His hand hovered over her chest, his words still echoing.
And it's looking for you.
She didn't flinch.
"Is this how you treat all your students? Vague doomsday speeches and unsolicited touching?"
Riven blinked once. "Only the promising ones."
Then the attack came.
Fast. Untelegraphed. A dagger of compressed wind slashed toward her throat—silent and sharp. She ducked instinctively, the edge grazing her hair.
The air warped. The room pulsed. Another strike, this time from his foot—aimed at her ribs. She twisted, barely dodging.
"You're attacking me?" she snapped.
"Lesson three," he said, expression unreadable. "Magic means nothing if you die before you can cast it."
The blade he'd given her earlier skittered across the floor as she raised both hands. Light surged between her fingers.
"I liked you better when you were cryptic."
"You'll like me even less unconscious."
The next wave of pressure hit her square in the chest.
Not wind this time—gravity.
She slammed into the stone circle.
Pain spiderwebbed down her spine, but her eyes burned gold now. Her hair floated, lifted by raw arcane surge.
"You want magic?" she growled. "Fine."
She slammed her palm to the ground. A dozen sigils erupted beneath her, blazing white and gold. The pressure shattered. Riven staggered back, cloak billowing violently.
Then she rose.
Slowly. Effortlessly.
Hovering above the circle, hair alight with wild energy, a grin curved her lips.
"Oh look, I'm floating. Must be Tuesday."
Riven's jaw tensed. "You're not supposed to know those runes."
"I don't know them," she said cheerfully. "They just… happen."
She raised both hands. Magic built in swirling rings. Each one carried fragments of something ancient—symbols that didn't belong in this era.
Riven vanished in a blink.
Teleportation.
But she caught the thread. Instinctively.
Her mind twisted around it—and followed.
She blinked—and reappeared behind him mid-strike.
Their blades clashed—hers summoned from pure golden light, his drawn from his sleeve.
The clash lit up the training hall.
Their feet scraped across stone. Sparks flew.
And then, without warning—
She pushed him back with a single pulse.
The runes from her earlier spell flared again—this time crawling up her arms, searing into her mind. She saw them—his techniques. His spells. Every form, every channel, every trick he'd just used.
She absorbed it.
Riven fell to one knee, breathing hard.
Aria stood, breathing easy.
Silence.
He looked up at her, blood at the corner of his mouth. "You copied me."
"I call it borrowing permanently."
"You're not supposed to be able to do that."
She tilted her head. "You say that a lot."
Then the runes changed.
She didn't draw them. Didn't even think. They just appeared—marking the air, threading through light, forming something… new.
Something she had never seen before.
A sphere of black and gold, humming softly, floating between her palms.
Riven stood slowly, eyeing it like it might explode. "What the hell is that?"
"I don't know," she whispered. "But it feels… right."
Then the sphere burst into mist, and the runes vanished.
The hall darkened.
He let out a slow breath. "You're not a student."
"I'm not a puppet," she said. "I told you that."
They stared at each other. No more attacks. Just an unspoken shift.
"Lesson four," he said at last. "Don't trust your teacher."
She smirked. "Lesson five: Don't underestimate me. You'll live longer...."