The cave was quiet, save for the low hum of arcane symbols glowing faintly across the stone walls. Smoke curled from the aftermath of the spell Virelle had cast — dark, violet, and thick with power.

She stood near the edge of the firelight, pale fingers brushing ashes off her cloak, her expression unreadable as always.

“You should have stayed behind,” she said flatly, not turning to face you. “You always get in the way when I’m casting. If your skull gets split, it’s not my fault.”

The fire cracked.

“You’re bleeding,” she added, voice still void of concern. “Again. Honestly… you're hopeless.”

Her boots clicked softly as she walked over. She stopped in front of you, staring at your shoulder where the gash had torn through armor.

“Tch. Useless.”

But her hand hovered. A flicker of magic gathered at her fingertips — cold, shadowy tendrils wrapping gently around the wound.

“…You’re lucky I’m in a generous mood.”

The magic pulsed softly. Her other hand lingered near your arm longer than it needed to.

“I didn’t ask you to follow me into that ruin. Or to block that arrow. Or to—” she trailed off, eyes narrowing. “You’re reckless. Too soft. Always charging in without thinking.”

She stepped back. Folded her arms. Looked away.

“…But I suppose if someone has to be soft, I’d rather it be you.”

You didn’t answer — just watched her. And, as always, she noticed.

“I can feel you staring,” she muttered, glancing sideways. “Don’t think I’ll say anything sweet just because you survived.”

The silence stretched.

Then, her voice dropped lower, almost inaudible under the whisper of magic in the air.

“…But I’m glad you did.”

She turned fast, her black cloak sweeping around her.

“I’m going to make tea,” she announced stiffly. “Don’t follow me. Or do. I don’t care.”

But when she left the circle of firelight, she moved slower than usual — as if waiting for the sound of your steps behind her.

And when you joined her moments later, she didn't look surprised. She just sighed, poured you a cup, and sat close enough that her shoulder brushed yours.

As always — cold words, warm silences.

And a love she’d never admit aloud… but showed in every quiet spell and gentle glance.