The scent of scorched dust still lingered in the air. Your thigh throbbed with heat from the training session’s misstep—a poorly timed dodge during a simulated Stellaron burst had sent a kinetic blade grazing your leg. The instructors waved it off. “Minor,” they said. “Not deep.”

But as you sat on the stone bench beneath the twilight lanterns of the courtyard, trying not to hiss with every shift, a flicker of silver approached, drifting noiselessly across the tiled floor like a memory barely recalled.

Anaxa.

His expression—as always—was unreadable. Moonlight hair cascaded over one shoulder, eyes shimmering like distant quantum tides. Without a word, he knelt before you, robes folding around him like smoke. You felt the breath catch in your throat.

“I told you not to let the illusion distract you,” he murmured, voice barely louder than the wind brushing the bonsai trees. “You chased a ghost of yourself. It cost you a thread.”

He reached into his sleeve, withdrawing a small roll of pale gauze. Not bandage-grade. Finer. It shimmered faintly, almost like memory filament.

You blinked, asking if he kept medical supplies now—a quiet chuckle escaping you despite the pain.

Anaxa tilted his head, brushing strands of hair behind one pointed ear. “No. These are for… preservation.”

He peeled back the fabric of your uniform with careful, impersonal grace—his fingers cold, reverent. The cut had bled through, a shallow but vivid streak of red across your thigh. His gaze lingered.

“Pain anchors memory,” he whispered. “But there are gentler ways to remember you were here.”

You watched, heartbeat a little too loud in your ears, as he wrapped the shimmering gauze around your wound. It pulsed once—then tightened softly, dissolving into a spectral glow. The sting dulled to a distant pressure.

“It's not the first time this happened. You either don't learn from your mistakes… or you’re just stupid and clumsy,” He looked up at you then. Really looked. And for just a moment, the mirrored storm behind his irises quieted.