John’s voice carried a quiet blend of memory. “The first time we met, I was 10 years old, and you were 14,” he began, eyes tracing the past. “I was wandering, desperate for an ally to help me free Elyndra from Umbraxis. You were on your way to the Mage’s Enclave, riding in a carriage. You didn’t even look at me—ignored me outright—because I was just a dirty commoner and you were the heir to a duchy. I followed your carriage because it seemed to know the way to the Enclave. At the gate, I was turned away. You told the guard I had nothing to do with you.”

  The bitterness in his voice was faint but tangible, a shadow hanging on a long-past slight. Eleonor’s cheeks flushed with a touch of shame. She leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek—an apology more profound than words. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her gaze soft but sincere.

  John’s face flared red, caught between embarrassment and a warming realization that this moment of honesty bridged the gap their youthful pride had built.

  Eleonor’s voice softened with a mixture of hesitation and sincerity. “At the Mage’s Enclave, I was then forced to take you as my mentee,” she said, her eyes flickering with memory. “I won’t hide that I did not want to do so at first. But in the end, I am glad I had to, otherwise you would not be in my life.”

  John nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. “Yes, and then you took me to your family’s estate.”

  Eleonor’s smile grew warmer, touched with nostalgia. “And on the way there, you fought valiantly to protect me from a monster.”

  John chuckled softly, remembering the moment. “Yes, but before that, you wanted to abandon some people pursued by wargs, and we separated as I went to help them.”

  A shadow passed over Eleonor’s face, her eyes briefly clouded with remorse. “John, I know you think I am a cold, heartless person—and you’re right. I was always taught that nobility is more important than common folk. But... having gotten to know you, I... want to change. Your way is what my great-grandfather, had he not been so absent, would have taught me... I think.” A small tear slipped down her cheek, glistening in the soft light of the room.

  John hesitated, the flood of conflicting emotions making words elusive. He couldn’t reconcile the cold, calculating Eleonor who had once walked away from those in dire need with the remorseful woman now before him.

  His emotions were conflicting. He did not like the Eleonor who wanted to abandon those in need. He did appreciate that she was now remorseful, but it was out of character for her. John was really not sure what to say. His feelings were complicated.

  Something about her—her usual poised, unyielding beauty, the way she carried herself with a regal detachment—had always drawn him in, even when she seemed distant and unreadable. He felt attracted to the cold beauty when she did not show emotions.

  Now, seeing this Ice Queen—though not literally like Isabel—soften her demeanor, her frozen walls melting just enough to reveal vulnerability in front of him, warmed his heart in ways he barely understood. She was undeniably beautiful, a vision of strength wrapped in delicate grace.

  But then, a flush of self-awareness swept over him—was he not too young for these feelings? Was he not too young for her? What was he thinking, allowing himself to be captivated so easily? The questions swirled, messy and irresolute, settling somewhere deep in the quiet chambers of his growing spirit.

  John attempted to shift the conversation back to a safer, shared memory—their ride on the carriage toward the Montclair estate. His words, however, stumbled awkwardly as he recounted the journey, uncertain how to bridge the gap between past and present without losing their gentle connection.

  The memory caught them both off guard: the moment when Eleonor had caught John’s gaze lingering a little too long on the curve of her cleavage in that confined carriage space. The flash of blush that crept across John’s cheeks was undeniable, a crimson bloom of youth and embarrassment. It happened in that carriage in the past and even if less acute, also in the present during their conversation.

  Eleonor’s lips twitched while she held her cup of tea in John’s hotel room, as if her usual cold rebuke, the one she had expressed during that carriage ride, was forming on her tongue anew—a warning or sharp protest. But instead, that hard edge melted away into genuine, hearty laughter. The sound filled the room like warm sunlight, catching John off-guard and easing the tension between them.

  For a brief moment, the complexities of titles, power, and cruel battles fell away; only two young souls, vulnerable and honest, shared laughter in the quiet aftermath of chaos.

  Their conversation drifted to that vivid moment Eleonor had mentioned—the moment John had saved her from the Thornback Behemoth.

  It had been the first time John had seen Eleonor fight—a wild, desperate clash beneath what he remembered as tempestuous skies, maybe it was true, maybe his memories had added it for drama in that trying situation. She remembered her torn dress, while in John’s mind, the reckless exposure of her underboob materialized but he decided not to mention it favoring recalling and narrating the fierce fire magic crackling from her fingertips as she struggled against the monstrous beast.

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  What had shocked her most was John himself—a boy who had bitten into the massive Behemoth's flesh and emerged victorious. Why would John bite a monster? Such raw and primal combat was unheard of among mages, who wielded their power from a distance with careful precision.

  Yet John fought with every ounce of his spirit, defying every convention. Afterward, with a surprising tenderness, he had healed her and the coachman with his magic—mending wounds and, in a flourish only a prodigy could manage, cleansing their grime with another spell and restoring her ripped gown almost as if it had never been damaged.

  Eleonor recalled those moments with a new understanding and growing admiration; this was no ordinary boy, and no ordinary savior.

