The snow crunched under their boots as Trafalgar followed Sylis through the narrow, winding streets of Euclid. The early sun reflected off the rooftops, giving the frozen town a faint golden sheen, but the cold was sharp—biting through layers, turning every breath into mist.
Sylis walked a few paces ahead, her black coat swaying slightly with each step. She didn't turn when she spoke.
"So, is it true you awakened your core at fifteen?"
Trafalgar nodded. His breath clouded in the air. "That's right."
"And that you're a bastard with no real talent?"
He raised an eyebrow at the back of her head. Then let out a short, amused breath. "Half right. I am a bastard. As for the rest, I wouldn't say I'm talentless. I think yesterday proved I can handle myself just fine."
Sylis tossed a glance over her shoulder, unimpressed. "You lost."
"I got distracted. That's different."
"You lost," she repeated, her tone flat. "But… your technique wasn't bad. Better than I expected, actually."
