“Anta...”

“Big Sister Adelaide, this—it's for you.” Her voice fluttered like a sand-breeze through canvas.

Adelaide looked at the purple-haired little girl holding up a bowl of noodles, and her eyes held more weary resignation than surprise, like dusk settling over dunes.

It wasn’t new; ever since Adelaide refused Anta’s request to become her master, the child had been trying to win her over—cooking for Adelaide and Mira, sweeping the tent clean as a polished shell, even learning basic Common in days so Adelaide wouldn’t wrestle with desert-tongue, like a fledgling sparrow tugging itself skyward.

With such stubborn persistence, Adelaide understood her intent; she never mentioned taking a disciple, only declined with gentleness, like rain that refuses to soak through.

But today, the wind shifted.

Adelaide didn’t wear her usual warm—too practiced—big-sister smile; she bent down and took Anta’s hand, like moonlight cupping a small tide.

Her fingers traced soft paths across Anta’s palm, and with a breathed sigh, pale crimson motes rose from those tracks, a blush of magic dust unfolding into a ghostly rose in the girl’s hand, like dawn inside glass.

“Want to try? I can teach you.” Her voice fell like a petal into a still pond.

Anta froze, like a spring startled by a stone.

Her first response wasn’t a squeal of joy but a trembling hush, her mouth parted, eyes misting like dew veiling violets.

Children wear their hearts openly; compared to the clear joy in those purple eyes, Adelaide’s side looked every inch the “dirty grown-up,” like a mirror fogged by breath.

The reason she suddenly agreed was simple, and not spring-born kindness.

Truth be told, Adelaide wanted to stay pressed to Mira every moment, lie beside her, comb her soft gold hair, bury her face in that warm neck and nuzzle, like a cat drunk on sun.

But she couldn’t; if she drew too close, that scent on Mira’s skin might undo her again, like honey pulling a moth back into flame.

As she’d told Mira, they could only do that again when Mira’s body recovered, when desire wouldn’t leave harm, like a river waiting for floodplains to dry.

And besides...

A tingling heat sprouted quietly in her heart, whispering like vine-tendrils under loam.

She didn’t want to see Mira faint halfway, limp and unresponsive, like a flower bowed by sudden hail.

She wanted to watch more, Mira beneath her, feel those strong legs lock tight around her hips, like ivy around stone; see Mira’s nails rake red trails down her back and still be helpless, only able to take it, like surf meeting cliff—

“Thank you, Big Sister—no, Teacher Adelaide!” Anta’s words yanked her back, like a bell slicing drifting fog.

Adelaide shook her head fast, bottling those almost-feral thoughts in her chest, unaware that once Mira—the stamina monster—fully recovered, she’d regret this sweet, naïve fantasy like a sailor regretting a lull before a storm.

It didn’t matter yet; Adelaide hugged the sniffing Anta and patted her back, like a hand smoothing ruffled feathers.

“Little one, don’t cry.” Her tone fell gentle as evening rain.

She seemed to be tenderly wiping tears, but inside she thought: when Anta learns I agreed just to avoid being alone with Mira, to pass time with a harmless task, and that once Mira gets better our brief teacher-student bond ends, then her tears will fall like pear blossoms under rain—and I’ll probably chuckle despite myself.

Picturing that scene, Adelaide’s lips curled, not realizing she’d made a mistake as grave as misjudging when to drink blood, like stepping onto thin ice thinking it’s stone.

Soon, she’d abandon the notion that this was just play with a little girl, like a mask slipping off in wind.

**

The next stretch of travel was smooth, so calm it was dull, like a lake without ripples.

A week slid by like sand through fingers; Mira’s right arm healed well, and Adelaide finished Anta’s basic mana-guidance lessons, like drawing clean lines onto wet clay.

Meanwhile, the promises from Varie were kept—birds brought word that her independent unit had galloped on, delivering the caravan’s messenger to the nearest desert town, like arrows carried on hawk wings.

It was good news for the caravan; though they couldn’t return to the Empire at once, a courier reporting to General Slandor meant mission upheld, and grievances against the beastkin and Varie eased, like heat fading at sunset.

During that time, Adelaide completed three experiments and confirmed a method to suppress beastkin ear regrowth long-term, like binding a sprout under a quiet seal.

She also used the Dreamfeast Spider’s Magic Core to enthrall the caravan, blurring their memory of the beastkin’s facial features, then told them these earless “beastkin” were actually humans lost to the desert, who would enter the Elven Realm with them and return together, like stray birds folded back into the flock.

Half the deal with Varie was done; the rest would unfold inside the Elven Realm, beyond today’s reach, like a gate still shut in fog.

