After the figurine war, after the lessons of water, ice, blood, wind…
I began catching myself on one thought more and more often:
I had become interested in watching him.
Not because of his strength.
Not because of his knowledge.
Not because of a desire to be better.
But because…
there was something in him that had never existed in my life:
silence.
The silence of confidence.
The silence of calm.
The silence of someone who walks alone—even when surrounded by a crowd.
And that silence frightened me far more than any loud talent ever could.
I saw how our class grew closer:
the swordsmen trained together,
the mages discussed spells,
even Finn finally learned not to snap at everyone,
Lucille began helping Noah,
Astra and Tara found common ground.
But Helvard…
people seemed to pass straight through him.
After walks through the city—when everyone talked, laughed, argued—
he returned to the dormitory alone.
Always alone.
Not because he was rejected.
But because he didn’t need others.
And that is the most terrifying thing for someone in my position.
Everyone wants attention.
Everyone needs recognition.
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Everyone desires respect.
Everyone—
except him.
He didn’t crave anything I received automatically.
Title, respect, reverence, admiration—
everything that was normal for me
was… emptiness to him.
And I was not used to standing beside someone
who didn’t care about my name.
I found him there almost by accident—I was curious what someone like him could possibly be doing.
Zen was sitting among tables buried in books, minerals, metal plates, bowls of water, scorched notes.
His face was focused, his hair disheveled, his hand trembling with strain,
and in his eyes—there was that same living fire I had seen before.
He was…
beautiful in his obsession.
Not because of appearance.
Not because of power.
Beautiful in the way he existed.
Without pretense.
Without posing.
Without the desire to please anyone.
And for the first time, I saw someone who didn’t merely control an element,
but studied it as an art.
I stood there and watched,
afraid to disturb his world.
And for the first time in my life, I felt…
that I wanted to enter that world.
It was an element even masters considered dangerous, chaotic, unstable.
But to Helvard, it was a problem.
An interesting one.
A creative one.
He drew formulas, made notes, built diagrams, conducted experiments with ores.
For the first time in my life, I was seized by a feeling
I had only known before from Merlin’s stories:
the thrill of research.
Mistakes.
Experiments.
Insights.
Failures.
I was doing something myself.
Not by blood.
Not by gift.
Not by expectations.
It was…
astonishing.
And all of it—because of him.
When he gave me that book…
I didn’t expect it to change me.
It wasn’t just a collection of magical techniques.
Every page held something more:
structure,
logic,
thought,
curiosity,
a hunger to understand the world.
It demanded mana.
It drained strength.
It tested me.
It was not a book for a princess.
It was a book for a mage.
And for the first time in my life, I read not something I was supposed to,
but something that truly captivated me.
I didn’t sleep at night.
I fainted during lessons.
They treated me, scolded me, asked—why was I exhausted?
And I only smiled.
Because I wasn’t just copying his thoughts.
I was feeling them.
For the first time, studying someone else’s work,
I felt myself becoming better.
Not because of a title.
Not because of blood.
But because of inspiration.
Because someone had shown me—
that magic could be discovery, not obligation.
The first person
who did not worship my blood.
The first who didn’t care that I was a princess.
The first who did not admire me automatically.
The first who made me work.
The first who showed me the world differently.
The first who became interesting to me.
Not as a rival.
Not as a subject.
Not as a tool.
But as… a person.
