Chapter Text
(I'll just put a prologue here:)
In the Clover Kingdom, soulmate marks were as fundamental to life as magic itself.
Every person was born with one—a unique design that appeared somewhere on their body within the first few hours of life. Parents would watch anxiously as the mark manifested, a colorless tattoo-like image that could be anything from simple geometric shapes to elaborate artistic designs. The mark's location and pattern were recorded in official documents, added to a national registry that helped people find their matches.
The marks remained colorless and dormant until the moment you met your soulmate. The first meeting—that crucial first moment of connection—would cause both marks to burst into vibrant color simultaneously. It was said you could feel it happen, a warm tingling sensation spreading from the mark through your entire body. The colors would stabilize over the first few minutes of interaction, settling into their permanent hues that reflected the magical affinities of both soulmates.
After the initial color change, the marks remained visible and colored at all times. They became a public declaration, a way for others to know you'd found your match. Some people met their soulmates as children, growing up together with colorful marks that everyone could see. Others searched for years, decades even, their marks pale and waiting.
But everyone had one.
It was a universal truth. A guarantee. No matter who you were—noble or peasant, powerful mage or magicless commoner—somewhere in the world was a person whose mark matched yours. Your perfect complement. Your other half.
Unless, of course, you were Luck Voltia.
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"AGAIN!"
The word was barely out of Luck's mouth before he was moving, lightning crackling around his small frame as he launched himself at Magna for what had to be the twentieth time that morning. His fist, wreathed in electricity, aimed straight for Magna's jaw with enough force to knock out a grown man.
Magna ducked, feeling the static electricity make his mohawk stand even more on end, and countered with a flame-covered uppercut that Luck twisted away from with inhuman flexibility.
"You're gettin' predictable!" Magna taunted, grinning despite the sweat pouring down his face. They'd been at this for over an hour, and his muscles were screaming, but he'd be damned if he stopped before Luck did.
"Predictable?!" Luck's laugh was manic and delighted. "Then you should be able to hit me!"
He punctuated this by landing a solid kick to Magna's ribs that sent the taller boy skidding backward across the training ground. Magna wheezed, getting his breath back, and
launched a barrage of fireballs that lit up the morning air.
Luck dodged through them like he was dancing, electricity arcing between his movements, his grin never faltering. This was where he came alive—in the chaos of combat, in the split-second decisions and the rush of adrenaline. His blue eyes sparkled with pure, unfiltered joy.
"That's more like it!" Luck charged again, and they met in the middle with a clash of fire and lightning that sent up a shower of sparks.
From the sidelines, several Black Bulls had gathered to watch the daily spectacle. It was routine at this point—Magna and Luck's morning battles were as regular as sunrise.
"Fifty yul says Luck wins," Vanessa called out, taking a sip from her ever-present wine glass despite the early hour.
"That's not even a bet, that's just facts," Gordon whispered, his quiet voice somehow carrying across the field. "Luck always wins."
"Not always," Gauche muttered, polishing a photograph of his sister. "Sometimes they both pass out from exhaustion at the same time. That's technically a draw."
"I think it's nice," Gordon continued. "They push each other to improve. It's a beautiful friendship built on mutual respect and the desire to beat each other unconscious."
"You have a weird definition of friendship," Gauche replied.
"No, he's got a point," Vanessa said, watching as Magna managed to land a hit that Luck actually had to block instead of dodge. "Look at them. They're completely in sync. It's like they can read each other's moves."
On the field, that observation was proving accurate. After months of daily fights, Magna and Luck had developed an almost instinctive understanding of each other's fighting styles. Magna knew that when Luck's grin shifted slightly to the left, a lightning-fast kick was coming. Luck knew that when Magna's flames started spiraling, he was about to unleash his Exploding Fireball technique.
They moved around each other like they were choreographed, attack and counter, dodge and strike, a violent dance that was as beautiful as it was destructive.
"You've gotten better!" Luck called out, sounding genuinely pleased as he narrowly avoided a particularly creative combination of flame bursts. "Your timing's improved!"
