Sanda—the place where Mira and Anta lived now—was called the Unsleeping Dwelling in the Nacha tongue, a lamp kept burning in exile’s night.

It wasn’t “unsleeping” from hatred toward the Elves’ allotted ground. It was the name they gave every way-station on the road away from home.

Their ancestors believed exile was a brief trial, a storm that would pass. Under moon-silver Isylia’s guidance, their ashes would again be scattered into Lama City’s furnace-bright volcano, homeward bound to true sleep and fire-born rebirth.

And that long vow of the Nacha Tribe had never felt so close, like a shoreline rising through fog.

The Elves had only heard rumors, but word here was already street-loud: the reborn Lionheart Hero had slain the Soul Devourer Sormaidon, the dragon coiled over the Magma Forge. She had kept her promise to reclaim Lama City.

It didn’t mean everything would snap back like a twig. The leak of Chaos still stained the world, and land near the rift stayed unlivable.

But with Sormaidon annihilated and the Echo of Remnant Souls gone, they could send a vanguard to retrieve lost ancestral tech from the Magma Forge.

That tech could lift the Nacha Tribe’s daily life like bread rising. It could push back tainted soil, reclaiming ground inch by inch until every lost field was cleansed.

It would take more than one generation, likely ten and more—a long bridge built stone by stone. Yet it was among the best tidings in millennia, a dawn after a winter.

Hope of return stood in plain sight. The chief and Varie’s peace faction swelled in support. With Adelaide’s popularity and the good works along the Amei River, the Elves loosened curfews around Nacha quarters.

Like tipping the first domino, in a month the Elves’ stance grew warmer, and the radicals lost ground. Ordinary Nacha folk, long wedged in cracks, finally drew breath. Days began to feel human again.

None of it meant much to Mira.

Since the night she slipped through that little gate with a bag on her shoulder, she had barely stepped outside. The one time she opened up was when the orphanage kids pressed beast-ears to her door to eavesdrop.

She swung it open and looked down, ice-blue eyes colder than a December sea. They scattered like spooked meerkats. No one dared stray within ten meters after that, and the nickname stuck—Iceberg Banshee.

Other appearances were just when Varie or a few familiar faces came to check on Anta. Under that banner, you couldn’t slam the door, and laughter would spill from the little yard like sparrows.

But visits thinned with time. After settling Sanda’s politics, Varie led a team back to reclaim tech in Lama City. Tela and Hos, the childhood crew, and Kabos the beanpole with the other jokers all went along.

Mira’s corner grew quiet, like a pond under dusk.

She didn’t mind.

Her days were level water. She ate the orphanage fare, watched Anta practice, and corrected posture and chant, a steady hand keeping backlash from biting.

And then came letter time.

Mira sat by the window. The page held only a few lines. Her pen paused at the last letter, and the nib’s ink bled into an ugly, widening dot.

She couldn’t write the next sentence. The feeling was a stone in her throat.

Unlike officials who traded letters like coins, Mira’s words went to one soul. Every letter began the same way—Sister Adelaide—and the greeting ran smooth as water.

But what after?

Her hand stalled. The nib snagged mid-letter. Aside from reporting Anta’s progress and daily life, the rest of her words felt like seaweed without water—dry, crinkled, scribbled, crossed out.

She didn’t know what to write. Or rather, she knew too well, and all of it shouldn’t be written.

She wanted to ask about the shadow of fear she saw caught in her sister’s eyes. She wanted the secrets shared, a burden shouldered together. She wanted to ask what she could still do.

And she wanted to ask about what Sister Adelaide had said at the ball.

—When the time comes, I’ll tell you everything, Mira.

When the time comes? What time? Wasn’t it now? After that razor’s edge victory, a cardless gambler turned dark horse, with the finish line in sight—was it still not your moment?

When will you let me in, tell me the words you breathe in your nightmares…

…

Mira jolted back. Her wrist had been moving on its own, and on the page she’d written two characters: Jiaqi.

Blinding. Audacious. Panic surged like cold water. The pen fell to the desk. She didn’t dare glance at the word again.

She crumpled the page and flung it away like a taboo. It pinged off the trash bin’s rim and fell to the floor.

Mira covered her face. Her other hand pressed her chest. A sharp ache clawed deep, a cat-scratch reminder: Sister was bearing the same torment, and it was her fault.