  They drifted to memories of their arrival at the Montclair estate. John’s eyes lit with astonishment as he described the manicured gardens stretching endlessly, each flowerbed a tapestry of color and precision. The towering spires and cascading terraces of the estate’s architecture loomed magnificent, a blend of ancient stone and heartfelt artistry that spoke of legacy and power.

  Eleonor allowed a flicker of pride to shine through her carefully composed demeanor. Yet years of noble training had taught her to mask such emotions beneath calm grace and impeccable posture. Behind the poised face lay a guarded heart, aware that admiration was a dangerous thing to reveal, especially from one so close.

  John’s admiration was sincere and unguarded, and Eleonor felt a quiet warmth knowing her world, her home, had touched him, even as her heritage urged caution and restraint—a delicate balance she bore with the quiet strength of someone both born to greatness and learning to embrace it.

  Eleonor’s eyes sparkled with curiosity as she asked, “How did you resist the pressure from my grandmother?”

  John smiled faintly, the memory clear. “I don’t know... I just didn’t want to kneel under that pressure. Luckily, the Patriarch saved us.”

  Eleonor laughed, a bright and genuine sound. “Yes, he really put Grandma in her place, ha ha.” The moment lightened the room, their shared history a bridge between past trials and present hope.

  Eleonor leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a softer, almost seductive tone. “And then, you organized the best birthday party I ever had,” she said, her blue eyes shimmering with fondness and warmth.

  John felt a sudden flush of discomfort rise in his cheeks. The closeness, the tone—it was unexpected, almost seductive, and made his heart beat a little faster than usual.

  She smiled gently, breaking the intensity with simple gratitude. “Thank you, John.” The words hung between them, sincere and light, yet carrying a quiet depth on their own.

  Eleonor’s voice softened with gentle curiosity as she asked, “When is your birthday?”

  John looked down for a moment, then replied quietly, “Tomorrow.” The simple truth hung between them, fragile yet full of unspoken meaning.

  Eleonor said nothing more, but a subtle lightness softened her expression, a quiet joy in knowing John’s birthday was near. Perhaps, deep down, she felt this was a chance—an opportunity to give something back to the boy who had crossed so many storms to be here now beside her.

  John and Eleonor’s conversation deepened, flowing naturally to memories of the Orange Zone in the forest. Eleonor’s tone carried a mixture of respect and humility as she said, “I was supposed to be your mentor and protector, but you were much stronger than me. Not only did you win the challenge against your classmates, but you even went back to face a monster that only the teachers dared to fight.”

  John’s gaze dropped, shadowed by the weight of lost power and the collar’s cold grip. Yet Eleonor’s eyes sparkled with encouragement. She reached out, her delicate hand igniting a small flame that danced above her palm—a vivid display of her fire magic. “Now,” she said with a confident smile, “I will protect you as it should have been from the beginning—as your mentor, and as your... friend.”?

  The firelight flickered warmly between them, a symbol of unwavering support amid the uncertainties of their entwined fates.

  Eleonor’s gaze grew distant as she recalled the days that followed their trials in the Orange Zone. “After our misadventures there, you left with Shira,” she said softly. “When you returned, we were faced with the preliminary tournament at the Mage’s Enclave—the one to decide who would compete in the Tournament of Juniors in Aurelia.”

  John nodded, the memory vivid. “Yes, and both of us qualified. It was a tough challenge, but we made it.”

  She smiled and said, “It was certainly not tough for you. Those fights were won singlehandedly by you, even though you were the youngest. I, on the other had had a hard time against that boy… how was he called? Garth, I think.”

  The shared recollection marked another chapter in their intertwined paths—moments of growth, challenge, and the forging of bonds that neither could have imagined when they first met.

  John couldn’t help but mention, “And during the Tournament of Juniors, you faced Isabel.” Immediately, he regretted bringing it up—knowing Eleonor had lost that fight.

  But Eleonor’s expression remained unfazed. She looked at John with a gentle smile. “And I heard from Isabel that you were the first to jump into the arena to heal me,” she said, “and that you were especially careful not to expose my body because of my torn dress.”

  John’s face flushed deep red, caught off guard by her words and the intimacy of the memory, leaving a warm, lingering flutter between them.

  Suddenly, the door to John’s room swung open, revealing Isabel, Princess of Aurelia. She stood tall and regal, her striking black hair cascading like a waterfall, contrasting sharply with penetrating green eyes that seemed to hold both mischief and wisdom. Her presence was magnetic—grace personified, wrapped in a subtle aura of royal authority and youthful defiance.

  “I hear you’re talking about me,” Isabel said with a playful smile, her voice light but commanding.

  Eleonor glanced at her friend and teased, “Did no one teach the royal princess how to knock on a door? We’re having a private moment here.”

  Isabel laughed softly and moved forward, taking a seat at the table with effortless elegance. “Oh, I can imagine you wanted some privacy, especially since you were the one caged as John's beloved.”

  John’s face flushed crimson at the remark, while Isabel’s laughter filled the room. Eleonor shifted between amusement and slight embarrassment, though the blush on her cheeks was mild.

  With a teasing glint in her eye, Eleonor asked Isabel, “Are you jealous? You weren’t the one in the cage.”

  Both girls burst into laughter, the sound brightening the room and easing the tension—an unspoken bond of friendship and rivalry weaving stronger between them.