The lingering roar of the arena's crowd faded into the background as Cyrus approached Siera. She stood by the window, the last light of the day casting a soft glow around her. Her usual faraway expression was replaced by something different, a quiet stillness that felt almost deliberate. She had fought with the grace of someone in complete control, but she hadn't revealed everything. And that bothered him.
"You could've won," Cyrus said, his voice low, steady, as he neared. "Why did you hold back?"
Siera turned slowly, her violet eyes locking onto his with a languid, half-lidded gaze. A lazy smile curved her lips, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Hmm? That match?" she mused, her voice lilting, teasing. "Maybe I was in trouble. Alin's not bad, you know?"
Her voice drifted through the air, too casual, too light. Cyrus's red eyes narrowed as he studied her more intently. She wasn't in trouble—he'd watched her every movement, the calculated precision, the way she flowed around her opponent. Before he could push further, Siera took a slow step forward, the shift in the air almost tangible as the space between them closed.
"Or..." Her voice softened to a whisper, her eyes darkening as she drew closer. "Maybe I was just copying you."
The words slid between them like silk, and for a moment, time seemed to slow. Cyrus's pulse quickened against his will, his senses heightening. Was she mocking him? No, it felt like more than that. Her gaze held him in place, her violet eyes gleaming with a mix of challenge and... something else. Something dangerous.
Siera moved even closer, so close her scent filled his lungs—an intoxicating blend of jasmine and something he couldn't quite place. Her presence was overwhelming, her movements fluid, deliberate, like a predator closing in on its prey. His heart skipped a beat, a brief lapse in his composure, and he hated that she noticed. He could feel the heat of her body now, the air between them thickening with unspoken tension.
Her lips hovered near his ear, her breath feather-light as it brushed against his skin. "Cyrus," she whispered, her voice like a caress, "we all saw what you did in the dungeon. You're not hiding from me."
The words sent a ripple of heat down his spine, and despite himself, Cyrus's mind fogged for a second longer than it should have. He stood still, his muscles tensed, emotions long buried beneath layers of discipline suddenly threatening to surface. Siera's presence was unnerving, and her words—more than just teasing—felt like an invitation, a dare to reveal more than he intended.
Her lips barely grazed his cheek as she lingered, a heartbeat longer than necessary. "See you later... white-haired boy," she murmured, her voice dripping with amusement as she finally pulled away, leaving the words hanging between them like a secret she had no intention of keeping.
Cyrus didn't move, his breath shallow as he watched her figure disappear into the shadows of the corridor, her departure as graceful and elusive as her arrival. The space she left felt heavier than before, charged with something he couldn't shake. His pulse pounded in his ears, the question of how much she truly knew echoing in his mind.
His hands clenched into fists as he tried to regain control, forcing down the lingering sensation she had left in her wake. Siera was hiding something—just like he was. But the way she toyed with him, the ease with which she rattled him... it was unsettling.
And it made him want to know more.
Before he could dwell further, a familiar voice broke through the tension, snapping him back to reality.
"Cyrus!"
He turned sharply, his guard still up, and saw Teef and Gareth approaching, curiosity written across their faces. Teef smirked, eyes glinting with mischief as he glanced between Cyrus and the direction Siera had gone.
"What was that all about?" Teef asked, barely able to contain his grin.
"Nothing," Cyrus replied, shaking his head, his voice clipped. He didn't have the patience to explain the strange, seductive encounter.
But Gareth wasn't smiling. He stepped forward, his expression serious, his voice tense with urgency. "Cyrus, there's no time for distractions. Something's wrong."
Cyrus's gaze sharpened. "What do you mean?"
"Finn's hurt," Gareth said quickly. "He's been struggling with something, and it's worse than we thought. He can't fight in the next round."
Cyrus's eyes flickered with concern, his mind quickly shifting from Siera to Finn. If Finn was out, that left a major gap in their team. But Gareth's next words hit even harder.
"We need you to step in."
For a brief moment, the air seemed to still. Cyrus's expression darkened, the weight of what Gareth was saying settling over him like a heavy cloak. If he had to step in, that meant only one thing.
His next opponent would be Eltric Ravendale.
A slow, cold grin crept across Cyrus's face, the tension from Siera's encounter melting into something darker, more dangerous. This was the moment he had been waiting for. Eltric, with his arrogance and snide remarks, would finally get what was coming to him.
