The door to Astarotte Sylvarien's personal dorm room remained sealed by a powerful barrier—one woven from her own magic and emotions. Inside, the air was thick with sorrow, the scent of rose incense barely masking the trace of tears. The moonlight poured through the open window, casting silvery shadows across her velvet curtains and delicate glass furniture. She sat curled in the farthest corner of the room, tail limply coiled around her thigh, eyes swollen red.
"I trained so hard… and still…" she whispered, voice cracking. "I was supposed to impress him. I was supposed to be worthy…"
A soft knock on the door disrupted her spiral of self-loathing.
"Astarotte… it's me," came Serenil's voice, muffled but warm.
She said nothing. Not at first. But after a long silence, the barrier pulsed gently and then dissipated. Serenil stepped inside.
He was dressed casually—no armor, no ceremonial robes—just a simple white tunic and dark trousers. He crossed the room slowly, kneeling in front of her without a word.
Astarotte avoided his gaze, but he reached forward and gently brushed a lock of her long rose-blonde hair behind her ear. "You fought beautifully today."
"I lost, Serenil," she hissed, blinking back more tears. "I lost in front of everyone. In front of you. I—"
"And Peter nearly collapsed afterward," Serenil interjected calmly. "You pushed him to the brink, Astarotte. No one expected that. Not even him."
Her lip trembled. "But it wasn't enough. I wanted to prove I belonged beside you—not just as a pretty face or a noble's daughter, but as your equal."
Serenil exhaled softly and leaned in, resting his forehead against hers.
"You already are," he whispered. "Astarotte, strength isn't just about winning. It's about standing up, again and again, even when you've fallen. You gave Peter—Peter Arkwell, wielder of one of the most terrifying Soul Gears I've ever seen—a fight that left him breathless."
She blinked, stunned.
Serenil continued, "You're more than your magic or your swordplay. You're my first light when I wake and the fire that dances behind my every ambition. I chose you not for how strong you are now—but for the strength I see in you. The kind that only grows fiercer with pain."
She stared into his eyes, the truth of his words softening the storm inside her.
"I'm scared, Serenil," she admitted, her voice fragile. "Scared that if I can't keep up with people like Peter… I'll be left behind. That I'll be a burden."
"You'll never be a burden," he said firmly. "But if you want to grow stronger, then I'll train with you. Every morning, every night. We'll push each other. Like we did back when we first met in the academy courtyard."
A flicker of resolve stirred in her heart.
Astarotte leaned into his chest, her breath shaky against him. "You'd really do that for me?"
"I'd do anything for you," Serenil replied, stroking her back as her succubus tail slowly wrapped around his waist in instinctive affection.
For a long moment, they stayed like that—two souls mending in the quiet moonlight.
Then, Astarotte pulled back slightly, her eyes wet but shining with determination.
"Then it's decided," she said, wiping her tears. "No more crying. No more self-pity. I'll rise. I'll train until I can stand beside you—not as someone to protect, but as someone who protects you. I'll surpass the Astarotte who lost today."
Serenil smiled.
"There she is," he said proudly.
And in the silent night, as the moon shone on their joined hands, a fire was reborn in Astarotte Sylvarien's heart—bright, unyielding, and radiant with purpose.