So Adelaide had time on her hands, and she spent more of it with Anta, like shade moving where the sun went.

Today was Anta’s first try at the basic Mana Bolt, like loosing a spark from a new flint.

She refused to learn civil spells like Light first; she wanted a destructive attack, because Anta asked for battle.

“Teacher, I want to fight.” When Adelaide asked what she wanted from magic, that was Anta’s answer, steady as a staff planted in sand.

Adelaide opposed it at first, but those purple eyes held a resolve like a mountain line under cloud, and she yielded.

Mana Bolt doubles as a rough test of affinity; not as precise as Holywell Academy’s device, but the strength of a short-chant cast would let Adelaide gauge Anta’s aptitude and attribute, like reading wind by the bend of grass.

Adelaide set a plank on a stone ten meters away; its brown wood wore a faint red lattice, a defense sigil like a thin net glowing on bark.

That was Anta’s target; the bolt’s color would hint at attribute, and the sigil’s feedback would judge aptitude—strong pulse meant high, weak meant low—like a drum answering a strike.

“Still remember the chant I taught you, Anta?” Her words hovered like a hand steadying a bowstring.

“I—I remember!” Sweat slid from Anta’s temple like a bead of salt water.

Adelaide smiled a calming smile, quiet as shade under an awning.

“Don’t worry. This spell has no attribute lock, no backlash risk. It won’t hurt you.” Her voice smoothed the air like silk.

She loosened Anta’s fist—knotted by nerves—into the right shape, then pointed the girl’s finger at the plank, like guiding a reed to face the current.

“Relax. Just follow the feeling in your heart and guide the mana naturally.” Her guidance flowed like warm tea down a chilled throat.

She said it, and knew Anta wasn’t afraid of failure; she just burned to prove she was teachable in Adelaide’s eyes, like a small flame begging to become a lamp.

Having labeled their bond as temporary, Adelaide only shrugged inside, like a coat tugged against a breeze.

It was a short teacher-student tie; she’d pull her one last step, point out attribute and aptitude, and that would be kindness enough, like a ferryman making one crossing—

“hapta—” The chant pricked the air.

As Anta spoke, Adelaide felt wind brush her ear; a dark mana cluster budded at the girl’s fingertip, then arced through air at an unhurried pace, like a firefly drifting in shade.

Seeing that near-black deep violet, Adelaide’s heartbeat sped a little, like a drum quickening near storm.

Hmm? That looks like a variant attribute.

She’d met a few with variant mana; she’d fought more than one; yet variant affinity remained rare, a handful of stars scattered in a cloudy sky, and her eyes lit as the bolt struck the sigil, like a spark reaching a woven ward.

But the sigil gave no feedback. No pulse. No light. Silence, like snow on bark.

“Eh?” The word slipped out before she could catch it, a quiver from the throat.

She hadn’t expected Anta to be a prodigy, but a moment of disappointment leaked through her gaze, like a lantern dimming.

“D-Did I do something wrong, Teacher?” Anta’s voice trembled like a thread in wind.

Adelaide didn’t know how to answer right away; her heart pinched, like a hand around a bruised plum.

What a pity.

It was a variant mana she’d never seen, yet the sigil didn’t stir at all; that meant the base aptitude was too low, like a riverbed dry beneath storm-clouds.

With the same chant, high-aptitude casters gather more mana; low-aptitude casters gather traces; and with such thin flow, even a variant attribute seldom bites, like ink on rain-soaked paper.

“Am... am I not suited?” Anta’s panic fluttered like a trapped sparrow.

Adelaide watched her and felt a sharp tenderness; she’d seen how hard Anta had worked, and this hurt, like watching a seed fail in frost.

After a moment’s thought, she managed a rueful smile and patted Anta’s head, trying to soften the blow, like wrapping a shard in cloth.

“Anta, your mana is special. It’s just...” Her words trailed like smoke thinning.

—Crack.

A tiny fracture sounded from the plank, a dry snap like ice underfoot.

Adelaide turned to the board, eyes narrowing like a blade finding its line.

As understanding pricked, she strode over, like a hawk stooping on a spot of motion.

“Teacher! Please don’t abandon me. I—I’ll try harder. I’ll try twice as hard!” Anta’s plea rose behind her, wet as rain on stone.

Adelaide didn’t look back; at the mark, she bent and tapped the board’s top lightly, like a knuckle knocking fruit.

The plank split at the center and clattered to the ground, a sudden fall like a door unhooked.

...

Only then did Adelaide realize how wasteful her thought of giving up on Anta had been, like throwing away a seed just before spring.