"I see," Cyrus said, his voice a soft growl. "So... Eltric is next."
Teef, sensing the shift in Cyrus's demeanor, raised an eyebrow. "You sound a little too eager for this. You really think you can take him?"
Cyrus's red eyes gleamed, cold and unrelenting as they fixed on Teef and Gareth. His grin widened, a predator's smile. "I don't think," he said, his voice dripping with confidence. "I know. Eltric doesn't stand a chance."
Cyrus stood in the dimly lit hallway just outside the arena, his mind swirling with thoughts that refused to settle. His breath was steady, but there was a storm brewing beneath the surface. Images of Eltric's sneering face flashed in his mind, mixed with memories of Layla's defeat, Dale's injuries, and now Siera's cryptic words. Each moment, each battle, had chipped away at the restraint he had been carefully maintaining since arriving at Ebonspire Academy.
But this time... he wasn't sure he wanted to hold back.
Cyrus's red eyes glowed faintly in the shadows, his crimson gaze flickering like embers. He flexed his fingers, feeling the tension in his knuckles as they cracked loudly in the silence. His body was ready, primed for battle, but his thoughts were darker—his instincts sharper. Eltric had to be put in his place. That much was clear.
He could feel the anticipation building, the need for release. For too long, he had kept his true strength hidden, fighting with minimal effort and never revealing the full extent of his power. But something about this match, about Eltric, made him want to break that rule. To show everyone who he really was.
The sound of footsteps echoed softly down the hallway, and though Cyrus didn't turn around, he already knew who it was.
"Hey, Cyrus," Finn called out, but there was hesitation in his voice. His words didn't carry their usual easy tone; instead, they were careful, measured.
He stopped a few feet away, watching his friend's rigid back. Cyrus stood like a statue, his gaze locked on the entrance to the arena, as if the battle had already begun in his mind. For a moment, Finn hesitated, feeling an unfamiliar weight in the air—something he couldn't place but instinctively feared. It wasn't just tension before a fight; it was something darker, something that felt almost alive.
Cyrus finally spoke, his voice low, edged with a coldness that made Finn shiver. "You're not fighting, are you?"
Finn swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "No, I'm not," he admitted quietly. He rubbed the back of his neck, shifting on his feet. "I... I can't tell you the reason right now, but I wanted to wish you luck before your match."
But even as he spoke, Finn couldn't shake the unease growing in the pit of his stomach. He had seen Cyrus before a fight—focused, intense—but this felt different. Darker. Like something was coiling around him, tightening its grip.
Cyrus turned his head slightly, just enough for his red eyes to catch the dim light. They glowed faintly, not with the typical fire of determination, but with something else—something deeper, more primal. His lips curled into a grin, but it wasn't reassuring. If anything, it sent a chill crawling up Finn's spine.
"There's nothing to worry about," Cyrus said, his voice almost too soft, too calm. "I wanted this match."
That grin. It wasn't the grin of a friend about to face a challenge—it was something predatory, something Finn didn't recognize in Cyrus. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he tried to gauge what was wrong. But before he could piece his thoughts together, something else caught his eye.
The shadows beneath Cyrus's feet.
They were moving.
Not like normal shadows cast by the flickering torches on the walls, but alive, swirling in slow, hypnotic patterns. They wrapped around Cyrus's legs like dark tendrils, curling and retreating as if drawn to him, but with a life of their own. Finn's breath hitched. He took a small, instinctive step back, his mind racing. He had seen magic, even dark magic, but this? This was something entirely different.
"I've never seen... anything like this," Finn thought, trying to quell the rising fear that threatened to overtake him. He wanted to help Cyrus, to ask what was happening, but part of him—a deep, instinctual part—was afraid to know the answer.
The air felt heavy, thick with an unnatural energy. It pressed against Finn's chest, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. He opened his mouth, searching for something to say, but the words faltered on his tongue.
The shadows swirled more violently now, and for a moment, Finn swore they pulsed in sync with Cyrus's heartbeat.
"You'll be fine," Finn forced himself to say aloud, though his voice trembled slightly. "I know you're strong, but..." He hesitated again, the words hanging between them like a warning. His eyes flicked to the shadows, still writhing at Cyrus's feet, and then back to his friend's cold, glowing eyes. "Just... don't lose yourself out there, alright?"
