When the energy drain from soul-viewing overwhelmed my hybrid systems...
He caught me.
Held me.
Transferred power that made me feel like a battery being recharged at ultimate speed.
That caring—however weird, however wrapped in arrogance and possessive declarations—felt genuine. Not performed for an audience, not calculated to achieve specific outcomes, just... instinctive response to someone connected to him experiencing distress.
In his weird way, he cares.
The question is whether that caring is enough to build trust upon.
I set down my fork with deliberate precision, the motion drawing his attention from whatever cosmic mysteries the darkened window reveals.
"If we're bonded," I begin, my voice carrying the particular directness that survival has taught me to wield, "why is it only showing up now?"
The question hangs between us, weighted with implications neither of us can fully articulate.
His lips curve into something that might be a smile, might be acknowledgment, might be the particular expression of someone who has been waiting for this specific inquiry.
"You unlocked the final layer of the Academy," he explains, setting his teacup down with movements that carry centuries of refined grace. "And I've been trapped in it all these centuries."
Trapped.
The word carries weight that makes my chest tight.
"Why?"
The question emerges softer than I intended, genuine curiosity replacing the confrontational edge I'd been cultivating.
He meets my eyes across the table—those impossible, shifting features settling into something almost vulnerable for a fraction of a heartbeat before composure reasserts itself.
"I was sent to find my mate." The words arrive with the particular cadence of someone reciting a history they've repeated countless times, perhaps only to themselves across endless years of solitude. "Warned that the journey would be treacherous. That I'd probably feel like I was destined for failure."
He pauses, something flickering behind those shifting eyes that might be pain, might be resignation, might be the particular weight of experiences that transcend simple description.
"Which I suppose it does feel that way," he continues, "when you must wait centuries for the return of your Queen because not only does she not exist yet, but when you were created, you were bound for a greater purpose than you could comprehend."
Created.
He said created, not born.
The distinction registers with significance I file away for later examination.
Bound for a greater purpose.
Waiting for someone who didn't exist.
Centuries of solitude in an academy that consumes everyone it touches.
The empathy that surfaces surprises me with its intensity. Whatever else Koishii might be—arrogant, presumptuous, far too comfortable with extracting souls without consent—he's also someone who has endured isolation I can barely conceptualize. Decades would have broken most beings. Centuries should have shattered him entirely.
Yet here he sits.
Drinking tea.
Watching darkness.
