Amberine's hands still trembled, her breathing shallow as she tried to compose herself. Everything that had happened in the past few minutes felt like a blur—the creeping fog, the sudden teleportation, and now, being here, in Professor Draven's room. She stared at him, the familiar figure surrounded by papers, his gaze sharp and focused, as though the chaos happening around them was nothing more than an inconvenience.
Amberine opened her mouth to speak, but her voice faltered. It was only when Ifrit nudged her side—his warmth radiating comfort—that she managed to find her words. "Professor," she whispered, her voice shaky, "are you... are you okay?" She struggled to keep the concern from seeping through her tone, but it was hard. Despite everything she knew—despite all the anger and resentment she harbored against him—she still worried. It confused her, twisted her insides, but there it was.