Cyrus didn't respond immediately. His silence only made the shadows pulse harder, creeping along the floor, reaching for something unseen. Finn could feel the coldness in the air now, the chill of something that didn't belong. He tried to push past it, to focus on the Cyrus he knew, but the darkness that clung to him felt like a barrier—one that Finn wasn't sure he could break.
Finally, Cyrus turned fully toward him, his red eyes gleaming, the grin never fading. "I'm not worried about that," he said quietly, his voice heavy with a strange, almost ominous weight. "I know exactly what I'm doing."
Finn forced a smile, but it felt hollow. His chest tightened, a thousand unspoken questions clawing at his mind. How could Cyrus be so certain? How could he be so calm when the darkness around him felt so... wrong?
"Alright," Finn managed, though the word felt like a lie. His feet shifted, and he took another small step back, his eyes still locked on the shadows that had begun to retreat slightly, almost as if they were waiting. Watching. "Good luck, then."
He turned quickly, his heart pounding in his chest as he walked away, but the feeling of dread didn't leave him. If anything, it only grew. He glanced back once, catching a final glimpse of Cyrus standing in the shadows, the grin still lingering on his face, his eyes glowing like embers in the dark.
For the first time, Finn wasn't just worried about Cyrus.
He was afraid of him.
Cyrus nodded once, watching as Finn turned and walked away, glancing back only once before disappearing around the corner. Alone again, Cyrus exhaled slowly, feeling the darkness swirl within him. He hadn't meant to frighten Finn, but there was something inside him now, something primal, that he couldn't quite control.
It was like a hunger—a need to fight, to win, to dominate.
He stood there for a moment longer, the shadows around him pulsing gently as if responding to his thoughts. The grin on his face widened, a dangerous gleam in his eyes.
Eltric didn't stand a chance.
The crowd hushed as Magnus stepped forward, his voice booming across the grand arena. "The next match will be between Cyrus Vale of House Tenebrae and Eltric Ravendale of House Sylva. Contestants, step forward."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the spectators as Cyrus and Eltric approached the center of the arena. Cyrus's crimson eyes glowed faintly under the dim light, his face set in an unnerving calm. Across from him, Eltric stood with his usual arrogant smirk, though a flicker of doubt flashed through his eyes as he locked onto Cyrus's unsettling gaze.
"Well, well, if it isn't the little merchant boy," Eltric sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "How does it feel knowing you're about to face someone far beyond your league?"
Cyrus said nothing, his expression unreadable. He simply stood there, his body relaxed, his hands loosely at his sides. But as Eltric continued to mock him, Cyrus's lips curled into a slow, menacing grin.
That grin.
Eltric's smirk faltered, and for the first time, a chill ran down his spine. There was something in that smile—something dark, something dangerous. The air around Cyrus seemed to shift, growing heavier, more oppressive. Eltric swallowed hard, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down the side of his forehead.
"What the hell is with him?" Eltric thought, his heart pounding in his chest. He had never felt fear like this before, but something about Cyrus... something about those red eyes and that grin... it unnerved him to his core.
Magnus raised his hand, signaling the start of the match. "Let the battle begin!"
Eltric, shaking off the sudden chill, launched forward with a burst of magic, casting blades of wind that shot toward Cyrus with blinding speed. The air cracked as the sharp gusts tore through the arena, aiming straight for Cyrus's chest.
But Cyrus was already moving. His body twisted effortlessly, dodging the attacks with unnatural precision. He sidestepped one blade, ducked under another, and with each movement, his grin only widened.
"Stay still, you freak!" Eltric roared, his voice laced with frustration. He raised his wand again, summoning a tornado that spun to life, swirling debris and dust into the air. The wind howled as the tornado barreled toward Cyrus, but again, Cyrus moved with graceful speed, dodging to the side.
Eltric's fury mounted as he watched his attacks fail. "Stop running!" he shouted, but his voice wavered. Cyrus wasn't running—he was playing with him. Toying with him.
And that terrified him.
Before Eltric could react, Cyrus closed the distance between them in a heartbeat. But it wasn't just speed—something about his movements felt unnatural. His body blurred into the shadows, each step fluid, almost as if he wasn't entirely himself anymore. The arena seemed to darken, the shadows on the ground rippling, guiding his steps. They moved with him, not at his command, but as if they were a part of him—alive, hungry.
In an instant, Cyrus was in front of Eltric, their faces just inches apart. His crimson eyes glowed, the flames inside them flickering like embers stoked by the dark power rising within him. There was a darkness there—something primal, something that made Eltric's confidence waver for the first time.
