Chapter 48 Arkanum Veritas (9)
Rinoa stood before an old mirror in the attic of the hideout. The morning light touched her face shyly, highlighting the small wounds that had yet to heal on her cheeks, neck, and chest. Yet, it was not these wounds that made her tremble.
She stared at her own reflection.
But she saw no one.
"Am I... still here?"
She touched the surface of the mirror. Cold. Real. But that feeling lingered—when Fitran stood before her. When time itself paused, and that mysterious figure, more cruel than anything she had ever seen... vanished just like that. In Rinoa's memory, there was a moment when Fitran's gaze pierced through her, as if there was something deeper than just a desire to kill. Perhaps, behind that cold stare, there hid a longing to protect her.
"He is merely observing the world... and I am an intriguing distraction for him.
"I am not important. But also... I must not die.
Each heartbeat reminded her of that moment when she felt a mix of fear and an inexplicable strangeness. In Fitran's mysterious strategy to save her, Rinoa sensed a delicate thread of unspoken love, hidden beneath the surface. It was in the way Fitran moved; each step seemed to honor the space between them, as if the worry he felt was a substitute for the words that remained unexpressed. Rinoa realized that, despite being surrounded by emptiness, there might be deeper feelings concealed behind that cold, neutral face, caught in millions of unanswered questions.
Her hand clenched the fabric of her clothing, pressing against the chest where her heart raced too quickly. She tried to feel something, but all she found was an empty space and a faint warmth. Her thoughts spiraled, trapped between fear and unspoken hope. She knew Fitran was always nearby, protecting her, even though his presence was often shrouded in mystery.
"I'm alive... because no one has cared enough to kill me," she thought, but beneath those words lingered a profound gratitude for that mysterious figure.
At the back of the wooden table, she opened her notebook. The pages were filled with scribbles of experimental glyphs, the aether magic she developed to survive—not to attack. Yet, for some reason, each stroke brought her back to the shadow of Fitran, who came and went in her life.