The circular mana platform hummed softly beneath their feet, descending from the heirs' dormitory level in a slow, steady rhythm.
Trafalgar adjusted the black jacket Zafira had finally returned to him. It felt right again on his shoulders, like a piece of himself had snapped back into place. "So," he said, breaking the comfortable silence, "how's everyone been while I was gone?"
Zafira rested a gloved hand on the railing, her gaze calm as the scenery slid by. "Hm. Cynthia's fine, though she's still a bit resentful toward you. She hides it poorly. Bartholomew's the same as ever—timid, but trying. He's been working hard in the practical classes, even learning attack-type skills on his own. Says he wants to broaden his combat record." A faint smirk touched her lips. "He's still terrible at it, though."
Trafalgar chuckled under his breath. "That sounds like him."