"Yeah, well, fightin' you every damn day'll do that!" Manga shot back, but he was grinning too. Because Luck's compliments during battle were rare and genuine—the kid didn't bullshit about fighting. If he said you'd improved, you had.
They clashed again, and this time Luck's lightning caught Magna's flames in a way that created a massive explosion of mixed magic. Both of them were sent flying backward, hitting the ground hard.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then Luck started laughing, that bright, genuine sound that made something warm curl in Magna's chest. The smaller mage sat up, electricity still crackling around him, his hair even more wild than usual.
"That was great! Did you see that?! Our magic mixed and—BOOM!" Luck made an explosion gesture with his hands. "We should try to do that on purpose next time!"
Magna sat up more slowly, groaning. "You're insane. You know that, right?"
"Yep!" Luck bounced to his feet, apparently unaffected by the fact that they'd just been blown up. "So, again?"
"Hell no. I'm done. Tapped out. Finished." Magna flopped back onto the grass dramatically. "You win."
"Aww, but we were just getting good!" Luck pouted, genuine disappointment in his voice. "Come on, just one more round!"
"Kid, I got nothin' left. You've destroyed me." Magna cracked one eye open to look at Luck, who was standing over him, silhouetted by the morning sun. "Don't you ever get
tired?"
"Not when I'm fighting!" Luck's grin was back. "Especially not when I'm fighting you!"
There it was again. That warm feeling in Magna's chest. He told himself it was just pride—of course he felt good that Luck liked fighting him. They were rivals, friends, squad mates. It was natural.
"Go bother Asta or somethin'," Magna said, closing his eyes. "Let me die in peace."
"You're so dramatic!" But Luck's footsteps pattered away, presumably to go find another victim for his endless energy.
Magna lay there for a few more minutes, letting his heartrate slow and his magic settle. His whole body ached in that good way that came from pushing yourself to the limit. His mark—the flame design on his right shoulder blade—felt warm, almost hot, like it always did after intense combat.
He'd had the mark checked as a baby, like everyone did. His parents had recorded it in the registry, noted its location and pattern. A flame design, they'd said, swirling and dynamic. Fitting for their son who'd developed fire magic.
It had never colored though. Twenty years old and still waiting for that moment of connection, that burst of color that would tell him he'd found his match.
Sometimes he wondered what they'd be like. What kind of person would have a mark that matched his? Would they be a fighter too? Someone who understood the passion of combat, the thrill of a good battle?
Someone like—
No.
Magna sat up abruptly, shaking his head. He wasn't going there. Luck was his best friend, his rival, his favorite person to fight. That was it. That was all it needed to be.
Even if sometimes, when Luck smiled at him after a particularly good match, Magna's mark would burn a little hotter than usual.
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Across the training field, Luck had found Asta and was already bouncing around the shorter boy, demanding a fight. Asta, used to this by now, was good-naturedly trying to explain that he'd just finished his own morning training and needed breakfast first.
"But Asta! Just one quick match! I promise I won't use too much lightning!"
"That's what you said last time, and I couldn't feel my arm for an hour!"
Vanessa watched them with amusement, then turned her attention back to where Magna was still sprawled on the grass, staring up at the sky with an unreadable expression.
"He's got it bad," she said to Gordon.
"Got what bad?" Gordon whispered.
"You know what I mean."
Gordon tilted his head, considering. "Oh. You mean the way he looks at Luck like he hung the moon? And the way his entire day revolves around their fights? And how he's
always watching Luck even when he thinks no one's looking?"
"Exactly that."
"Yes," Gordon agreed. "He's got it very bad."
"Think he knows?"
"Absolutely not. Magna's many things, but self-aware about his feelings is not one of them."
Vanessa sighed. "This is going to be painful to watch, isn't it?"
"Probably," Gordon whispered. "But we can support him when it all inevitably explodes. That's what friends are for."
They had no idea how prophetic those words would be.
(Alright, if this goes well I'll continue it.)