A sinner didn’t deserve confession from the wronged. She told herself that, counted silently, breathed deep until the water stilled, and pulled a fresh sheet.

Her hand rose. The nib didn’t fall. After a long pause, she set the pen down.

Nothing would come. Maybe she needed other material—anything else to write about.

In a place like this, what could be material?

She stood, refusing to chase those stray thoughts, hunting for something—anything—to hold her attention.

The sun was already high, a white coin at the zenith. She lifted her head. Whatever else, she couldn’t let Sister’s little apprentice go hungry at noon.

But unlike usual, after she called Anta’s name, no answer came. Silence pooled.

…?

Pengpeng had given them the biggest suite in the orphanage, but with the yard it was only a few dozen square meters. If Anta was there, she’d hear. And she wouldn’t be sleeping now.

A bad hunch flickered across Mira’s mind. She pushed open Anta’s door. Empty, bed neat, air still.

Panic bit. Beyond the bond they’d built, Anta was the firmest tie between Mira and Adelaide. If anything happened—

Mira snatched up her sword and ran out. Before she could reach Pengpeng to ask, a flash of distinctive purple hair caught in a doorway.

With her sat another girl—blue-haired, with cat ears.

“Anta… if you don’t go back, won’t the Iceberg Banshee get mad?”

“She’s Mira, not some ‘Iceberg Banshee’!” Anta sat at the blue-haired girl’s bedside, legs dangling, feet going tap-tap in the air. “Mira just talks little. Her temper’s super good. I’ve never seen her angry.”

“Eh, really? Others say her eyes are scary. When she stares, it’s worse than a raging crone…”

“That’s exaggerating! They felt guilty after eavesdropping, that’s all!”

Mira stood by the window, listening. Worry ebbed, replaced by a thin surprise—not at the nickname, but at Anta.

In her mind, Anta was understanding yet quiet, a sprout under shade. That she’d step out and mix with the orphanage kids surprised her. As for the other child—

Mira studied the blue-haired girl in the glass’s reflection, memory glinting. When they first arrived, that kid had been the only one who didn’t shove or grab Anta, just watched from a distance, shivering.

So when did these two become good friends? From their tone, they were already comfortable, woven together.

While Mira silently traced what she’d missed, the talk inside flowed on.

“So, Copato, say again—what was that medicine you took?”

“Mm…? It’s called the Kexue Pill…”

“You take it and your chest stops hurting, and you can run again, right?”

“Yeah… but why are you asking—”

Anta cut in, bright with excitement. “So the pill’s yellow, one piece about as big as Batumut fish roe, right?”

“Yes.” Copato nodded, puzzled. “But you can’t buy it now. Long-ears said it had some ‘stimulant’ inside, and they won’t sell to the Nacha Tribe…”

“It’s fine. I can get you some!”

“Huh? You can?”

“Mm. My teacher’s amazing. Her connections here are super wide. Whatever medicine it is, she can definitely get it.”

Hope rose in Copato’s eyes like dawn light, then drooped. She lowered her head. “But why would your teacher help me? She doesn’t know me.”

“I can beg her. And if it really doesn’t work…” Anta paused, lowered her voice, mischief glinting. “I could steal a few for you.”

“Steal!?”

“Shh, quieter!” Anta wore that smug face Mira and Adelaide had rarely seen, saved for peers. “Don’t underestimate me. I’m strong. Teacher says my mana talent’s one in a million. As long as I know the warehouse and what the pills look like—”

“She took you as a disciple to teach you magic, not how to be a thief.”

Anta’s expression froze. She turned slowly, heart thumping, and saw a golden-haired figure at the door.

Her gaze met those ice-blue eyes, clearly upset, and in that instant she finally understood why kids made up that nickname for her beloved Mira.

“Uh, I…”

“I—I was wrong, Mira!”

Faster than Copato’s bewilderment, Anta sprang up and bowed deeply, apology tumbling out. Mira watched her, then closed her eyes and sighed, breath like a winter cloud.

Stealing was bad enough. The other option was a mess too. She wouldn’t drag Adelaide into this, nor risk the Carne Family pulling the thread to this hideout.

No, on any path, it was absolutely out of the question.

Yet she saw the apology in Anta’s glance at Copato, and the girl’s drooping cat ears—her face said “it’s okay,” but the ears told the truth.

…

Fine. Call it material for the letter, Mira told herself, and a plan began to take shape like ink spreading across paper.