been taught, drilled, forced to perform sincerity even when it scraped against his throat.
But he hated it.
Lying—it dug under his skin. Sat behind his teeth like rot. Especially when it came to people who looked at him the way Gerald did.
As if he already knew the truth.
As if Lucavion’s silence was just a performance neither of them had bothered to label yet.
"...Tch."
His fingers curled around the edge of his robe. He said nothing.
Gerald watched him a second longer, the edges of his expression unreadable—somewhere between curiosity and warning.
Then, with a sigh, the old man leaned back against the tree trunk, tipping his head to the sky.
"Alright," he muttered. "Keep your damn secrets."
Lucavion blinked.
No pressing. No accusation. Just that.
"If you don’t want to say it, then don’t. I’m not your jailor." Gerald gestured vaguely with one hand, letting it flop sideways like the thought itself bored him. "You’ll talk when you’re ready. Or you won’t. Makes no difference to me."
Lucavion’s grip eased slightly.
Gerald wasn’t angry.
That, somehow, made it worse.
"But," the old man added, sipping from his now-empty cup with the same exaggerated ceremony, "don’t go sulking just because you’re bottling something stupid. It’s not worth it. Trust me—some truths eat you slower when they’re shared."
Lucavion didn’t respond.
Not because he disagreed.
But because he didn’t trust his voice not to shake.
Instead, he lowered his gaze, watching the breeze disturb the grass at his feet. The air was still cool, and the first edge of morning light filtered through the high branches above.
He exhaled, slow and steady, letting the tension slip off his spine like the memory of starlight fading into dawn.
A quiet beat passed.
Then another.
The wind whispered through the trees.
Lucavion shifted, his voice barely more than breath.
"...Does that make her my senior sister?"
Gerald blinked.
"Your what?"
Lucavion didn’t look up. His eyes stayed on the grass, on the line of dew catching light like slivers of distant stars.
"Your disciple," he said softly. "If she was trained before me. If she was the first."
Another pause.
Gerald tilted his head slightly, something flickering in his gaze. Then, as if the weight of the moment finally caught up to him, he let out a low breath.
"Well," he said slowly, "by formal tradition..."
Lucavion finally looked up.
Gerald shrugged one shoulder. "That would make her your senior sister, yeah."
The words hung there. Simple. Uncomplicated.
But they struck like a chord through Lucavion’s ribs.
Senior Sister.
The words still echoed in his chest as he walked.
And Selenne...
Selenne was here.
Alive.
Where magic glimmered behind glass walls.
Where ambition bled into every marble tile.
Where fate, rewritten or not, still loomed.
For now.
Lucavion’s hand curled briefly at his side. Not in anger. Not even in tension. But in a promise.
Because that was why.
That was why he’d challenged her silence with insolence. Why he’d baited her temper and pressed against her carefully crafted walls. Why he stood before her not as a quiet student, but as a spark asking to be seen.
Because she needed to survive.
She had to.
She, who had stared death in the face with a shaking sword and no name.
She, who had listened to the stars before she ever knew she could shape them.
She, who the novel had cast aside before her arc had even bloomed.
She was his senior sister.
And this time—this time—Lucavion would not let her die.
Not quietly. Not forgotten.
Not while he was here.
*****
The room was quiet—too quiet.
No scribes. No aides. No whispered council messages tapping at the warded glass.
Only the soft, constant hum of starlight.
Magister Selenne stood by the window, tall and unmoving, her arms folded loosely over her chest, robes brushing against the marble floor like waves in deep space. The night outside was a canvas—black, endless, glittering with thousands of stars that shimmered just faintly enough to be real.
She stared at them. Not idly.
With purpose.
With knowing.
The stars had always spoken to her—not with voices, but with echoes. Not with prophecy, but pattern.
And tonight, there was... something.
A shift.
A flicker.
"...Master," she whispered.
The word slipped from her lips without her consent, hushed and reverent. Not a title she spoke often. Not one she allowed herself to say aloud.
But tonight, it came back to her.
His voice.
His presence.
Her fingers curled slightly by her side.
She hadn’t thought of him in years. Had locked that part of her memory behind a cold, quiet gate.
And yet now...
Her breath caught.
Her eyes, focused outward, widened.
Just for a moment—they shone. A faint light, silver and pale, like constellations had flickered through her irises.
Then her knees buckled.
Not dramatically. Not with weakness.
But with impact.
She caught the edge of the stone ledge, her palm flat against the frame, head bowed slightly.
And her lips moved.
"A... another star?"
The hum in the room deepened.
Not in sound, but in feeling—a resonance that trembled just beneath the bones. The kind of stillness that came not from peace, but from presence.
Selenne’s breath hitched as her gaze sharpened—turned skyward again, piercing through the familiar constellation weave she had memorized since she was a child.
And then—
There it was.
Not a glimmer.
Not a flicker.
A void.
A starless point.
Nestled just beyond the lattice of the Gemini Ascendants, tucked between the third arc of the Silver Path and the Scion Belt—a black star.
It hadn’t been there before.
No—no, that wasn’t right. It had.
She simply hadn’t seen it.
Because until now, it had been dead.
Or perhaps... it had merely been dormant.
"...Impossible," she whispered, leaning harder against the ledge.
The star didn’t shine. It didn’t burn. It didn’t cast anything outward.
And yet, somehow—just moments ago—it had moved.
No, not moved.
Stirred.
Like something ancient and quiet and long-buried had twitched once beneath its skin.
She felt it. That pulse. That flicker of awareness. The faintest ripple through the celestial resonance she carried in her blood.
"Is there someone else?"