A paradox of sensation.
Inviting… yet directionless.
As if the sword whispered:
"Come find me."
But gave him no map.
No guide.
Just the echo. The rhythm. The hum.
And he—he wanted it.
He wanted it like oxygen.
Not for glory.
Not to rival Rowen.
Not even to prove Gerald wrong.
But because somewhere, deep in that chaotic, sharpened mess he called a soul—
Lucavion wanted his sword to finally speak back.
To not just respond—
but to answer.
That feeling of breakthrough…
It had been a while since he'd felt it.
That thin, electric tension in the chest—right before a step forward is taken, not in body, but in understanding.
But right now—
Lucavion felt only the ache of proximity.
So close.
And still not enough.
Something was missing.
He didn't know what.
Couldn't name it.
Only feel it—like a pressure point he couldn't quite reach, a lock with no visible key.
The sword kept whispering.
Come find me.
But the path forward remained veiled.
And so—
He moved.
