Hikari had been forced into memory. The whole reason he was here. The reason his dad had to enter the Eclipse. And the shitty excuse his mom used to start a brand-new life without him.
Elara couldn't read his mind, but she knew whatever deal he'd made, it wasn't clean. And he clearly didn't want to talk about it.
"Okay," she said quietly.
A long moment passed.
"Still doesn't change that your posture's garbage," she added.
That got him. A tiny, tired smile pulled at his mouth—like something old had just let go of his shoulders for a second.
They kept talking after that. Same topic—for weeks.
They covered what anyone training to survive needed to know. The real basics.
Elara went deeper about the origins, how there were only three ways to access takton:
Magical artifacts, which were old Tenshi-infused relics that changed depending on your takton frequency.
Supernatural contracts, made with Tenshi spirits themselves—dangerous pacts that gave power in exchange for something else.
And Tenkei—rare, dangerous awakenings through trauma in descendants of the Tenshi. Even then, most people in the bloodline would never awaken. It was the rarest form—and the strongest.
The part Hikari found most interesting was how, even if two people had the same element—fire, water, lightning—what that power looked like in practice could be completely different.
It all came down to the individual. Their interpretation. Their emotions.
That's why one person's flames might explode on impact, while Hikari's followed the lines of his fingers—precise, calm, patient until released.
Everything shaped how your takton behaved.
And there were rules—strict ones.
Use too much, and your blood burned.
Push past your reserve, and it didn't just hurt—it lingered. Cramps. Hallucinations. Sometimes your body just stops.
Recovery was slow. And painful.
Some techniques—like takton conduction or restoration—could soften the damage, but they required real control: mastery of pulse, flow, everything.
Elara never went in-depth on those. She had no firsthand experience.
Most people didn't. Beyond general use, techniques like that were more theory than practice.
But there was one other technique. Rumored to be far more complex—and far more dangerous—than the rest. No one Elara had known had ever seen it. But it was described in such detail, with such unlikely precision, that it had to be rooted in something real.
Elara told herself it was the smart move. Hikari would make it far—further than anyone else she could reasonably attach herself to. She'd stay beside him. Heal him if necessary. Watch his back until the field narrows. And when the last day came, when it was just a matter of odds and reflex—
She'd do what needed to be done.
That was the plan. Quiet, unemotional.
But somewhere in her brain, within the same few months he arrived, the plan stopped feeling clean.
She found herself hesitating before speaking. Like the act had started to feel too real. And then she noticed how easily he'd been reading her. The way she thought. She felt invaded upon.
She never planned on explaining her logic to him.
But eventually, she could feel how dangerous a game she'd been playing.
She told him during lights-out rotation.
No reason. No buildup. Just the quiet between patrol shifts, their backs against the concrete wall surrounding Dorm Five, and the stillness that made silence feel like permission.
"I only got close to you so I can use you in the end," she said.
Hikari didn't look over.
His eyes stayed forward, resting on nothing. She couldn't read his expression in the dark.
"I figured," he said after a moment.
There was no edge to his voice. No disappointment. Just acknowledgement—like she'd confirmed something he'd already accepted.
Elara swallowed. She wasn't sure what she expected. Anger, maybe. Or a shift in his tone. A coldness.
But she didn't see any of that from him
And that made it worse.
"You're not mad?"
"You want to live just as bad as I do," he added. "Why would I be mad at you for that?"
Elara didn't reply.
She couldn't. Not without sounding weak. Not without admitting that she hadn't really meant it—that the plan she clung to at the start had been falling apart for weeks, and she'd only just now said it out loud to see if he'd push her away.
After hearing his response she already knew what followed. So she walked away, feeling less of a person than before. And began distancing herself from him entirely.
She didn't sit with him during meals.
Didn't speak unless spoken to.
Didn't walk beside him unless the patrol map forced it.
It wasn't spite.
She just couldn't stand how easy he made it to stay close.
She told herself the distance was necessary. That closeness had made her weak. That clarity—being alone again—was safer. Cleaner. She believed it for almost a week.
Then, during afternoon rotation, her sparring partner hit low.
She'd seen the setup. Blocked it twice. Third time, she hesitated—the weight shifted wrong, timing off. The kick caught her just beneath the kneecap and dropped her hard.
She hit the mat sideways, breath knocked out, one leg folded awkward beneath her. Her hands twitched toward her partner—she wanted to fix it. But the man wasn't done. Before she could move, someone stepped between her and the next strike.
Hikari.
He didn't say anything. Didn't look down.
Just stood over her with that same calm weight on his shoulders, eyes on the opponent like nothing had changed.
The other kynenn stepped back without protest. The match was over.
Elara pushed herself up slowly. Her knee ached—fixable, but not immediately. He didn't speak. But he offered his hand, palm open, waiting.
Elara took his hand, fingers curling around his wrist, and felt his grip steady her weight. He helped her up without judgment.
When she stood, his eyes held hers for a moment—clear, steady. Accepting her choice, whatever it was.
Then he stepped away, returning to his own spar without another glance.
He hadn't said a single word. He didn't need to.
From that point, she stayed beside him, and this time she stopped counting the reasons why.