Cyrus didn't hesitate.
Without a word, he drove his knee into Eltric's stomach, but the force of the blow wasn't just physical. It was laced with magic—the shadows amplified the impact, and with it came a wave of heat. The fire within Cyrus surged, scorching the air around them. Eltric's breath caught in his throat as the air was knocked out of him, his body folding in on itself as flames licked at his cloak.
The crowd gasped.
Eltric staggered backward, clutching his stomach, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but Cyrus wasn't done. His movements were too fast, too precise—almost as if he wasn't the one in control. The shadows swirled around him, pulling him forward like tendrils guiding his next strike.
Cyrus's fist slammed into Eltric's ribs, and this time, flames erupted from his knuckles, blazing with an intensity that sent a wave of heat through the arena. The impact sent Eltric sprawling across the ground, his wand skittering uselessly to the side. His cloak was singed, the edges still smoldering as he gasped in pain.
But there was no mercy in Cyrus's eyes—only the cold, unrelenting glow of crimson fire.
Eltric's vision blurred, the heat and pain overwhelming him, but Cyrus didn't relent. He crouched low, the shadows moving with him, and grabbed Eltric by the collar, yanking him to his feet as if he weighed nothing. For a brief moment, their eyes met, and what Eltric saw in Cyrus's gaze sent a jolt of terror through him.
There was no humanity left. Only the flames of power—and the darkness feeding them.
The air around Cyrus rippled with heat, the flames crackling along his arms as if they had a life of their own. The shadows twisted beneath his feet, coiling like serpents, while the fire in his eyes burned brighter. Eltric's breath came in shallow, desperate gasps as he felt the oppressive weight of both the fire and shadows closing in around him.
"You're pathetic," Cyrus whispered, his voice cold and sharp as the flames danced between them. With a flick of his wrist, a ring of fire erupted around Eltric's body, trapping him in a prison of scorching heat.
The flames roared, and the crowd watched in stunned silence as Eltric writhed in pain, his skin searing under the intense heat. He screamed, his voice hoarse as the fire licked at him, leaving burns across his cloak and skin.
But Cyrus wasn't watching Eltric anymore.
His eyes were fixed on the flames themselves, mesmerized by their movement, by the power he held in his hands. The shadows around him pulsed, feeding off the violence, growing stronger with every second. Cyrus could feel it—the pull of the darkness, the thrill of the fire. It was intoxicating.
And for a moment, he wanted to give in.
The shadows whispered, urging him to let go, to lose himself completely in the power coursing through his veins. His fingers twitched, the flames flickering more violently as his control wavered. The heat around him intensified, the fire growing hotter, brighter, as if ready to consume everything in its path—including him.
For a brief second, Cyrus felt the edge—the point of no return. The flames seemed to twist out of his grasp, their hunger insatiable, while the shadows slithered higher, creeping up his legs, pulling him deeper into the abyss.
Burn him... the darkness whispered. Let it all burn...
His hands trembled, the shadows pulling him under, the fire roaring for more, and Cyrus felt himself slipping—his mind fogging, his control faltering.
But somewhere, deep within the storm of fire and shadows, a sliver of clarity broke through.
With a guttural growl, Cyrus yanked himself back, forcing the flames to recede. The fire sputtered, flickering out with a hiss, leaving only the charred remains of Eltric's cloak and the smell of burnt fabric lingering in the air. The shadows that had twisted around him reluctantly faded back into the ground, though they seemed to linger, waiting for another chance.
Cyrus stood over Eltric's motionless form, his chest heaving, his mind slowly clearing. He had won. Eltric lay unconscious, his body twitching, but alive—barely. The fire had nearly consumed him, but Cyrus had stopped it, just in time.
The crowd remained silent, stunned by the raw display of power they had just witnessed. No one dared to cheer.
Cyrus's hands still trembled, the remnants of the fire sparking faintly at his fingertips. He stared down at them, his breathing uneven. The fight was over, but the battle inside him still raged. The darkness hadn't left him. It was still there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for him to slip again.
He took a deep breath, forcing the last of the flames to die down, and turned his back on Eltric's unconscious body. His crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dim light as he walked toward the exit, the weight of his own power pressing down on him like a heavy cloak.
He had won. But at what cost?
