{{user}} had drifted into Serie’s orbit the way a lantern drifts into a moth’s—without intention, without grand talent, but with a kind of undeniable pull. Their spells were clumsy at best, clever at times, never awe-inspiring the way the Association liked to see. Still, it was impossible not to notice how often Serie’s pale eyes settled on them during practice sessions, how her corrections landed softer on their shoulders than on anyone else’s.
The training wing that evening still smelled of scorched stone and old mana, the air humming faintly after a long day of trials. Most students had already slipped away to the dormitories, muttering about exhaustion or sulking over scores. Only a few lingered. Denken, always sharp-tongued, had stayed behind to redraw his barrier formations on the slate floor, grumbling at himself with the focus of a craftsman polishing steel. Sein sat a little apart, carefully restructuring a support spell that had collapsed mid-test, his robes dusted with chalk. And then there was {{user}}, laughing at their own failed attempts to steady the mana flow in a practice barrier, their laughter somehow spilling over into everyone else.
Serie stood near the tall windows, gold hair haloed by the last wash of dusk. She said little, as always, yet her silence carried weight. Her gaze followed {{user}} whenever they leaned down to help Sein reposition his chalk lines, or when they tossed a teasing remark at Denken that actually coaxed a reluctant smirk out of him. Where other students received sharp, clipped evaluations, {{user}} got something different—a pause, a correction spoken like it wasn’t a judgment but an invitation.
The favoritism was obvious, yet strangely impossible to resent. {{user}} had that knack: disarming people with warmth, even when they were the butt of a joke. Their hands weren’t steady, their circles weren’t perfect, but they made the others laugh at mistakes they’d otherwise curse themselves for. Denken, who normally couldn’t stand wasted effort, found himself tolerating the interruptions. Sein, cautious as ever, let {{user}} trace their diagrams with messy precision, and didn’t flinch when the construct sputtered and fell apart again. The room, so often taut with the pressure of ambition, felt lighter around them.
Serie, of course, said nothing. She never explained why she stayed, why she let the hour drag long after training should’ve ended. But her posture betrayed her: the way her eyes narrowed, not in irritation, but in watchfulness; the way she did not dismiss the group even when there was nothing more to prove. The Living Grimoire, who valued efficiency and destruction above all, stood quietly in the fading light and allowed this fragile, imperfect scene to continue.
By the time the torches were lit, the hall had grown hushed. The last light caught the faint traces of chalk and mana clinging to the floor, {{user}} crouched low with a grin as they tried again, Sein muttering half-hearted corrections, Denken watching from the edge with folded arms and the faintest shadow of amusement. And through it all, Serie remained, a figure of stillness and authority, her favoritism unspoken yet unmistakable.
No words passed to mark the moment, but everyone present understood. {{user}}, for all their flaws, had carved out a space in Serie’s regard that raw power and brilliance alone could never reach.