As he walked away, the shadows followed closely behind, slithering across the ground like silent specters, never far from their master.
The crowd remained still, the tension in the arena thick as Cyrus disappeared into the shadows. The fight was over, but the memory of his power—both the fire and the darkness—would linger long after the flames had died..
The silence in the professor's box was thick, the weight of Cyrus's fight still hanging heavy in the air. For a moment, none of the professors spoke, each of them processing the raw, unsettling power they had just witnessed. The shadows had moved like living entities, the fire had blazed with terrifying intensity—and Cyrus had wielded them both with a kind of recklessness that set everyone on edge.
It was Morgath, who broke the silence, his voice laced with disgust but tinged with something deeper: fear. "That was barbaric," he hissed, his pale face twisted in a scowl, his hands gripping the edges of his robe. "What kind of student uses fists and knees in a magical duel? He's a menace—a danger to everyone here."
His sharp words cut through the air, but it was more than just disdain that fueled his outburst. There was an underlying tremor in his voice, a tremor that hinted at something darker—a fear of what Cyrus represented. He turned toward the other professors, his eyes wide, his voice rising. "You saw it, didn't you? The shadows. The fire. That wasn't a boy in control of his magic—no, that was something else entirely. Unchecked. Unstable."
Morgath shook his head, his eyes narrowing. "If we allow this to continue, mark my words, it'll be him who burns this place to the ground."
Across from him, Thaddeous, the Battle Instructor, remained calm, his broad arms crossed over his chest. He was a man who had seen many students come and go, each with their own unique strengths, but Cyrus's performance had given even him pause. Still, he refused to let Morgath's panic drive the conversation. "Dangerous? Perhaps. But barbaric?" he scoffed. "What I saw was a boy who knows how to fight. Not every duel is won with a wand and elegant flourishes, Morvyn. Sometimes, you need to get your hands dirty."
Morgath's eyes flashed, and he leaned forward in his seat. "You call that fighting? That was barely controlled chaos! He's not just a risk to his opponents, Thaddeous—he's a risk to all of us."
Thaddeous tilted his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Are you scared, Morgath? You sound like you're seeing ghosts."
The Magic Defense Professor snapped. "Ghosts?" He nearly spat the word, his voice trembling with an anger that betrayed his fear. "Do I need to remind you what happened the last time we ignored the signs? The Bringer of Flames, Thaddeous! We all know how that ended. Half the academy in ruins—students injured, some never recovering—because we let raw, untamed power go unchecked."
The mention of the Bringer of Flames cast a shadow over the room. It was a story that haunted the academy's halls—a student, once full of promise, who had let their fire magic spiral out of control, burning down half the school before vanishing into thin air, never to be seen again. The devastation had left scars not just on the academy's stone walls, but on the professors who had witnessed it. They had seen what unchecked power could do. And now, they were watching it again.
Thaddeous's smirk faltered at the name, his gaze darkening as memories resurfaced. But still, he shook his head. "Cyrus isn't the same. He's not out of control—not yet. What we saw was intense, sure, but he pulled back. He didn't let the fire consume him."
Morgath's voice dropped, colder now, but no less fierce. "And what happens when he can't pull back? What happens when those shadows, or that fire, decide they are the ones in control? You saw it in his eyes, Thaddeous. Don't pretend you didn't. That boy is teetering on the edge, and if he falls—if we let him fall—we'll all pay the price."
Thaddeous clenched his jaw but didn't respond immediately. He had seen it too—the way Cyrus had nearly lost himself to the power, the way the shadows had wrapped around him like hungry tendrils. But he wasn't ready to give up on the boy yet.
Morgath pressed on, his voice rising again, this time filled with a desperation that none of the other professors could ignore.
"You think this is just about the tournament? About winning duels? No, this is something much bigger. I can feel it—there's darkness in that boy. A darkness that's growing. And if we don't stop it—if we don't contain it—we'll be facing another disaster, just like with the Bringer of Flames."
The room grew colder as Morgath's words settled over them. The other professors exchanged uneasy glances, each of them wrestling with their own thoughts, their own fears. They had all felt it—that raw, untethered power that pulsed from Cyrus during the match. He hadn't just fought Eltric—he had overpowered him. And it had been brutal.
Even Zara, who often remained quiet during such debates, couldn't hide her concern. Her dark eyes flicked between Morgath and Thaddeous, her voice soft but filled with unease. "There was something different about him this time. It wasn't just his strength—it was the way he wielded it. Like the shadows were... alive. Like they were feeding off him."
Thaddeous let out a long breath, finally conceding a point. "You're not wrong," he said, his voice quieter now. "I felt it too. He was close—too close to losing control."
But Morvyn wasn't done. He turned to Magnus, who had remained silent throughout the entire exchange, his expression unreadable. "We cannot ignore this," Morgath urged, his voice almost pleading now. "Magnus, you know what I'm saying is true. You know what happens when students like him slip through the cracks. You were there. You saw the flames."
The Headmaster remained quiet for a moment longer, his fingers still gently stroking the small dragon at his side. His eyes, however, were sharp, calculating. He had seen many students come and go—brilliant, reckless, dangerous. But Cyrus was different. There was something more there, something that needed to be watched closely.
Finally, Magnus spoke, his voice steady, but with an undercurrent of something far more serious."Cyrus Vale is not to be underestimated. That much is clear." His gaze flicked to Thaddeous, then to Morvyn, before settling on the arena where the match had just taken place. "But we will not let history repeat itself. I will keep a close eye on him. And if he shows even the slightest sign of following the same path as the Bringer of Flames... we will act."
Outside the arena, Cyrus leaned against one of the stone walls, his breathing finally starting to slow. Steam rose from his skin, dissipating into the cool evening air. His crimson eyes were no longer glowing, and the tension that had gripped his body during the match seemed to be unraveling. But deep inside, something still churned—a dark, restless feeling he couldn't quite shake.
He couldn't remember much after the first few punches. The adrenaline had taken over, and everything else became a blur of movement and emotion. Had he blacked out? It felt like he had lost himself for a moment, like the shadows he wielded had consumed him instead.
As he stood there, lost in thought, Teef approached cautiously, his usual carefree attitude replaced by something more cautious. He'd seen the match—everyone had. But for Teef, watching his friend fight like that had stirred a feeling of unease.
"You alright?" Teef asked, his voice quiet, almost hesitant.
Cyrus looked up, his red eyes meeting Teef's yellow ones. For a moment, he didn't respond. His chest still heaved slightly, the residual heat of the fight leaving him almost dazed. The question hung in the air between them, and for a second, it seemed like Cyrus didn't even recognize his friend.
Teef shifted uncomfortably but kept his gaze steady. "You seemed... off in there," he continued, his voice calm and steady, the same way he always spoke when trying to soothe a tense situation. "Like you weren't all there. You didn't look like yourself."
Cyrus blinked, the fog in his mind starting to clear. "I'm fine," he said, though his voice lacked the confidence he usually carried. "It's just... the fight."
Teef tilted his head, his elven ears twitching slightly. "No, it's more than that," he said gently. "You weren't just fighting Eltric—you were... different. It was like something else was taking over."
Cyrus's jaw clenched, his eyes flickering with frustration. He didn't want to admit it, but Teef was right. There had been a moment during the match where he felt like he was teetering on the edge, like he might lose control of the darkness inside him. The thrill of the fight, the satisfaction of beating Eltric—it had almost consumed him.
Teef placed a hand on Cyrus's shoulder, his touch light but grounding. "You don't have to push yourself so hard, Cyrus," he said softly. "I don't know what's going on in your head, but you've got friends here. You don't have to fight every battle like it's the last one."
Cyrus stared at him, the tension in his chest slowly loosening. Teef's presence, as always, had a calming effect, like a quiet voice in the back of his mind reminding him to stay grounded. Teef wasn't just a friend—he was a voice of reason in the storm of emotions that often swirled inside Cyrus.
"I didn't mean to lose control," Cyrus admitted after a moment, his voice barely above a whisper. "It just... happened."
Teef smiled softly, his sharp elven features relaxing. "That's alright. Just... don't let it happen again," he said with a teasing smirk, trying to lighten the mood. "We need you sharp for the next round."
Cyrus managed a small chuckle, the darkness that had been clawing at him starting to fade. Teef always had a way of pulling him back from the edge.
"Thanks," Cyrus said finally, feeling more like himself again.
"No problem," Teef replied with a grin, though his eyes still held a glimmer of concern. "But seriously, let's just take it easy for a bit, yeah?"
Cyrus nodded, the weight on his shoulders feeling a little lighter. For now, the storm had passed. But as they turned to leave, the question still lingered in his mind: What happens when he loses control for good?